PRINGLE'S DISCOVERY.
Great was the glee of Jonas Pringle when he found himself left alone
once more in Spur Alley. When he saw Van Duren off in a cab for Euston
Square he mentally bade him good-bye for ever.
So elated was he, so sure did he now feel that the moment of success
was at hand, that he went out and bought a tin of preserved lobster,
and a bottle of rum, and there and then held high festival with
Bakewell and his wife in their dungeon below stairs. He calculated
that, at the very soonest, Van Duren need not be expected back for
three or four days; and what might not be accomplished even in that
short time! He could not labour much during the day at perfecting his
duplicate key; he had too many interruptions; he was wanted too
frequently in the office by people who called to inquire after Van
Duren. But after business hours, when the hush of evening crept over
the busy city, then he could work away as long as he liked without
fear of interruption. And surely, after all that had gone before, a
few short hours only would now be needed to place the long-coveted
prize in his grasp.
All that day he remained very restless and unsettled, and seemed
unable either to stay long in any one place, or to fix his mind on
anything for more than a few minutes at a time.
Van Duren had left him several important letters to write, but after
getting as far as the date and "Dear Sir," or "Gentlemen," with one or
other of them, his ideas became so mixed up and confused that he could
no longer disentangle the subject of one letter from that of another
in his thoughts; so that at last he had to fling down his pen in
disgust, and rush off for a quarter of an hour to a favourite haunt
round the corner. Indeed, he seemed to be running in and out all day
long.
Pringle made up his mind that, if requisite, he would work away at his
key all night. When Bakewell and his wife were safe in bed--and they
rarely sat up after ten o'clock--he would steal downstairs without his
shoes, turn on the gas, and shut himself up in the strong room; and
there, file in hand, and a fresh bottle of rum by his side, he could
work on in safety till five or six o'clock next morning. But perhaps
before that time the stubborn lock would yield and the great door fall
back on its hinges, and then!---- But such a possibility was almost
too much for calm consideration.
Before beginning his work for the night, he would go down to a little
water-side tavern that he knew of, where the _Shipping Gazette_ could
always be found, together with sundry lists of vessels about to sail
from London and other ports. He had not yet decided on the spot to
which he should direct his flight, but he could make up his mind on
that important point to-night, and pick out the names and dates of
sailing of some half-dozen ships, so as to be ready for starting at
any minute.
As it happened, however, the evening turned out so wet and stormy that
Pringle was obliged to put off his proposed visit to the river-side
tavern till another day. This altered his plans a little. Instead of
waiting till Bakewell and his wife were in bed, as soon as he had shut
the office and hurriedly swallowed a cup of tea, he went to his own
room and locked himself in, and set to work at once with his file. But
he was afraid to go on working too long at a time without trying the
key in the lock. At any moment his file might give the one last touch,
which, Pringle felt convinced, was all that his key now needed to make
him at once master of the situation. So, at intervals of half an hour
or so, he stole downstairs to the strong room to try his key once
more; and once more, on finding that the master-touch had not yet been
given, he stole back to his own room and set to work again with a
slow, quiet patience that would not know what it was to feel itself
beaten.
To-night, for a wonder, it was nearly eleven before the Bakewells went
to bed. As soon as he felt sure that there was no longer anything to
fear from them, Pringle removed himself permanently downstairs for the
night. Seating himself on a pile of books close by the iron door, he
went quietly on with his work. At half-past eleven he tried the key in
the lock, but, for aught he could tell to the contrary, he might have
been no nearer success than he had been a month previously. He tried
again as the clocks were chiming the quarter before midnight, and the
wards of the lock yielded and fell back as readily and smoothly as
ever they had done before Van Duren's own key. The master touch had
been given at last.
Pringle, sitting on his heap of books, stared at the open door as
though he could not believe the evidence of his senses. Was it, could
it be possible that the golden prize for which he had laboured so long
and so patiently was at last really within his grasp? His hands were
all a-tremble, his head was burning, his mouth parched up. All at once
it struck him that he felt very thirsty, and that it was close upon
twelve o'clock. There would be time for one, or even for two last
tumblers before the taverns closed. Where would he be before midnight
should strike again? Not in London, he said to himself, but miles out
at sea on his way to some far-off land.
With some such thoughts as these flitting fitfully through his mind,
he mechanically lowered the gas, and then, leaving the safe-door still
open, but closing and locking the door of the room, he crept
cautiously up the stone staircase, with his shoes in his hand, and let
himself out at the front door with as little noise as possible. He had
made no attempt to examine the contents of the safe. A brief glance
into it had satisfied him for the time being. He knew for an undoubted
fact that the money he coveted was there, and he asked to know nothing
more. There was no fear that it would take to itself wings while he
went to have a final glass at his favourite tavern.
The final glass was duly imbibed, and at five minutes past twelve
Jonas Pringle found himself in the streets again, and on his way back
to Spur Alley. He was nearly at home, when suddenly his eyes fell on
the figure of a woman who was standing full in the light of a street
lamp, and apparently counting some money. There was something in the
outline or attitude of the woman that sent a strange thrill to his
heart. With a half-inarticulate cry, he hurried forward. Startled by
his sudden movement, the woman looked up, and her haggard face became
clearly visible in the lamplight.
"Jessie!--my daughter!" exclaimed Pringle, and he sprang forward as
though he would clutch her.
"Father!" cried the woman, in a voice of shrill, sharp agony, as she
suddenly flung up her arms. Then, before he could touch her, she
turned and fled.
"Jessie! Jessie! Don't run away from me!" cried Pringle, as he hurried
after her.
But he was no match for the fleet-footed woman in front of him. By the
time he got to the corner of the street he was completely exhausted,
and Jessie was already out of sight. He leaned for a moment or two
against the wall, with a hand pressed to his side, while he gathered
breath. Then, with a bitter sigh, he retraced his way slowly towards
Spur Alley.
"Found at last," he muttered to himself, as he stumbled painfully
along--"found at last, but only to lose her again at the moment of
finding! I would have forgiven everything--yes, everything, if she
would only have come back to me!"
During the last few minutes, he had forgotten all about the safe and
its contents, and the treasure that lay ready to his hand; but now, as
he proceeded to open the street door with his latch-key, the whole
situation came back to his mind in a rush, but with a sense of
strangeness as though it were something done by some other man, or by
himself long years before.
The house was as dark and silent as a tomb. He groped his way
downstairs, and presently he found himself in the strong-room again.
He sat down on the heap of books to think. To-night, of all nights in
his life, he had seen again the daughter for whom he had been
searching for years. He had seen her one moment, but only to lose her
the next. She had fled from him, desperately determined to avoid him;
and the chances were that, in that great wilderness of London, they
should never meet again. His heart yearned towards her as it had never
yearned before, but all her desire seemed to be to shun him. The
question with him now was, whether he should take this money which lay
ready to his hand, and go away for ever; or whether he should relock
the safe, leaving the money untouched, and go on living his old life
as if this dream of sudden wealth had never haunted his mind, and
devote all his spare hours, as he had done, years before, to searching
for his lost child, who, as to-night had proved, was so near to him
and yet so far away. The chances were that he should never see Jessie
again; and even if he should succeed in finding her, he had no proof
that she would not elude him again as she had done already. If only he
could have felt sure of finding her, and that she would stay with him
when found, not ten times the amount of money in Van Duren's safe
would have tempted him to leave London, and with it his last chance of
ever seeing her again.
His thoughts were all in a maze of confusion. He could not make up his
mind what to do. Springing to his feet, he flung wide the door of the
safe. He would at least feast his eyes on this treasure for which he
had braved so much and laboured so long. There would still be time to
decide afterwards what he should finally do.
There were several iron drawers in the safe, all of them unlocked.
These he opened one after another. One of them was full of small bags
of specie, each of which was neatly tied up and labelled, to show the
value of its contents. Another drawer contained bank-notes, drafts,
and bills of exchange. Other receptacles held promissory notes, bills
of sale, and various documents having a bearing on Van Duren's
business. Pringle paused for a moment or two while he made a rapid
calculation. In gold and notes alone, the safe held upwards of three
thousand pounds. His most sanguine hopes were more than realized.
Should he take this money and go, or should he not? At six o'clock
that very morning he could drop down the river in an outward-bound
ship, and all trace of him would be lost for ever. But to leave
Jessie!
There was one last drawer still to open. He drew it slowly out. It
held neither gold, nor notes, nor bills of exchange. There was nothing
in it but a small cedar-wood box, which box was locked. Pringle took
it out of the drawer. It was very light, and not at all strong. What
could there be inside it? Why should the contents of this box be held
as of more account than the gold and notes that lay openly about?
Perhaps within that little casket lay hidden some dark secret of Van
Duren's life. With the aid of one of his files, which lay there on the
floor, Pringle could force open the lid in a couple of minutes, and
see with his own eyes what was shut up inside. No sooner thought than
done--done without pausing to ask himself whether such an act would
not shut him out from all possibility of retreat. So long as the box
remained intact, so long as the gold and notes remained untouched, all
that he had to do was to shut and relock the door of the safe, and Van
Duren need never know anything of what had happened to-night.
But the lid of the box was forced even while this thought was floating
vaguely through his mind. He forced it, breaking it into two pieces as
he did so. To his intense disappointment, there was nothing inside but
a parcel of old letters.
Yes, at the very bottom there was something more, and yet nothing of
any great consequence: only a woman's portrait. He took it up with a
sneer, and moved a few steps nearer the gaslight, so as to be able to
examine it more closely.
For a full minute he stood staring at the portrait without moving a
muscle, with no more apparent life in him than a waxen effigy. Then he
let the portrait drop as suddenly as though it had burnt him, and
putting his hands to his face, he sank on his knees beside it on the
floor. But not long did he remain thus. With a low cry, he started to
his feet as though suddenly struck by some overwhelming thought, and
hurrying across the floor, he pulled out the drawer that held the
letters, and went back with it to the light. Holding the drawer under
one arm, he picked out a letter here and there, opened it, read a line
or two, glanced at the signature, and then put it back and took up
another. Last of all, he picked up the portrait, kissed it, laid it
atop of the letters, and put the drawer back into its place in the
safe. Then once more he sat down to think.
What a strange and terrible discovery was that which he had just made!
The likeness was Jessie's likeness, and the letters were Jessie's
letters. Max Van Duren was the villain who had robbed him of his
child.
Nineteen men out of twenty would have destroyed the letters of a girl
for whom they had ceased to care, and whom they had cast upon the
world without compunction, to starve, or die, or to live on in a way
that was worse than death. But here the letters were. They had been
written in the days when this man called Jessie his "wild rose," when
she believed him to be everything that was good and honourable; when,
at his persuasion, and for love of him, she ran away from the drunken,
disreputable father who seemed to value her so little, but who found
out how dear the motherless girl was to his heart when he had lost her
for ever. Yes; here were the letters, overflowing with sweet, girlish
confidence and outspoken love. Who could tell why Van Duren had kept
them? Not he himself, if any one had put the question to him.
Jonas Pringle had need to think. He heard the City clocks strike one,
as he sat on the pile of ledgers by the open door of the safe, his
elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He heard the City
clocks strike two, and still he sat like a man turned to stone.
When, years before, he had first come to London, and had reason to
believe that his daughter was hidden somewhere in the same huge
wilderness, all his spare time for many weary months had been devoted
to looking for her. But that could not go on for ever: and although he
had long ago given up all active search for Jessie, the trick,
acquired at that time, of peering up into the face of every woman who
passed him in the streets, had never wholly left him. Thousands of
times had he dwelt in imagination on the meeting which, he felt
convinced, must one day take place between his daughter and
himself--how he would snatch her to his heart and tell her that all
the past was dead and forgiven. And now he had seen her, but only to
find that she shunned him as though he were stricken with the plague.
A thousand times had he sworn to himself that should he ever knowingly
cross the path of the man who had destroyed his child, no power in
heaven or on earth should baulk him of his revenge. And now that by a
strange chance he had crossed the path of that man, should his oaths
be all forgotten, and the revenge he had promised himself nothing but
an empty dream? Not so, not so.
But what form should his vengeance take? Not the poor, paltry,
insignificant form of robbing this man of his gold. After what he had
learned to-night, rather than take a penny of his money, he would have
begged from door to door. What he wanted was not Van Duren's money,
but Van Duren's life. He would like to have seen him come home the
worse for wine, and in that condition have gone to bed, and then he
would have set fire to the house and have burnt him as he slept. He
would like to have treated him as some savage tribes treat their
prisoners--torturing them hour after hour, killing them by inches
through a long summer day. A death that would come quickly was too
good for him. Something slow and lingering, something that would make
him long for death as a prisoner longs for the order for his release,
would not be one whit more than he, and all such as he, deserved.
At length he heard the clocks strike four, and he knew that the bright
May dawning was beginning to flood the streets with the grey and gold
of another day. Then he stood up, stiff, cold, and weary, but with an
intense fire burning at his heart that seemed to light him up from
head to foot, and had already transformed him into another man. He put
out the gas, and leaving the safe-door still unlocked, but locking the
outer door, he crept upstairs to bed. He had matured his plan; he had
thought out his scheme of vengeance; everything was clearly mapped out
in his mind: he could now afford to take a few hours' sleep.
He came down at his usual hour, washed, shaven, and brushed more
carefully than common, and had breakfast with the Bakewells. He was
very chatty and affable over the meal, and entertained them with a
long and elaborate narrative of the latest murder, so that they all
enjoyed themselves greatly. An hour later, after the post letters had
arrived, he called Bakewell into the office.
"I have just got a letter from the governor," said Pringle, "in which
he tells me that he shall not be back home for a fortnight, or even
longer. So, as you and your better half will have little or nothing to
do during that time, he thinks you may as well take advantage of his
absence and have a run out to the seaside, or down into the country,
for a couple of weeks. And what do you think he has done? He has
opened his heart as I never knew him to open it before, and has
actually asked me to give you five pounds towards paying your expenses
while you are away. Bakewell, what a lucky dog you are!"
Bakewell was staggered by the news of his good fortune, as Pringle had
perhaps intended that he should be: nor was his wife less overcome
when told of it. However, they were nothing loth to go for a holiday
on such terms; and so well did Pringle work upon them, and hurry
forward their arrangements, that at six o'clock that evening he had
the satisfaction of seeing them drive away to the station, and of
finding himself left the sole inmate of the big, gloomy house in Spur
Alley.
This was what he wanted. He wanted to wait there, all alone, for the
return of Van Duren. He went about his business as at ordinary times,
but he hardly tasted drink at all. Neither did he sleep much. Of an
evening he would sit all alone in Mrs. Bakewell's underground kitchen,
smoking a long clay pipe, moistening his mouth now and then with a
little cold tea, and now and then smashing a stray beetle. He would
sit thus, his feet perched on the chimney-piece, listening to the
clocks as they struck hour after hour, thinking his own dark thoughts,
and waiting for the coming of Max Van Duren.