The Copper Box/Chapter 1

LTHOUGH 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, Coldbum, 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 vou 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 in 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.