THE COPPER BOX
J. S. FLETCHER
_Novels by_
J. S. FLETCHER
THE HEAVEN-KISSED HILL
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE
THE VALLEY OF HEADSTRONG MEN
THE LOST MR. LINTHWAITE
THE COPPER BOX
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
[Illustration]
NEW [Illustration] YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1923,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
[Illustration]
THE COPPER BOX. I
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
PAGE
I _The Lady of Kelpieshaw_ 9
II _The Second Stranger_ 27
III _Copper_ 45
IV _Midnight Warning_ 63
V _Sir Charles Sperrigoe_ 81
VI _The Irrepressible Newsman_ 99
VII _What the Dying Man Said_ 117
VIII _One Minute Past Midnight_ 135
IX _The Whitesmith’s Parlour_ 153
X _Known at the Crown_ 171
XI _Back to Elizabeth_ 189
XII _The Palkeney Motto_ 207
THE COPPER BOX
THE COPPER BOX
I
_The Lady of Kelpieshaw_
Although it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little
way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild
Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact
that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the
twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it
by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house
afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine--but more likely it was
sheer ignorance and presumption--that prompted me next morning to
attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set
out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a
complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the
Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot,
and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie
Strand. That would have been a big walk on a long and fair summer day;
in the uncertainty of a northern April it was a rash venture, which
landed me in a highly unpleasant situation before the close of the
afternoon. The morning was bright and promising, and for many enjoyable
hours all went well. But about three o’clock came a disappearance
of the sun and a suspicious darkening of the sky and lowering of
temperature; before long snow began to fall, and in a fashion with
which I, a Southerner, was not at all familiar. It was thick, it was
blinding, it was persistent; it speedily obscured tracks, and heaped
itself up in hollows; I began to have visions of being lost in it. And
between five and six o’clock I found myself in this position--as far
as I could make out from my pocket-map, I was at some point of the
Angle between the Cheviot, Cairn Hill, and Hedgehope Hill and at the
western extremity of Harthope Burn, but for all practical purposes I
might as well have been in the heart of the Andes. I could just make
out the presence of the three great hills, but I could see nothing of
any farmstead or dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside inn, or
village was marked on my map--that is, within any reasonable distance.
As for a path, I had already lost the one I was on, and the snow by
that time had become a smooth thick white carpet in front of me; I
might be safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I might sink
into a hole or bog and be unable to get out. And the nearest indicated
place--Middleton--was miles and miles away, and darkness was coming,
and coming quickly.
The exact spot in which I made these rough reckonings was at the lee
side of a coppice of young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a while
and to consider what was best to be done. Clearly, there was only one
thing to do!--to struggle on and trust to luck. I prepared for that
by taking a pull at my flask, in which, fortunately, there was still
half its original contents of whisky and water left, and finishing the
remains of my lunch. But the prospect that faced me when I presently
left my shelter and rounded the corner of the coppice was by no means
pleasant. The snow was falling faster and thicker, and darkness was
surely coming. It looked as if I was either to struggle through the
snow for more miles than I knew of, or be condemned to creep under any
shelter I could find and pass a miserable night. But even then my bad
luck was on the turn. Going onward and downward, from off the moorland
towards the valley, I suddenly realised that I had struck some sort of
road or made track; it was hard and wide, as I ascertained by striking
my stick through the snow at various places. And just as suddenly, a
little way farther to the east, I saw, bright and beckoning, the lights
of a house.
The dusk was now so much fallen, and the whirling snow-flakes so thick
that I had come right up to it before I could make out what manner of
house it was that I had chanced upon so opportunely. It stood a little
back from the road, on its north side, and in a sort of recess in the
moorland, with the higher ground shelving down to its walls on all
sides except that on which I stood. There was a courtyard all round
it; on three sides of this the walls were unusually high, but on mine
lower--low enough to enable me to see what stood inside. And that was
as queer-looking a house as ever I had seen. Its centre was a high,
square tower, with a battlemented head; from its west and east angles
lower buildings projected--lower, yet of considerable height; at one
of the angles of these wings, connecting it and the tower, there was a
round turret, with a conical top--altogether the place was so mediæval
in appearance that it made me think of marauding barons, cattle forays,
and all the rest of it. That the house was ancient I gathered from one
circumstance--there was not a window anywhere in its lower parts. These
seemed to be of solid masonry, unpierced by window or door; the lights
I had seen came from windows fifteen or twenty feet above the level of
the courtyard--one in the round turret, one in the left wing, a third
in the right.
It was not until I was in the courtyard, knee-deep in drifting snow,
that I made out where the door stood. It was at the foot of the turret,
and when I reached it, I saw that it was in keeping with the rest of
the place--a stout oak affair, black with age, studded with great
square-headed iron nails, and set in a frame as sturdy as itself. It
was one of those doors which look, being shut, as if it would never
open, and when after a brief inspection I beat loudly on its formidable
timbers--no bell being visible--it was with a wonder as to whether such
a feeble summons would carry through that evident thickness.
But the great door swung back almost at once. There, before me, a
lamp held above her head, stood an elderly woman, a tall, gaunt,
hard-featured woman, who first started with obvious surprise at seeing
me, and then stared at me with equally apparent suspicion. There was
no friendliness in her face, and the lack of it drove out of my head
whatever it was that I had meant to say. But I managed to stammer an
inquiry.
“Oh--er--can you tell me where I am?” I said. “I mean--what is the
nearest village, or inn? I’m making my way to Wooler, and----”
It seemed to me that the door was about to be closed in my face;
certainly the woman narrowed the already small opening between us.
“There’s nothing’ll be nearer than Middleton,” she answered, “and
you’ll keep straight on the road outside, and that’ll be maybe six
miles.”
“Six miles--in this snow!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be----”
“There’s nothing nearer,” she made haste to say. “There’s no house at
all between this and Middleton. And I’d advise you to be getting along,
for the snow’ll be far worse ere the night’s fallen than what it is,
and the road is not----”
The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with a touch of masterfulness
in it, broke in on the woman’s harsh accents.
“Tibbie! What is it?--who is there?”
The woman frowned. But--involuntarily--she opened the door wider. I
saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small
dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set
in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer
old place. And I saw more--I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles,
in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the
projection of the stair out of all else.
“It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way,” said the janitor.
“He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him----”
“For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! Why----”
The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the stair. Before I could realise
my luck their owner was confronting me with curiosity and interest. I
suppose I looked pretty forlorn and tramp-like; my water-proof coat
was none of the newest, and I was wearing a disreputable, favourite
old hat. But I uncovered and made my best bow. And if I stared it was
because the light of the old woman’s lamp showed me the prettiest girl
I had ever had the good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we were both
young, I made bold to smile at her--knowingly.
“You think I shall be--lost in the snow and found dead in the morning?”
I suggested.
“That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler
to-night,” she answered, with some liveliness. “Such a thing’s
impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course,
you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but----”
“The master is not one for strangers, miss,” interrupted the old woman.
“His orders----”
The girl turned on her with a flash of her grey eyes that gave me a
good notion of her imperious temper and general masterfulness.
“Fiddle-de-dee, Tibbie!” she exclaimed. “Your master would have a good
deal to say if we turned anybody from his door on a night like this.
You must come in,” she went on, turning smilingly to me. “Mr. Parslewe
is the most hospitable man alive, and if he were in he’d welcome you
heartily. I don’t know whether he’ll manage to get home to-night or
not. But I’m at home!” she concluded with a sudden glint in her eye.
“Come up the stair!”
I waited for no second invitation. She was already tripping up the
stair, holding her skirts daintily away from the grey stone wall, and
I hastened to follow. We climbed some twenty steps, the old woman
following with her lamp; then we emerged upon another and larger hall,
stone-walled like that below, and ornamented with old pikes, muskets,
broadswords, foxes’ masks; two doors, just then thrown wide, opened
from it; one revealed a great kitchen place in which an old man sat
near a huge fire, the other admitted to a big, cosy parlour, wherein
the firelight was dancing on panelled walls.
“Take off your things and give them to Tibbie,” commanded my hostess.
“And, Tibbie--tea! At once. Now come in,” she went on, leading me into
the parlour, “and if you’d like whisky until the tea comes, there it
is, on the sideboard. Have some!”
“Thank you, but I’ve just had a dose,” I answered. “I had some in my
flask, very fortunately. You are extremely kind to be so hospitable.”
“Nonsense!” she laughed. “You couldn’t turn a dog out on a night like
this. I don’t know if my guardian will manage to get home--he and his
old pony can do wonders, and they’ve sometimes got through when the
drifts were two or three feet thick. But you’re all right--sit down.”
She pointed to a big arm-chair near the fire, and I obeyed her
and dropped into it--to make a more leisurely inspection of my
surroundings, and my hostess. The room was evidently a part of the
square tower I had seen from without, and filled a complete story of
it; there were two high windows in it, filled with coloured glass;
the panelling all round was of some dark wood, old and time-stained;
the furniture was in keeping; there were old pictures, old silver and
brass, old books--it was as if I had suddenly dropped into a setting of
the seventeenth century.
But the girl was modern enough. She seemed to be about nineteen or
twenty years old. She was tallish, slenderish, graceful; her hair was
brown, her eyes grey, her face bright with healthy colour. I thought it
probable that she spent most of her life out of doors, and I pictured
her in tweeds and strong shoes, tramping the hills. But just then she
was very smart in indoor things, and I was thankful that I myself, now
that my outer wrappings had been discarded, was wearing a new suit, and
looked rather more respectable than when I knocked at the door.
There was a lamp on the table, recently lighted, and the girl turned
up the wick, and as its glow increased turned and looked at me, more
narrowly.
“You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” she said. “You don’t belong to these
parts?”
“Quite a stranger,” I answered, “or I shouldn’t have been so foolish as
to attempt what I was attempting.” I gave her a brief account of what
I had been after. “So you see how lucky I am to be saved, as you have
saved me! And please allow me to introduce myself--my name’s Alvery
Craye, and I come from London.”
“London!” she exclaimed, wonderingly. “Where I have never been! My
name--you’ll think it a curious one--is Madrasia--Madrasia Durham. Did
you ever hear such a queer name as Madrasia?”
“Never!” said I. “How did you get it?”
“Born in Madras,” she answered. “My father was a merchant there. Mr.
Parslewe, my guardian, with whom I live here, was his partner. They
died--my father and mother, I mean--when I was little, so Mr. Parslewe
has looked after me ever since. We came to England three years ago, and
Mr. Parslewe bought this old place, and fitted it up. Do you like it?”
“From what I’ve seen of it, immensely,” I answered. “What is it,
exactly--or, rather, what has it been?”
“Mr. Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-century peel tower--a sort of
castle, you know,” she answered. “There are a good many here and there,
on each side of the Tweed. We stayed for some time at Berwick when we
came to England, looking round for an old place. Then we found this,
and settled down. It’s delightful in summer, and in winter it’s weird!”
“Has it a name?” I asked. “Because it’s not marked on my map.”
“Name?--Yes!” she answered. “It’s called Kelpieshaw--that’s Kelpie
Strand, that lies outside it, between Langlee Crags and Hedgehope Hill.
But you’ll see more in the morning--if the storm’s cleared.”
The old woman came in with the tea-tray. Whether she resented my
presence or not, she knew her duties, and her home-made cakes were as
good as her face was stern.
“That’s our sole domestic,” observed my hostess, as she poured out the
tea. “Tibbie Muir: she’s been with us ever since we came here. The old
man you saw in the kitchen is her husband, Edie Muir. He’s a sort
of useful adjunct. He grooms the pony, potters about the house, and
nods over the fire. He’s very little to do, but Tibbie is a marvel of
activity.”
“I hope she’ll forgive me for coming,” I said.
“Oh, her bark is worse than her bite! She’s one of the faithful
servants you read about in books and rarely meet in real life. She’s
under the impression that if Mr. Parslewe happens not to be at home
it’s her duty to be on guard. I believe she thinks of me as a mere
child. But I’m mistress, of course!”
“I hope Mr. Parslewe will not think me an intruder?” I suggested. “I
suppose I could have struggled through.”
“And I suppose you couldn’t,” she retorted imperatively. “As for Mr.
Parslewe, he’ll be delighted to see you. If you can talk to him about
anything old--old books, or pictures, old pots, pans, and plates, he’ll
be more than delighted.”
I glanced round the room. It was one of those rooms which are difficult
to light--there were dark and shadowy places and recesses. But I could
see cabinets and presses, shelves and cases, evidently full of the
sort of things of which Miss Durham had just spoken; there was also, on
my left hand, a massive sideboard, covered with what looked to me like
old silver.
“Is Mr. Parslewe a collector, then?” I asked. “Or is he an antiquary?”
“A bit of both, I think,” she answered, as she handed me a tea-cup.
“Anyway, he’s always bringing home some curiosity or other that
he’s picked up. And he spends most of his time reading his old
books--there’s a room higher in the tower full of books--big things
that one can scarcely lift.”
“And how do you spend your time?” I inquired. “Not that way?”
She shook her head, laughing.
“That way?” she said. “No!--not yet, anyway; I’ll leave that sort of
thing till I’m old and frumpy. No, I spend my time out of doors mostly.
A bit of fishing, a bit of running after the beagles, and a good bit of
shooting. We have the shooting round about; it’s rough shooting, but
good.”
“You’re a regular Diana,” I remarked. “And Mr. Parslewe, does he go in
for sport?”
“Not much,” she replied. “Sometimes he goes fishing, and now and then
he’ll carry a gun. But he usually becomes meditative over a stream, and
is generally looking somewhere else if anything gets up in front of his
gun, so his performances don’t amount to much.” She laughed again, and
then looked half-archly, half-inquisitively at me.
“I’m wondering what you do with yourself,” she said.
“I? Oh! I paint a bit,” I answered.
“So, sometimes, does my guardian,” she remarked. “He calls it daubing,
but they aren’t bad. There are two of his works of art on that panel.”
She pointed to two small water-colour sketches which, framed in gilt,
hung in a recess near the hearth. I rose and looked at them. One was of
the house, the other a view of the Cheviot. There was some feeling of
performance in both.
“What do you think of them?” she asked. “Perhaps you’re a swell hand at
that sort of thing?”
“Very nice,” I replied. “And interesting, to me. My reason for
wandering round to-day was that I wanted to find a good subject. I
think I’ve found one, this place. I could make a good picture of it,
with the hills as the background.”
“Do, do!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll make my guardian buy it from you; he
often buys pictures. You might put me in it, with my gun and my dogs;
I’ll show you the dogs in the morning--beauties!”
We got on very well together, chatting in this light-hearted fashion.
The evening passed on, but Mr. Parslewe did not come. We had supper;
still he did not come. And at ten o’clock my hostess pronounced a
decision.
“He won’t come to-night, now,” she said. “And it’s my bed-time. Tibbie
will take charge of you, Mr. Craye, and I can promise you that your bed
is properly aired. Don’t be afraid of the room; it looks as if it were
haunted, but it isn’t.”
She gave me her hand, smiled, and went off, and presently the old woman
appeared and conducted me to a chamber in one of the wings. It was
more mediæval in appearance than the parlour, but it was remarkably
comfortable, and there were hot bottles in the bed.
I believe I fell asleep as soon as my head fairly settled on the
pillow, and at once dropped into a sound slumber. I have no idea as to
what time it was during the night when I woke suddenly and sharply, to
find a man standing at my bedside, and, by the light of a bull’s-eye
lantern, looking down on me with a half-shrewd, half-whimsical
expression.
II
_The Second Stranger_
I sat straight up in bed, blinking at the light and its holder.
Half-asleep though I was, I got an impression of my visitor. An
ascetic-looking, clean-shaven man, with a big, well-shaped nose, and
firm thin lips, which, in unison with a pair of keen, observant eyes,
could, as I found out later, assume various expressions, changing from
intense disagreeableness to peculiar sweetness. Just then eyes and lips
were quite agreeable--in fact, their owner laughed gently.
“All right, young master!” he said, in a voice as sweet and mellow as
his smile. “Fall to your sleep again--I only just wanted to see what
strange bird we’d got in our roost.”
He laughed again and made for the door. I found my voice.
“Mr. Parslewe?” I asked interrogatively.
“At your service, sir,” he answered, with a sort of mock politeness.
“James Parslewe.”
“I hope I’m not----” I began.
“Are you warm enough?” he inquired, suddenly stepping back to the
bedside and laying a hand on its coverings. “It’s a gey cold night, and
I’m thinking you’re not of these parts.”
“Oh, I’m warm enough indeed, thank you,” I assured him. “Couldn’t be
more comfortable, sir.”
“Then go to sleep again,” he commanded, with another of his
half-jesting, half-cynical laughs. “You’re heartily welcome to my
ancient roof.”
He went away then, quietly closing the door behind him, and I obeyed
his behest and fell asleep again. Nor did I awake until the old man
that I had seen by the kitchen fire the night before appeared in my
room, bringing me hot water, shaving tackle, tea. He drew back curtains
and blinds, and I saw that the sky was still grey and heavy.
“More snow in the night?” I asked him.
He started, as if unused to being spoken to, and nodded his old head.
“Aye, there’ll have been a deal more snow, master,” he answered. “Many
feet deep it is all round the house.”
I got up, drank the tea, made as careful a toilet as I could, and
eventually went off to the room in the tower wherein I had spent the
evening with my youthful hostess. It was so far untenanted, but there
was a great fire of logs blazing in the big open hearth, and the
breakfast table was laid before it; from the adjacent kitchen came
highly appetizing odours. I warmed myself at the hearth, looking round;
now, in the morning light, dull though it was, I could see the room
better. It was easy to get from it an idea of its owner’s tastes--the
beautiful old furniture, the panelling, the arrangement of the cabinets
and their contents, all showed the inclination and love of the
collector, who was also a good judge of what he collected. There were
many things of great interest in that room--one struck me particularly,
perhaps because the fire flames kept glinting sharply on its burnished
front. This was a small copper box, a thing some six or seven inches
square, which stood in the middle of the ancient sideboard, one out of
many curious articles placed there. I could see, from where I stood,
that it was a bit of unusually good work, and I presently went closer
and took it into my hands. Anything worked in old brass or copper had
always appealed to me; this quaint little coffer, or chest, beautifully
elegant in its severe simplicity, took my fancy. It was a plain thing
throughout, except that on the lid was engraven a coat-of-arms, and on
the scroll beneath it a legend--
_Thatte I please I wylle._
I had just replaced the copper box and was turning away wondering what
these words signified when I caught sight of something which I had
certainly not expected to see. There, hung in two panels above the
sideboard, obscured in shadow the previous evening but plain enough
now, as they faced the big window, hung two small pictures of my own,
water-colour sketches of scenery in Teesdale which I had shown at the
Royal Academy a year before and had subsequently sold to a Bond Street
dealer. I was looking at them when Miss Durham came in, followed by the
old woman and the breakfast dishes.
Miss Durham and I shook hands solemnly. Then we both smiled, and
eventually laughed. She nodded at a door in the corner of the room.
“Mr. Parslewe came after all,” she said.
“I’m aware of it,” said I. “He came to see me--some time or other.”
“No?” she exclaimed. “What for?”
“Wanted to know if I’d enough blankets, I think,” I answered.
“Oh, I hope you had!” she said. “Had you? But how----”
Just then the door in the corner opened and my host entered. I saw then
that he was a rather tall, loose-limbed man of probably fifty-five to
sixty, with a remarkably intellectual face, sphinx-like in expression,
and as I have already said, capable of looking almost fiendishly
disagreeable or meltingly sweet. It was sweet enough now as he came
forward, offering me his hand with old-fashioned courtesy.
“Good morning, master!” he cooed--no other word expresses his suavity
of tone. “I trust you slept well and refreshingly after all your
privations.”
“My privations, sir, had been of short duration, and their recompense
full,” I replied, imitating his half-chaffing tone. “I slept
excellently well, thank you.”
“Why, that’s a blessing!” he said, rubbing his hands. “So did I!”
“It was very unkind of you, though, Jimmie, to wake up a guest in the
middle of the night,” said Miss Durham. “How inconsiderate!”
Mr. Parslewe motioned me to the breakfast table with a bow and a wave
of his delicately fingered hand, and favoured his ward and myself with
one of his sweetest smiles.
“Well, I don’t know, my dear,” he retorted. “He might have been a
burglar!--you never can tell.”
He laughed, with full enjoyment, at his own joke, and bent towards me
as he handed me a plate.
“I was sorry I woke you!” he said, still smiling. “I was enjoying
looking at you. I thought I’d never seen such a refreshingly innocent
young mortal in my life! In fact, I was just thinking of fetching
Madrasia to look at you when you woke.”
He laughed more than ever at this, and I glanced from him to his ward.
“Don’t mind him!” she said. “That’s his way. He possesses a curious
form of humour--a very twisted form sometimes. You’re a queer man,
Jimmie, aren’t you? And I gave you such a splendid character last
night!--said that you’d have been furious if I hadn’t insisted on
bringing Mr. Craye in, and lots more--didn’t I, Mr. Craye?”
“Well, I’d certainly rather see him sitting there alive, eating his
bacon, than dig him out of the snow, dead,” remarked Mr. Parslewe,
good-humouredly. “But Craye, now--do you happen to be related to Craye,
the landscape painter?”
“I am Craye, the landscape painter, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “That’s
why I’m in this neighbourhood. I was looking out all yesterday for a
likely subject.”
His face lighted up with genuine pleasure, and he stretched out his
hand across the table and shook mine heartily.
“Man!” he exclaimed, “I’m delighted to have you in my house! You’re
a clever young fellow; I’ve admired your work ever since I was first
privileged to see it. And bought it, too; there’s two water-colours of
yours behind you there, and----”
“I’ve seen them,” said I.
“And I’ve two more upstairs in my study,” he continued. “Aye, well, I’m
greatly pleased! And you’re staying in these parts?”
“I came to the hotel at Wooler three days ago, just to look round the
Cheviots,” I answered.
“Any definite time?” he asked.
“No,” said I. “I’m my own master as to that.”
“Then when old Edie can get through the snow, we’ll just send across
to Wooler for your things, and you’ll consider this house yours, Mr.
Craye,” he said, with a nod of his head which implied that he would
take no refusal. “Your very obedient servant, sir, as long as you like
to stop in it!”
“There!” exclaimed Miss Durham; “I knew you’d get on together like a
house on fire! But perhaps Mr. Craye thinks he might be dull?”
“Mr. Craye thinks nothing of the sort,” I retorted hastily. “He’s
overwhelmed on all sides. You’re extremely kind, Mr. Parslewe; your
sense of hospitality is princely.”
“Pooh, pooh!” he said. “We’ll just be glad. And there’s no need to be
dull, my girl, when you’re about!” he added, nodding at his ward. “A
lively damsel, this, Craye; the air of the hills is in her blood!”
“Miss Durham, sir, is, I am sure, one of those admirable hostesses who
could never let a guest be anything but happy,” I said, with a glance
towards the object of my compliment. “And,” I added, more seriously, “I
should be very ungrateful not to accept your kind invitation. I won’t
let you get tired of me.”
“Mr. Craye thinks he could paint a picture of the house, with the hills
for a background, Jimmie,” remarked Miss Durham. “You’d buy that,
wouldn’t you?”
“Hoots, toots! We’ll see, woman, we’ll see!” answered Mr. Parslewe.
“There’s finer subjects than this old place, but you’ll not see them
to-day, my lad,” he added, turning to me. “The snow’s thick and deep
all round our walls, and what you’ll see of the land for the next
twenty-four hours, and maybe more, ’ll be from the top of our tower.
And a grand observation post it is, too!”
He took me up the tower after breakfast was over. From the leads at
its battlemented head there was a wonderful view of the surrounding
country; he indicated the chief features as we stood there, looking
out on the snow-clad expanse. And I saw then what I had not been able
to see the night before, that this place, Kelpieshaw, was absolutely
isolated; as far as I could see, on any side, there was not even a
shepherd’s hut or gamekeeper’s lodge in view.
“You love solitude, Mr. Parslewe,” I remarked as I looked about me.
“This, surely, is solitude!”
“Aye, it is!” he agreed. “And it suits me. What’s more to the purpose,
it suits my ward--up to now, anyway. When I brought her from India,
where she was born, I looked about for a likely place in this district.
We came across this--half-ruinous it was then. I bought it, did it up,
furnished it, got a lot of things here that I’d left stored in London
when I first went to India, many a year ago, and settled down. The girl
loves it--and so do I.”
He gave me one of his half-serious, half-sardonic smiles, and we went
down the stair again, and into a big room, a floor above the parlour,
wherein he kept his books and his collections. It was something of
a cross between a museum and a library, and I could see that he was
remarkably proud of the things in it. I saw, too, that my host was
a man of means--only a well-to-do man could have afforded to bring
together the things that he had there. Like all antiquaries he began
to point out to me his chief treasures, and to talk about them, and
finding that I had some knowledge of such things, to dig into old
chests and presses in order to unearth others. Once, while he was thus
engaged, I was looking at some small volumes bound in old calf which
were ranged in one of the recesses; once more, on the side of one of
these, in faded gilt, I came across the arms and legend which I had
noticed on the copper box in the room below; he looked up from his task
to find me regarding it.
“An odd motto that, Mr. Parslewe,” I observed. “I noticed it on your
old copper chest, or coffer, downstairs, ‘That I please, I will!’ What
does it mean?” He laughed satirically.
“I should say it means that the folk who sported it were pretty much
inclined to have their own way, my lad!” he answered. “Whether they got
it or not is another question. Now, here’s a fifteenth-century Book of
Hours, with the illuminations as fresh as when they were done. Look you
there for a bit of fine work!”
I had meant to ask him whose coat-of-arms and whose legend it was that
had excited my curiosity, but I saw that the subject either possessed
no interest for him or that he didn’t want to be questioned about it,
and I turned to what he was showing me. We spent most of that morning
examining his collection, and we got on together admirably. Still, I
was not sorry when Miss Durham appeared and insisted on dragging me
away from him to go out with her into the courtyard to inspect her
horse, her dogs, and other live creatures. The old man had cleared
much of the courtyard of snow, but beyond its walls the drifts were
deep. From the gate I looked across them with a certain amount of
impatience--I wanted to see more of the country, and I had notions that
Miss Durham might not be unwilling to act as guide to it.
“Don’t think you’re going to be a prisoner for very long,” she suddenly
remarked, interpreting my silent contemplation of the vast waste of
whiteness. “At this time of the year the snow goes quickly. You needn’t
be surprised if you find it vanished when you wake to-morrow, thick as
it is.”
“If it is, and we can get out, you’ll show me some of your favourite
scenes?” I suggested. “I could make a sketch or two.”
“Of course!” she assented. “There’s a lovely bit along the road towards
Roddam. I’ll take you there as soon as the snow’s gone; you’ll be
ravished with it!”
We had three days’ wait for that, and during that time, as if they
felt themselves bound to compensate me for the delay, my host and
hostess did all they could to amuse and interest me, though, to tell
the truth, I was interested enough in them personally, and needed
no other diversion. Mr. Parslewe was certainly a character, full of
eccentricities, with a strong sense of humour, and a mordant wit; he
had evidently seen much of men and of the world, and his comments on
things in general were as interesting as they were amusing. I made
out, however, that his knowledge of our own country and our own period
was considerably out of date; he appeared to know little of present-day
affairs, though he had a fine old store of anecdotes of a previous
generation. But a chance remark of his accounted for this.
“I left England for India and the East when I was twenty-one,” he said
to me one evening in casual conversation, “and I never saw its shores
again until I’d turned fifty. And now that I’m back--and some years,
too--I don’t want to see any more of it than I can see from the top of
my dear old tower! Here I am, and here I stick!”
I wondered if he meant his young and pretty ward to stick there,
too--but those were early days to put the question to him. Still, by
that time I had fallen in love with Madrasia; it would have been a
most unheard-of thing if I hadn’t! And already I meant to move all the
powers that are in heaven and earth to win her--for which reason I was
devoutly thankful when, on the fourth day of my stay, winter suddenly
disappeared as if by magic, and springtide again asserted itself and
flooded the hills and valleys with warmth and sunshine. For then she
and I got out of the old house, leaving Mr. Parslewe with his books and
papers, and began to wander abroad, improving our acquaintance--very
pleasantly and successfully. There had been a comforting air of romance
about our meeting which, I think, appealed to both of us; it was still
there, making an atmosphere around us, and now the elements of a most
puzzling and curious mystery were to be added to it.
Those elements were first introduced by a man who came along the
road leading from Wooperton and Roddam, and chanced to find Madrasia
and myself sitting on a shelf of rock by its side, I doing a bit of
perfunctory sketching, and she watching me. He was a tourist-looking
sort of man; that is to say, he wore the sort of garments affected
by tourists; otherwise, I should have said that he was perhaps a
commercial traveller, or a well-to-do tradesman who loved country
walks--a biggish, well-fed, florid-faced man, shrewd of eye, and, as we
presently discovered, very polite--too polite--of manner. He regarded
us closely as he came up, and when he was abreast of us, he stopped in
the centre of the road and lifted his cap; it was the latest thing in
head-gear of that sort, and he raised it with something of a flourish.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with a deprecating, ingratiating smile.
“Can you tell me if, somewhere in this neighbourhood, there is a house
called Kelpieshaw?”
It was Madrasia who answered--promptly.
“Two miles ahead, along the valley,” she said. “Can’t miss it.”
The man bowed, and smiled again; a little too obsequiously, I thought.
“The residence of, I believe--er, Mr. Parslewe?” he suggested. “Mr.
James Parslewe.”
“Mr. Parslewe lives there,” assented Madrasia. “Want him?”
He smiled again--enigmatically this time.
“I hope to have the pleasure of waiting upon Mr. Parslewe--and
of finding him at home,” he answered. “Er--Mr. Parslewe, I
believe--perhaps you are acquainted with him?--is a gentleman learned
in--er, antiquities--and that sort of thing?”
“He is a bit inclined that way,” replied Madrasia, almost flippantly.
“Are you?”
He waved his hand, shelving away from us.
“A neophyte--a mere neophyte,” he said, still smiling. “A--er, learner!”
He strode off up the valley: we looked after him meditatively.
“Don’t like the looks of that person,” said Madrasia, suddenly.
“Neither do I--though I don’t know why,” I answered. “Case of Dr. Fell,
I suppose. Bit too given to smiling readily, eh?”
“Oily!” said Madrasia. “Wonder who he is--and what he’s after?”
“Doesn’t look like a dry-as-dust antiquary, anyhow,” I remarked.
But whatever the man looked like, we found him with Parslewe when
we went home--one on each side of the parlour fire. And Parslewe
introduced him, unceremoniously--Mr. Pawley.
III
_Copper_
Mr. Pawley, who looked very comfortable in an easy chair, with a glass
of whisky and soda conveniently at hand, smiled upon us as if we were
old acquaintances. He was clearly one of those gentlemen who speedily
make themselves at home anywhere, and, as it presently appeared, are by
no means backward in the art of finding things out. Indeed, he at once
began to put leading questions.
“Your daughter, I presume, sir?” he suggested, with a glance at
Madrasia.
“Not a bit of it!” answered Parslewe, in his most off-hand manner. “My
ward.”
“Dear me, sir! now I could have thought that I saw a distinct family
resemblance,” said Mr. Pawley. “This young gentleman, perhaps----”
“Visitor of mine,” replied Parslewe. “Mr. Craye--a well-known artist.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” murmured Mr. Pawley. “I observed that you
were doing something in your line when I saw you and Miss--I didn’t
catch the young lady’s name, I think--Miss----?”
“Durham!” said Parslewe. “Durham!”
“Just so, sir--Miss Durham. Ah!--and a very pleasant country this is,
Mr. Craye, for your form of art--and very delightful quarters, I’m
sure,” added Mr. Pawley, with a bow towards our host. “And you were
saying, Mr. Parslewe----?”
Madrasia, with an odd glance at me, went out of the room, and Parslewe,
who, I thought, already looked bored to death by his visitor, turned to
him.
“I was saying that if you’re really interested in that sort of
thing--barrows and stone circles and so on, I’m scarcely the man to
come to,” he said. “My tastes lie more chiefly in books. If you’re
going to stay in the district a while, I can give you a list of titles
of books--local and otherwise--that you can read up. I think you’d find
all of them in the various libraries at Newcastle.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parslewe, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Pawley.
“I should value that, sir.”
Parslewe rose from his chair and left the room. I heard him climb the
stair to his library on the next floor of the tower. Mr. Pawley looked
at me. It was a peculiarly scrutinising, appraising glance--it gave me
an idea that the man was wondering how much he could get out of me in
the way of information.
“A very clever and learned gentleman, Mr. Parslewe,” he observed.
“Uncommon!”
“I agree!” said I.
“Makes a man like me--just beginning to take an interest in these
things, do you see--feel that he knows--ah, nothing!” he said.
“I quite understand you,” I assented.
“And what a--yes, you might call it--wealth of curiosities he’s
gathered about him,” he continued. “Odds and ends of all sorts. Now,
there’s an object that’s attracted my attention--a very pretty article!”
He rose suddenly, and walking across to the sideboard, picked up the
copper box, holding it to the light, and examining it with exaggerated
admiration.
“Beautiful bit of work, Mr.--Craye, I think--beautiful!” he said,
unctuously. “Not made yesterday, that, sir. Old coat-of-arms, you see,
and a motto. Um! You don’t happen to know whose family coat-of-arms
that is, Mr. Craye?”
“No, I don’t,” said I. “Do you?”
“No, sir, no! as I remarked--when I saw you and the young lady down
the road--I’m a learner, a novice, a neophyte, Mr. Craye,” he replied.
“Fine coat-of-arms, though, that--and a peculiar motto. Now what would
you take those words to signify, Mr. Craye?”
Before I could reply, we heard Parslewe coming back, and Mr. Pawley
hastily put down the copper box and retreated to his chair, for all the
world as if he had been caught or been about to be caught in the act of
stealing something.
“These antiquaries!” he murmured, with a cautioning wink at me, “I
know ’em!--they don’t like their treasures handled. Precious! Old
pots--worth sixpence to some people--worth their weight in gold, to
them. Just so!”
Parslewe came into the room with a sheet of notepaper in his hand;
Mr. Pawley received it with gratitude as exaggerated as his admiration
of the copper box. And presently he said that he must now be moving;
I am sure it was with a desire to speed his departure that Parslewe
offered to show him down the stair and to point out a short cut across
the moor. So they vanished, and when Parslewe came back the tea-tray
had just been brought in and Madrasia was busy at it. She turned on her
guardian as he entered.
“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “Who on earth was that creature?”
Parslewe laughed as he dropped into his favourite chair.
“No more idea than you have, my dear!” he answered. “Introduced
himself as a humble fellow-labourer in the same field, in which--so he
said--I’m a past master. Said he was holidaying in the neighbourhood,
and had heard of me, so ventured to call and see me. Wanted to
know if there were any objects worthy of his attention round about
here--sepulchral things and so on. The odd thing,” continued Parslewe,
with one of his sardonic laughs, “the very odd thing was that I never
saw a man who looked less like an antiquary in my life!”
“Or talked less like one, I should think,” suggested Madrasia.
“Oh, he’d picked up a few cant phrases, somewhere or other,” observed
Parslewe.
“He told me that he’d turned to this sort of thing, as he called
it, for a hobby--a man, he observed, with the air of one uttering a
hitherto-undiscovered truth, must have something to do. Ha-hah-hah!”
“He seems to have amused you, anyway,” remarked Madrasia.
“Aye!--why not?” assented Parslewe. “Of course he did; I thought he
looked much more at home with a glass in his hand and a pipe in his
mouth than he would amongst either books or barrows.”
“Well, really, I wondered whatever brought him here!” said Madrasia. “A
neophyte, indeed!--in loud tweeds and a glaring necktie. I thought he
was a sporting publican out for a walk.”
I did not say what I thought. The fact was I had some queer suspicions
about Mr. Pawley. I had noticed his odd, shrewd, examining glances; he
looked to me like a man who has an object, a mission; who is spying out
the land; endeavouring to get at a discovery. That he had some purpose
in view I was sure, but I said nothing to Parslewe and Madrasia. Just
then we had a more pertinent and interesting matter to discuss.
Parslewe wanted me to stay there a while and to paint a landscape for
him. He had a favourite view, near the house, and was keenly anxious
that somebody should do justice to it--moreover, he wanted the picture
to be painted in the freshness of springtide, though my own private
inclination would have led me to paint it in the autumn. And he had
offered me a handsome price for it, agreeing, too, that I should be
allowed to submit it for the next Royal Academy exhibition. I was by no
means unwilling to accept his offer, for apart from the advantages of
the commission, the work meant spending at least a month or six weeks
at Kelpieshaw--in the society of Madrasia. And I had already fallen in
love with Madrasia.
We settled the affair of the picture over that tea-table. I decided to
start on it at once, and the first thing then was to get a suitable
canvas. Parslewe said I should be sure to find one in Newcastle, and
I arranged to journey there next day, seek out an artist’s colourman,
and buy what I wanted. On this errand I was in Newcastle about noon on
the following morning, and the first person I saw there was our recent
visitor, the somewhat mysterious Mr. Pawley.
Mr. Pawley did not see me. I caught sight of him by accident, but,
having seen him, I made it my business to watch him a little. He stood
at the exit of one of the arrival platforms, and he was absorbed in
looking for somebody or other. An express came in from the south; its
passengers began to stream through the exit; presently Mr. Pawley--who
was still attired as when I had last seen him--removed his cap and
bowed with sincere obsequiousness. The object of his reverence was
an elderly, big-framed, very consequential-looking man, whose large
face was ornamented by a pair of old-fashioned whiskers, and who, in
my opinion, had family solicitor written big all over himself and his
attire, from his silk hat to his stout-soled, gaitered, square-toed
boots. That he was a person of much greater importance than Mr.
Pawley was very evident from the fact that he replied to Mr. Pawley’s
obsequious greeting with a mere condescending nod, and at once resigned
into his hands a Gladstone bag and a travelling rug. There was an
interchange of brief remarks between the two--then they marched across
the platform to the hotel and vanished within its portals, the large
man going first, and Mr. Pawley playing porter behind.
My curiosity had been aroused so keenly by that time that I had some
absurd notion of following Pawley and the white-whiskered person into
the hotel, just to see if I could find out a little more about their
mutual relation. But on reflection I went off about my own business.
Having some knowledge of Newcastle, I walked up town to a certain
restaurant of which I knew and highly approved; there I lunched and
idled an hour away afterwards. After that I set out in quest of a firm
whose name Parslewe had given me. Its manager had not got a canvas of
the precise size I wanted, but he promised to make me one by noon of
the following day, and I accordingly decided to stay in Newcastle for
the night, and, later, went to the hotel at the station to book a room.
In the smoking-room there, writing letters, was the white-whiskered
person. Pawley was not with him. Nor was Pawley with him when, after
dinner that evening, he came into the smoking-room again and took a
chair close by my own in a comfortable corner. But now he was not
alone; he came in company with a younger man, a middle-aged, sharp-eyed
individual whom I also set down as having some connection with the law.
These two men had evidently just dined; a waiter brought them coffee
and liqueurs; the elder man produced a cigar-case and offered it to
his companion. They began to talk; sometimes quite audibly, at others,
sinking their voices to whisperings. But they had scarcely lighted
their cigars before a word or two from the white-whiskered man made me
prick my ears.
“Without doubt!” he said. “Without any doubt, the copper box--its
presence there--the coat-of-arms--the odd legend on the scroll--is a
most valuable piece of evidence! As soon as I heard of it----”
He bent nearer to his companion, and for a minute or two I failed to
catch what he was saying. Out of my eye-corners, however, I could see
that the younger man was listening, attentively and approvingly; from
time to time he nodded his head as if in assent. Eventually he spoke.
“And you say that Pawley, in his opinion, took him to be of about that
age?” he asked.
“That, of course, has to be considered.”
“Pawley is an observant fellow,” remarked the elder man. “I have
employed Pawley on several occasions, and with excellent results. I can
trust Pawley’s estimate of the age. It fits in exactly!”
The younger man regarded his cigar thoughtfully for a while.
“Odd!” he said at last. “Very odd! But I should say it is so!”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” answered the white-whiskered
person. “At any rate, I am not going to travel all this way, and back
again, without making sure. I shall not be deceived!” he added with
strong emphasis on the personal pronoun, accompanied by a complacent
chuckle. “Even a point-blank denial would not satisfy me! No dust will
be thrown in my eyes!”
“You were fully acquainted with the circumstances of thirty years ago?”
questioned the other. “Personally, I mean?”
“Fully! Thirty-five years ago, to be exact. He--if it is so--is now
fifty-six years of age. Oh, yes, I knew everything, was concerned in
everything,” affirmed the elder man.
“Up to a certain point, you know, up to a certain point. Now, if I can
only get at close quarters, and Pawley assures me that’s by no means
difficult, I can satisfy myself rather cleverly. For instance----”
Once more he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice;
the conversation tailed off into whisperings. And now, fearful lest
I should in any way betray myself, I rose from my chair, left their
neighbourhood, and under pretence of looking at the evening newspapers
spread out on a centre table, went across to another part of the room.
I picked up a paper and sat down, affecting to look at it. But in
reality, I was still watching the two men, and wondering what it was
that they were talking about.