Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (609 page)

“Does Bob know? Of course he knows. Why, it was to his care I left Laura when I started. But what is the meaning of all this? What is the matter with you, Laura? Why are you so white and silent? And — hallo! Hold up, sir! The man is fainting!”

“It is all right!” gasped Haw, steadying himself against the edge of the door.

He was as white as paper, and his hand was pressed close to his side as though some sudden pain had shot through him. For a moment he tottered there like a stricken man, and then, with a hoarse cry, he turned and fled out through the open door.

“Poor devil!” said Hector, gazing in amazement after him. “He seems hard hit anyhow. But what is the meaning of all this, Laura?”

His face had darkened, and his mouth had set.

She had not said a word, but had stood with a face like a mask looking blankly in front of her. Now she tore herself away from him, and, casting herself down with her face buried in the cushion of the sofa, she burst into a passion of sobbing.

“It means that you have ruined me,” she cried. “That you have ruined-ruined — ruined me! Could you not leave us alone? Why must you come at the last moment? A few more days, and we were safe. And you never had my letter.”

“And what was in your letter, then?” he asked coldly, standing with his arms folded, looking down at her.

“It was to tell you that I released you. I love Raffles Haw, and I was to have been his wife. And now it is all gone. Oh, Hector, I hate you, and I shall always hate you as long as I live, for you have stepped between me and the only good fortune that ever came to me. Leave me alone, and I hope that you will never cross our threshold again.”

“Is that your last word, Laura?”

“The last that I shall ever speak to you.”

“Then, good-bye. I shall see the Dad, and go straight back to Plymouth.” He waited an instant, in hopes of an answer, and then walked sadly from the room.

CHAPTER XV. THE GREATER SECRET
.

It was late that night that a startled knocking came at the door of Elmdene. Laura had been in her room all day, and Robert was moodily smoking his pipe by the fire, when this harsh and sudden summons broke in upon his thoughts. There in the porch was Jones, the stout head-butler of the Hall, hatless, scared, with the raindrops shining in the lamplight upon his smooth, bald head.

“If you please, Mr. McIntyre, sir, would it trouble you to step up to the Hall?” he cried. “We are all frightened, sir, about master.”

Robert caught up his hat and started at a run, the frightened butler trotting heavily beside him. It had been a day of excitement and disaster. The young artist’s heart was heavy within him, and the shadow of some crowning trouble seemed to have fallen upon his soul.

“What is the matter with your master, then?” he asked, as he slowed down into a walk.

“We don’t know, sir; but we can’t get an answer when we knock at the laboratory door. Yet he’s there, for it’s locked on the inside. It has given us all a scare, sir, that, and his goin’s-on during the day.”

“His goings-on?”

“Yes, sir; for he came back this morning like a man demented, a-talkin’ to himself, and with his eyes starin’ so that it was dreadful to look at the poor dear gentleman. Then he walked about the passages a long time, and he wouldn’t so much as look at his luncheon, but he went into the museum, and gathered all his jewels and things, and carried them into the laboratory. We don’t know what he’s done since then, sir, but his furnace has been a-roarin’, and his big chimney spoutin’ smoke like a Birmingham factory. When night came we could see his figure against the light, a-workin’ and a-heavin’ like a man possessed. No dinner would he have, but work, and work, and work. Now it’s all quiet, and the furnace cold, and no smoke from above, but we can’t get no answer from him, sir, so we are scared, and Miller has gone for the police, and I came away for you.”

They reached the Hall as the butler finished his explanation, and there outside the laboratory door stood the little knot of footmen and ostlers, while the village policeman, who had just arrived, was holding his bull’s-eye to the keyhole, and endeavouring to peep through.

“The key is half-turned,” he said. “I can’t see nothing except just the light.”

“Here’s Mr. McIntyre,” cried half-a-dozen voices, as Robert came forward.

“We’ll have to beat the door in, sir,” said the policeman. “We can’t get any sort of answer, and there’s something wrong.”

Twice and thrice they threw their united weights against it until at last with a sharp snap the lock broke, and they crowded into the narrow passage. The inner door was ajar, and the laboratory lay before them.

In the centre was an enormous heap of fluffy grey ash, reaching up half-way to the ceiling. Beside it was another heap, much smaller, of some brilliant scintillating dust, which shimmered brightly in the rays of the electric light. All round was a bewildering chaos of broken jars, shattered bottles, cracked machinery, and tangled wires, all bent and draggled. And there in the midst of this universal ruin, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped upon his lap, and the easy pose of one who rests after hard work safely carried through, sat Raffles Haw, the master of the house, and the richest of mankind, with the pallor of death upon his face. So easily he sat and so naturally, with such a serene expression upon his features, that it was not until they raised him, and touched his cold and rigid limbs, that they could realise that he had indeed passed away.

Reverently and slowly they bore him to his room, for he was beloved by all who had served him. Robert alone lingered with the policeman in the laboratory. Like a man in a dream he wandered about, marvelling at the universal destruction. A large broad-headed hammer lay upon the ground, and with this Haw had apparently set himself to destroy all his apparatus, having first used his electrical machines to reduce to protyle all the stock of gold which he had accumulated. The treasure-room which had so dazzled Robert consisted now of merely four bare walls, while the gleaming dust upon the floor proclaimed the fate of that magnificent collection of gems which had alone amounted to a royal fortune. Of all the machinery no single piece remained intact, and even the glass table was shattered into three pieces. Strenuously earnest must have been the work which Raffles Haw had done that day.

And suddenly Robert thought of the secret which had been treasured in the casket within the iron-clamped box. It was to tell him the one last essential link which would make his knowledge of the process complete. Was it still there? Thrilling all over, he opened the great chest, and drew out the ivory box. It was locked, but the key was in it. He turned it and threw open the lid. There was a white slip of paper with his own name written upon it. With trembling fingers he unfolded it. Was he the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a poor struggling artist? The note was dated that very evening, and ran in this way:

  
“MY DEAR ROBERT, — My secret shall never be used again. I cannot

  
tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to

  
you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery

  
both to yourself and others.
 
For myself I have hardly had a happy

  
moment since I discovered it. This I could have borne had I been

  
able to feel that I was doing good, but, alas! the only effect of my

  
attempts has been to turn workers into idlers, contented men into

  
greedy parasites, and, worst of all, true, pure women into

  
deceivers and hypocrites.
 
If this is the effect of my interference

  
on a small scale, I cannot hope for anything better were I to carry

  
out the plans which we have so often discussed.
 
The schemes of my

  
life have all turned to nothing.
 
For myself, you shall never see me

  
again.
 
I shall go back to the student life from which I emerged.

  
There, at least, if I can do little good, I can do no harm.
 
It is

  
my wish that such valuables as remain in the Hall should be sold,

  
and the proceeds divided amidst all the charities of Birmingham.

  
I shall leave tonight if I am well enough, but I have been much

  
troubled all day by a stabbing pain in my side.
 
It is as if wealth

  
were as bad for health as it is for peace of mind.
 
Good-bye,

  
Robert, and may you never have as sad a heart as I have to-night.

  
Yours very truly,

  
RAFFLES HAW.”

“Was it suicide, sir? Was it suicide?” broke in the policeman as Robert put the note in his pocket.

“No,” he answered; “I think it was a broken heart.”

And so the wonders of the New Hall were all dismantled, the carvings and the gold, the books and the pictures, and many a struggling man or woman who had heard nothing of Raffles Haw during his life had cause to bless him after his death. The house has been bought by a company now, who have turned it into a hydropathic establishment, and of all the folk who frequent it in search of health or of pleasure there are few who know the strange story which is connected with it.

The blight which Haw’s wealth cast around it seemed to last even after his death. Old McIntyre still raves in the County Lunatic Asylum, and treasures up old scraps of wood and metal under the impression that they are all ingots of gold. Robert McIntyre is a moody and irritable man, for ever pursuing a quest which will always evade him. His art is forgotten, and he spends his whole small income upon chemical and electrical appliances, with which he vainly seeks to rediscover that one hidden link. His sister keeps house for him, a silent and brooding woman, still queenly and beautiful, but of a bitter, dissatisfied mind. Of late, however, she has devoted herself to charity, and has been of so much help to Mr. Spurling’s new curate that it is thought that he may be tempted to secure her assistance for ever. So runs the gossip of the village, and in small places such gossip is seldom wrong. As to Hector Spurling, he is still in her Majesty’s service, and seems inclined to abide by his father’s wise advice, that he should not think of marrying until he was a Commander. It is possible that of all who were brought within the spell of Raffles Haw he was the only one who had occasion to bless it.

This novella was first published in 1892 and concerns the
interrelations of the
Denver
, Westmacott, and
Walker
families, whilst satirising life in a small town in Victorian England.
 
Beyond the City
is notable for its depictition of greed and lust driving characters beyond the typical boundaries of their middle class lives.