THE LOST POCKET-BOOK
Ralph Rexworth was inconsolable--he had lost his pocket-book. Now, a
lost pocket-book may not seem a very big thing to grieve over, seeing
that another one can be bought for a reasonable sum; and yet Ralph did
grieve, and grieve greatly.
For this pocket-book was not like other pocket-books that might be
bought. It was one which his father had given to him--the very last
present which he had ever received from him--and it contained, amongst
other things, and the greatest treasure of them all, a portrait of
his darling mother, and the letter which his father had written to
him on the day he made the present. What wonder, then, that a boy who
loved his parents as Ralph Rexworth had done should grieve, and grieve
greatly, over such a loss?
He found out the loss shortly after he reached Mr. St. Clive's, after
rescuing Horace Elgert. He had been looking at some portraits of Irene,
which had only just arrived from the photographers, and she had given
him one to keep for himself. What should he do with such a gift but put
it into his pocket-book--and his pocket-book was not there!
Irene saw the change which came over his face when he had discovered
the loss, and she asked him what was the matter. His face went quite
white, so that Tom Warren, looking at him, wondered why such a manly,
sensible chap should look so bad over such a little thing.
But then Tom Warren had father and mother living, and plenty of friends
around; so that made all the difference. He did not understand what it
was to be all alone in the world, or how people like that treasured
every relic of friends and happy days that had been.
"Perhaps it tumbled from your pocket when you threw your coat off down
by the river?" he suggested. "Let us go and have a look for it." And
the two boys set off together.
"He does seem cut up," the monitor reflected, as they ran on; for Ralph
hardly had a word to say now, so anxious was he.
But, no--no pocket-book was to be found. They searched every foot of
the towing-path, and then went into the wood, to the very spot where
they had rested that afternoon; but not a sign of the book could they
see, and at last Warren declared that it was no use looking further.
"You cannot have dropped it anywhere about here," he said, "unless
some one has seen it and picked it up. Had it got your name inside?"
"Yes," answered Ralph; "but then they won't know where to bring it. How
will they know who Ralph Rexworth is, or where he lives? I am afraid I
shall never see it again; and--and--" And Ralph broke off, unable to
finish his sentence.
"Oh, come, don't be like that, Rexworth!" protested Warren. "At any
rate, you can advertise for it and offer a reward; and any one who
found it would be only too glad to bring it back and get the money. An
old pocket-book is not so great a find that any one would want to keep
it from you."
"No; it is only of value to me," admitted Ralph, giving one last vain
look round. "Well, it is no use staying here now; and it is beginning
to grow dark. I suppose that we had better go back."
The St. Clives were quite anxious to know whether the book had been
recovered when the two boys once more reached the house, and they were
full of sympathy when Ralph sadly shook his head.
"I suppose you are quite sure that you brought it away from school
with you, Ralph?" said Mr. St. Clive; and that brought just one little
ray of hope. Ralph could not be quite sure. He thought that he had
done so--he always took it from the pocket of the coat he took off and
transferred it to that of the one he was going to wear. He had taken
off his school-jacket when he left that afternoon, and though he felt
nearly sure that he had done so, he could not be quite certain that he
had taken his pocket-book from the pocket.
But he felt so anxious and worried that all the pleasure of the evening
was gone; and when Warren finally said good-night and ran off to his
own home, it was still with the reflection that Ralph Rexworth must
indeed be a queer sort of chap, or else there must be some extra
special reason for his worrying over that pocket-book in the way he did.
And when Warren had gone, Irene came and sat by her friend's side,
being, indeed, a staunch little friend herself, and wanting to do
something to comfort him; and she whispered again how she sympathized
with him, and that perhaps the book was still at school, or, again, if
it were really lost, it would be sure to be found by some one who would
be likely to see the advertisement which Mr. St. Clive said should be
printed, and then they would certainly bring it back to him.
And then she talked of the deed which Ralph had done that day, and how
glad she was that he had been the means of saving Horace Elgert; and
how, in returning good for evil, he would be sure to conquer; and just
for the moment Ralph forgot his loss, and was interested.
"I could not do anything else, Irene," he said. "When it comes to
saving a fellow's life, one cannot stop to consider whether they are
friends or enemies. It had to be done, though it has cost me enough,"
he added sadly.
"You think that you lost your pocket-book then?" she said; and he
nodded.
"Yes. I must have jerked it out of my pocket when I threw my coat off."
"Well, then some of the other boys will most likely have found it, and
they will bring it back to you on Monday."
"I hope, if they do find it, they will not open it and get playing
about with its contents," he said anxiously; and she laughed.
"Why, how silly, Ralph! How can they possibly find out to whom it
belongs unless they open it? Why should you mind that? You have nothing
in it that you are afraid for people to see?"
"Oh, no, no; of course not!" he answered quickly. It was not that.
He could not explain it to Irene--he could hardly understand it
himself--but the idea of other hands touching that, and other eyes
prying at its treasured contents, was very repugnant to Ralph's
feelings.
The next morning Ralph was up early, almost as soon as it was light,
and back in the neighbourhood of Becket Weir; and there, all alone in
the freshness of the early day, he hunted this way and that, far more
carefully than he had done the previous evening, but with as little
success. There was not a trace of the pocket-book, but--he paused, his
nerves tingling--some one had driven along the towing-path. The tracks
were perfectly plain upon the dew-damp earth; and the tracks were
those of a light cart which was drawn by a horse lame in its left fore
foot--the same tracks which he connected with his father's fate, and
which he had not seen for some time now!
He stood looking round. It was Sunday--the day of peace and rest
and gentle thoughts, and yet for the moment his heart filled with
hard ones. He must follow these tracks! They might not lead to the
recovery of his father--alas! he could not but believe now that father
was dead--but they would lead to the man who had killed him; and
then--then----
Sweet and low the bells came from the distant church, ringing for the
first early morning service. They seemed to whisper messages to Ralph;
but for once he turned a deaf ear to their voices. He must follow these
tracks, Sunday or no Sunday.
Along the path he went, his eyes fixed on the ground--past the roaring,
tumbling weir, and the marks grew clearer. Hope rose in his excited
heart. This was more in accordance with his tastes and desires. It was
like being back on the long, rolling prairies. He would find out the
truth now--at least, he would find out who this man was who drove a
lame horse!
Vain hopes, vain thoughts! Clear and unbroken, the marks ran until
the towing-path turned out on the main road just by Becket Bridge,
and there, on the hard, stony road, all tracks were lost. It was
failure again; and a sudden rush of sorrow came to Ralph, a sudden
sense of disappointment and loneliness; and sitting down there on
the stone coping of the wall that separated the road from the river,
Ralph Rexworth burst into tears. He could not help it--he felt so very
depressed and weary; and not even the thoughts of Mr. St. Clive and
Irene could drive that depression away.
But still the bells rang, and their sweet voices thrust themselves upon
him. I am not sure that a good cry is not a good thing sometimes, even
for a boy. He felt all the better now, and he thrust back his weakness
and squared his shoulders, turning once more for the house, lest his
absence, being noticed, the family might wonder what had become of him.
But his adventures were not quite over for the morning; for, as he
went back, he became aware that far off to the right, just where the
spinney came creeping down to the common, there were two persons
walking--a man and a boy. He could see them quite plainly; and though
they were so far off, his eyes, accustomed in the past to be used on
the sweeping plains, where safety, and even life, may depend upon keen
sight, distinguished the boy as his former chum, Charlton--Charlton and
a man--who but his father? And again came the thought, in spite of all
the reasoning which Mr. St. Clive had used--was there any connexion
between that man, the tracks of the lame horse, and his own dear
father's disappearance?
Very slowly did Ralph return to his benefactor's house. He was
restless, anxious; all the stormy feelings seemed to have returned. And
all this had come through the loss of his pocket-book!
That Sunday was a hard one for Ralph. Even the quiet church, with its
solemn service, its sweet music, and its glorious coloured windows, did
not seem quite the same to-day. It was as though Satan was combating
with him, whispering that it was no use striving to go Christ's
way--that the road was too hard and the service too ill-paid--that it
was far better to give up trying to be noble and good and just be as
other boys were--as Dobson and Elgert, and that sort.
Indeed, the temptation came that it was just downright silly to go to
school at all, when he could go back to his old life and live in all
the wild freedom of the plains. So Ralph was tempted; and it seemed as
if he could get no good from the day at all--as if all striving to do
so were in vain--and as if he would have been just as well if he had
stopped away from church altogether.
Even Irene did not seem able to cheer him up. Despairing thoughts, dark
thoughts, doubting thoughts--one after another they came; for Ralph was
like Christian in _Pilgrim's Progress_--he was in the dark valley, and
all manner of evil things seemed to assail him as he journeyed.
Perhaps Mr. St. Clive understood--he seemed to understand most
things--for that night, when the family knelt at prayers together, he
prayed especially for all who had special grief to bear and special
temptations to endure; and somehow that prayer seemed to do Ralph more
good than anything else had done. It seemed to pull him up, and to tell
him that, let him be tempted as he might, conquest was possible if the
temptation was met in the strength which comes through prayer.
Monday morning came at last--the first Monday morning when he had
really felt anxious to get back to school; and off he set, promising to
write to his friends and let them know whether the pocket-book was safe
at the school in the pocket of his other coat.
He met Warren on the road, and the monitor asked him if the book was
found; but Ralph shook his head in token that it was still missing.
The school was reached at last, and Ralph hurried across the playground
and darted up to the dormitory. His coat was in his box. He felt in the
pocket; the book was there--safe! There had been no need to worry! He
had left it behind him, and it had been safe all the time!
Warren had followed him, and Charlton was there, and half-a-dozen of
the others. Charlton had taken no notice of him when he ran in.
"There you are, you kite!" laughed Warren. "You left it here all the
time, and you have been worrying yourself to fiddle-strings, as if it
contained the most important things in the world, and just trembling
in your shoes for fear any one should find it and open it, and----"
Warren stopped short. A boy, running by, accidentally pushed against
Ralph and sent the book flying from his hands. It fell at Warren's feet
and burst open; and from it there fluttered on the floor, in plain view
of every boy there--a five-pound note!