Chapter 7

THE WORKINGS OF WEALTH.

It can easily be believed that as the weeks passed the name and fame of
the mysterious owner of the New Hall resounded over the quiet
countryside until the rumour of him had spread to the remotest corners
of Warwickshire and Staffordshire. In Birmingham on the one side, and
in Coventry and Leamington on the other, there was gossip as to his
untold riches, his extraordinary whims, and the remarkable life which he
led. His name was bandied from mouth to mouth, and a thousand efforts
were made to find out who and what he was. In spite of all their pains,
however, the newsmongers were unable to discover the slightest trace of
his antecedents, or to form even a guess as to the secret of his riches.

It was no wonder that conjecture was rife upon the subject, for hardly a
day passed without furnishing some new instance of the boundlessness of
his power and of the goodness of his heart. Through the vicar, Robert,
and others, he had learned much of the inner life of the parish, and
many were the times when the struggling man, harassed and driven to the
wall, found thrust into his hand some morning a brief note with an
enclosure which rolled all the sorrow back from his life. One day a
thick double-breasted pea-jacket and a pair of good sturdy boots were
served out to every old man in the almshouse. On another, Miss Swire,
the decayed gentlewoman who eked out her small annuity by needlework,
had a brand new first-class sewing-machine handed in to her to take the
place of the old worn-out treadle which tried her rheumatic joints.
The pale-faced schoolmaster, who had spent years with hardly a break in
struggling with the juvenile obtuseness of Tamfield, received through
the post a circular ticket for a two months' tour through Southern
Europe, with hotel coupons and all complete. John Hackett, the farmer,
after five long years of bad seasons, borne with a brave heart, had at
last been overthrown by the sixth, and had the bailiffs actually in the
house when the good vicar had rushed in, waving a note above his head,
to tell him not only that his deficit had been made up, but that enough
remained over to provide the improved machinery which would enable him
to hold his own for the future. An almost superstitious feeling came
upon the rustic folk as they looked at the great palace when the sun
gleamed upon the huge hot-houses, or even more so, perhaps, when at
night the brilliant electric lights shot their white radiance through
the countless rows of windows. To them it was as if some minor
Providence presided in that great place, unseen but seeing all,
boundless in its power and its graciousness, ever ready to assist and to
befriend. In every good deed, however, Raffles Haw still remained