The Copper Box/Chapter 12

T was characteristic of Parslewe that he deliberately finished what he was telling us about Queen Elizabeth and her visit to Palkeney before he made any move in the direction of Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I am afraid we only heard a half of what he said; we were both conscious that what we might hear downstairs was certain to prove of far greater interest than anything Parslewe could tell us about the sixteenth century. Personally, I felt a throb of excitement when at last he turned away from the queer old chamber in which we stood.

“Well, come on!” he said, “I suppose we must see this chap and clear things up. Didn’t she say the morning-room?”

He seemed to know where that was well enough, and led the way straight to it; its door was slightly open, and as Parslewe threw it wide we became aware of Sir Charles, posted on the hearth, his large face turned expectantly towards us. Its expression was severe, pompous, and non-committal, but it changed with startling rapidity as his eyes fell on Parslewe. He almost jumped, indeed—moved, recovered himself, gasped.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “My dear sir, surely we have met before?”

Parslewe laughed sardonically.

“Aye, surely!” he answered, in his most casual fashion. “Neither of us difficult to recognise, I should think, Sir Charles. And I understand you’ve met these young people before, too?”

Sir Charles hastened to acknowledge us—perfunctorily; it was evident that we were very unimportant factors in the situation compared to Parslewe, upon whom his eyes were fastened with strange interest.

“I have had that pleasure,” he said. “But you, my dear sir—we met, one night, some—is it two, or is it three years ago?—at the Crown, in our neighbouring town, where, I believe, you are now staying? I remember our conversation—instructive and—and enjoyable. Dear me! But I never knew your name.”

“I knew yours,” said Parslewe, with a grin. “That’s just why I wouldn’t see you when you came to my house.”

Sir Charles stared—this was beyond him. He looked from one to the other of us; finally at Parslewe. There was that in his expression which made me think that he was wondering if Parslewe might not be a little mad.

“But why, my good sir?” he asked soothingly. “Why? Am I so”

Parslewe laughed and pointed to the panelling over the big fireplace. There, carved in oak, was the Palkeney coat-of-arms, and beneath it the motto that had excited my wonder when I first saw it on the copper box.

“Do you see that?” he asked. “Aye?—well, you see, I have the Palkeney blood in my veins! And what I please to do, that I do!—without caring for or consulting anybody. Family characteristic, Sperrigoe! But I guess you’ve seen it before, eh?”

Sir Charles was still staring at him. He looked like a man who has unexpectedly got hold of some curious animal and is uncertain what it is about to do next. But after rubbing his chin a little, he spoke.

“Do I understand you to say that you have the Palkeney blood in your veins?” he inquired. “Then”

Parslewe suddenly pointed to the table which stood in the centre of the room, signing us all to be seated at it; I noticed that he himself took the chair at its head as with an unchallengeable authority.

“Better sit down and do our business,” he said. Then, as we settled round the table, Madrasia and I on his right and left hand, and Sir Charles opposite to him, he put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out the copper box, and with one of his queer smiles, set it before him. “Do you know what that is, Sperrigoe?” he asked.

Sir Charles made a wry face.

“The cause of much worry and anxiety to me, my dear sir!” he answered. “I can see what it is well enough!”

“Aye, and you want to know how I got it, don’t you?” suggested Parslewe. “So do these young people. I’ll tell you. Old Matthew Palkeney made me a present of it.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “You were acquainted with him?”

“Don’t I tell you I’ve got Palkeney blood in my veins?” said Parslewe. “My great-grandmother was a Palkeney—born in this house. I have the Palkeney pedigree, and the Parslewe pedigree—at your service, any time. And when I came to the Crown, on the occasion you’ve just mentioned, it was just out of curiosity to see this place. I introduced myself to old Matthew. I’d brought my pedigree with me; we compared notes and family documents, and enjoyed ourselves. I dined here with him one night, and we went thoroughly into family history.”

“He was convinced of your relationship?” asked Sir Charles.

“He couldn’t be anything else,” said Parslewe, drily. “The thing’s there—it’s fact. But we didn’t dwell overmuch on that, once it was settled. We were more concerned with our mutual taste for old things. And the next day the old man drove up to the Crown, when I was out, and left for me a parcel. It contained this copper box, which has been in the family for I don’t know how long, and some six or seven old books which I had admired—a nice present. I wrote him a nice letter in return, and carried my present home. Not knowing, mind you,” added Parslewe, with a sudden keen look, “what this box contained.”

Sir Charles was getting keenly attentive. He looked like a man who has become sure that something is going to be sprung on him.

“My dear sir!” he said. “What did it contain?”

Parslewe picked up the copper box and tapped it significantly.

“I never knew that it contained anything until some thirty-six hours ago!” he answered. “I never should have known if you fellows hadn’t made such a fuss about it. But when you did—when I found out from Craye here that you yourself were on the prowl, there in Northumberland, and after me—well, I naturally began to put two and two together. And it seemed to me that the secret lay with that man Bickerdale, to whom I’d entrusted the copper box for repair, and who’d had it in his hands long enough to find out about it more than I had. It struck me that Bickerdale, not content with what he’d got out of you for telling where the box was, had discovered something in it which he was holding back in hopes of a further and more substantial reward. So I just went to Newcastle and started to find that out. I did find it out—and though I’m not clear now as to when Bickerdale found a certain document in the box, I did find out that he’d not only found one, but had got it! And in Craye’s presence and in the presence of your man Pawley, to whom I’d just given a certain piece of confidential information—I forced it out of Bickerdale. I’ve got it! And it solves the question that’s been bothering you.”

Sir Charles was getting more and more impatient; his plump white fingers were drumming on the table. And as Parslewe finished, he voiced his impatience in a quick, direct question.

“What is this document?”

Parslewe smiled, and turned the copper box over, so that the four rounded feet at its corners stood uppermost.

“I’ll show it to you now,” he said. “And I’ll show you where old Matthew Palkeney had hidden it, probably intending before he died to tell you, Sperrigoe, where it was hidden. Now look here; there’s a false bottom to this box. You unscrew these knobs so, one after the other. When they’re unscrewed, like that, you lift this plate; there’s a thin cavity between it and the inner floor of the box. And here’s the document. I put it back in the box so that you could see for yourself where it had been concealed.”

He tossed over the table the envelope which I had seen him take from Bickerdale. The solicitor picked it up eagerly. He drew out the sheet of letter paper which lay within, and his sharp, shrewd eyes had read whatever was written there in a few seconds. He gave a gasp; his big face flushed; he looked across at Parslewe.

“Good God, my dear sir!” he exclaimed. “Do—do you know what this—what this—this most important document—is?”

“I do!” replied Parslewe, drily. “But these two don’t.”

Sir Charles turned to us. I think he found some relief for his astonished feelings in having somebody to announce something to.

“This—this is a will!” he said, in almost awestruck accents. “The will of my late client, Mr. Matthew Palkeney! Made by himself on a single sheet of notepaper! But in strict order, duly executed and attested. I know the witnesses”

“So do I,” observed Parslewe, with a laugh. “Talked to both of ’em this morning on the way here.”

“And—and, in short, it is what it is!” continued Sir Charles. “Nothing can upset it! And in it, in as few words as ever he could use, Mr. Matthew Palkeney leaves everything of which he dies possessed to—Mr. Parslewe! Wonderful!”

Parslewe thrust his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t see anything very wonderful about it,” he remarked, coldly. “We were of the same blood! The old man evidently wanted to—and he did. But he never consulted me, you know, Sperrigoe.”

“All the more pleasant surprise for you, my dear sir!” exclaimed Sir Charles. A new mood appeared to have come over him; after re-reading the will more attentively, he rubbed his hands, chuckled, beamed on all three of us, and seemed to have had a great weight lifted off his mind. “My hearty congratulations, sir!” he went on, with an almost reverential inclination of his head across the table. “A very, very handsome property you have come into by this, Mr. Parslewe! One of the most beautiful old houses in England, a charming, if small estate, and—yes, I should say, as a good estimate, some five or six thousand a year! Delightful!”

But Parslewe, leaning back in his chair, with his hands thrust in his breeches pockets, had set those thin lips of his. He looked over the table at Sir Charles as if he were never going to speak. But he spoke.

“Aye!” he said, in his driest, hardest tones. “Just so! Maybe! But you see, I don’t want it. And I won’t have it!”

A dead silence fell on us. Madrasia turned wonderingly towards her guardian. I was already watching him. As for Sir Charles Sperrigoe, he flushed crimson—as if somebody had struck him an insulting blow. He leaned forward.

“You—my dear sir, I am, I fear, inclining to deafness,” he said. “Did I understand you to say”

“I said I don’t want it, and I won’t have it!” repeated Parslewe, loudly. “I should have told old Matthew that if he’d ever asked me about it. I’m a man of fixed and immutable principle. When I went out to India as a young man, I made a vow that I’d never own or take anything in this life that I didn’t earn by my own effort, and I’ll stick to it! I don’t want the Palkeney estate, nor the Palkeney house, nor the Palkeney money—I’ve plenty of money of my own, more than I know what to do with, and a house that suits me better than this does. If you want to know me, look again at that motto! What I please, that I’ll do! And I won’t have this—that’s flat!”

Sir Charles’s astonished face regained its normal colour, and he suddenly laughed with genuine amusement.

“Dear, dear!” he said. “There is no doubt, my dear sir, of your Palkeney blood—the Palkeneys were always eccentric. But—you’re forgetting something; a very pertinent something. This place is yours! Yours! Everything’s yours! I think I should put my—rather rash and hasty—vow in my pocket, my dear sir!”

Parslewe’s lips became tight again. But they presently relaxed, and he bent forward to the table again, and began to smile.

“If this place and the whole thing is mine, absolutely and entirely,” he said in honeyed accent, “I reckon I can do just what I like with it, what?”

“There’s no man can say you nay!” answered Sir Charles. “It’s—yours!”

“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Parslewe, with one of his beautiful smiles and a wave of his hand. “I’ll give it to these two young people! They’re just suited to each other, and it’ll fit their tastes like a glove. They can get married at once, and settle down here, and I’ll come and see them sometimes, and they can come and see me sometimes at Kelpieshaw. That’s the best way I can see out of the difficulty. We’ll settle it on them and their children”

But by this time Madrasia’s cheeks were aflame, and she turned on Parslewe with blazing eyes.

“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “How—how dare you? When will you give up that wicked habit of settling other people’s affairs as if—as if they were so many puppets? Why—why—Mr. Craye has never even asked me to marry him!”

Parslewe turned the full force of his grimmest smile on us.

“Well, my dear!” he retorted leisurely. “It’s his own fault if he hasn’t! I’m sure he’s had plenty of opportunity. But”

Sir Charles rose to the occasion. He rose literally from his chair, bending towards Parslewe; he even allowed himself to indulge in a slight wink at Parslewe.

“My dear sir!” he cooed. “I think—er—if we left our young friends together, my dear sir! A little—er—informal conversation between them—eh?—while you and I—shall we try a glass of the famous Palkeney dry sherry in another apartment, my dear sir? Just so—just so”

In another moment he had coaxed Parslewe out of the room; the door closed on them. Madrasia and I, seated at opposite sides of the table, stared at each other. It seemed a long time before I found my tongue.

“Madrasia!” I managed to say at last. “Madrasia!”

“Well?” she answered.

“Madrasia!” I continued. “This is absolutely awful! You know what your guardian is!—a dreadful man. Nothing will prevent him from having his own way about—about anything! Whether we like it or not, he’ll go and do what—what he said he would do just now.”

Madrasia looked down at the table, and began to study the pattern of the cloth.

“Well?” she said.

“I don’t think it’s at all well,” said I. “Supposing—just supposing, you know—supposing we fell in with his wishes and—and got married. I’m just supposing, of course!”

“Well?” she said, again.

“Don’t you see what a dreadful thing that would be?” I said.

She gave me a quick flash of her eye—there, and gone in a second.

“Why?” she demanded.

“People would say I married you for your money,” I declared boldly. “That would be awful for both of us!”

She remained silent a moment, tracing the pattern of the cloth with the tip of her finger. Then she spoke—emphatically.

“Rot!” she said.

“No!” said I, with equal emphasis. “Because they would! I know ’em! And it’s beastly hard on me; it upsets my plans. Parslewe’s upset all my plans. If I’d only known”

“Only known what?” she asked.

“Only known that he was going to spring this on us!” I answered, bitterly. “If I’d only known that, I’d—I’d have”

“You’d have what?” she asked, as I paused and hesitated.

“Well—I’d have proposed to you this morning when we were in the hotel garden, or in that carriage, or in the wood, when Parslewe was ahead,” I answered. “Or yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that—any time since I first met you. But now—wouldn’t it look as if I were proposing to the Palkeney estate?”

She suddenly looked up, gave me a queer glance, and rising from her chair walked over to one of the embrasured windows. I followed her—and after a moment’s silence, slipped my arm round her waist.

“What on earth’s to be done?” I asked her. “Tell me!”

I got her to look round at last.

“You’re an awful old ass!” she said in a whisper. “I saw the way out at once. He didn’t say he’d give all this to me! He said he’d give it to—us!”

“Is it going to be—us, then?” I demanded eagerly.

“Seems very like it, I think, doesn’t it?” she answered, demurely.

So—but not for a little while—we went to tell Parslewe.