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[pg 141] 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,"[pg 142] 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[pg 143] 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.[pg 144] 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[pg 145]—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[pg 146] 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?
[pg 147]
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[pg 148] 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[pg 149] 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!
