THE LOST POCKET BOCK.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 3073, 3 May 1881, Page 4

THE LOST POCKET BOCK.

A Talk of New Yoke City Lifm

T was just twenty-five when I first met Alice Thome, the daughter and heiress of George Thorne, the great banker. I fell desperately in love with tho charming girl, knowing well that such love was utter madness. Her father was reported to be a very proud, ambitious man, who would look high for a son-in-law. I felt that he would not so much as give a hearing to my suit; and as to winning her without his consent, what would that bring to her hut misery ? I had nothing with which to repay or compensate her for the sacrifice of a marriage with my poverty. So we bade good-by without, a word of explanation, thou eh I knew she read the anguish in my heart, and tears were in tho soft eyes averted from me. I kissed the trembling hr,nd she planed in mine, and turned away and bade farewell to her and her hope together. Scarcely had I got back to town, and was Btriving earnestly to drown vain regret in the bußtle and interest of business when a terrible misfortune fell upon me. Mr Overton had given me a cheque for 20,000d01., desiring me to go to the bank and get it cashed. Having executed the commission and returned, imagine my horror on discovering that the pocket book containing tbe money was gone. Whether stolen by villains or lost by my own cnrlessness, what mattered it ? It was gone, and f utterly ruined. What I.suffered the next few hours Ciud only knows; and when, after being dismissed, I returned to tny room, T was nearly desperate; not only had I lost a lucrativo position, but my future appeared to be irretrievably blasted, for there are suspicions which nre as fatal to a man morally as would be physically the wound of a rifle ball. But I was young and of a hopeful nature, and I began to realise that I had been leniently dealt with. On recalling all that had happened after my leaving the bank, and the utter impossibility of the pocketbook being taken from the breast pocket of raj coat, I came to the conclusion that I musk have dropped it, and thereupon ! resolved to have recourse to all means in my power to recover the money. I had sarod during the past few years a considerable portion of my salary, and determined to devote it to the purpose I had in view. I advertised daily in all the prominent journals, not offering the customary reward, but described my unfortuna'e position, my honor lost, and my fortune blasted. For two weeks I kept my loss before the public, and had almost begun to despair of any favorable results, when, one morning, a stranger came to me—a tall, dark, sternlooking man—who regarded me with a pair of kindly brown eyes that had something familiar about them. The stranger declined the seat I offered him, and began at once speaking brusquely and to tho point. " I hare heard of your loss," he said. " I have read your advertisement in the papers, and I feel deeply interested in and for you. I have just left your late employer's, and after the satisfactory manner in which all my. questions were answered, 1 became your surety for the 20,000 dollars." "What?" I sprang towards him in tho wildest excitement. " Oh, sir," I began, but he soon stopped mo. " Let me finish," said he. " I've done this because I am convinced that you are an upright, honest man, and the greatest proof of my confidence I can give you is tha> I am about to offer you the position of cashier in my banking house. My name, sir, is George Thorne." George Thorne, the father of Alice, the girl I loved ! Ah, the mystery was solved ! It was of her his eyes had reminded me ; it was to her I was indebted for this help. * # # # # # Fifteen years had flown since I had lost the pocket book. I had now become a prosperous man, surrounded by all the luxuries which wealth affords. I had found in Mr Thorne more than a patron ; I found a friend. Under a brusque manner he had a heart of gold. From the first day of our acquaintance he had evinced toward me the liveliest interest and affection. I was soon made partner, and when, on a certain blessed day, I became the husband of Alice and his son-in-law, he presented me with a receipt for the 20,000 dollars that he had paid to Messrs Overton for my loss. So time went on. The banking house known as the firm of Thorne and Wallace, VMS «. fhen in a tllrivin S condition, I had „"' *! eautif IU " wife two lovely children, and 0t ' wifc!l a . JI tnese sources of happiness, I was < 2 lute contented ; there waa a orease in the rose ... _• For some time past I had een vainly endeavoring to account for the extraordinary interest which my fafcher-in-law bad taken in me, because I discovered, as I grew older and saw more of this selfish, egotistical world, that very few such generous actions were performed without motive, and the solution of this, to ma, difficult problem frequently occupied my thoughts. At first I had attributed it all to Alice's influence, but I know now that it had been as great a surprise to her as to myself. About this time, Dr. Ponnard, one of Mr Thome's most intimate friends, arrived in New York, und one morning while sitting at breakfast expressed -great surprise at the numerous advertisements in the papers relating to money lost and found. ' Well,' he said ' I have not the least sympathy for those who lose money. They are generally careless, stupid people, not fit to be'trusted ; although I remember having heard of a young man who lost a pocket book some years ago containing $20,000, and I declare when I read his piteous appeals, which were in all the papers, my heart ' fairly ached for him. But,' ho continued, addressing my father-in-law, who had become very pale, ' you ought to remember the circumstance, for it occurred just at the time of the great failure in Philadelphia by which you were so heavy a loser.' ' Yes, I recollect the affair,' replied Mr Thorne, who appeared to be suffering. ' I never heard,' continued the doctor, j ' what became of the poor devil, and yet I should like to know.' j ' Should you ?' said T, laughing ; ' then ' let me gratify your curiosity. I, Arthur Wallace, am that poor devil, doctor : saved from ruin and despair by my benefactor here and then I related all the events of the last fifteen years. The doctor sprang to his feet and grasped his old friend's hand ' Well and generously done!' said he; but Mr Thorne interrupted him. 'I am not well,' he said, faintly. ' I suffer greatly ; let me go to my room.' 'i he next day he sent forme to his private office. I found him looking pale and haggard. ' Hit down, my dear Arthur,' said he, in a low voice, ' and listen to me. For a long time I have had a coufes-rion to make to you, one that weighs on me so heavily that I must ease my conscience of its load. I can better bear to do so now, that I have in a measure made some amends for the trouble I once caused you. 1 ' The trouble you have caused me !' said I. ' You have been the most generous of men to me. It is through your kindness that 1 occupy my present position ; it is to you I owe my happiness, and, more than all, my honor.' Mr Thorne opened his desk and took from it a pocketbook. 'Do you remember this?' said he, as he placed it in my hand. ' Yes,' replied I, ' it is the one I lost; but how — I could not finish my question. The truth stared me in the face. I Bprang to .my feet in dismay. * (I*o*l hfinrpinn !' I cried, 'yon found the

'ou found tho

Ayo! and kept it," he groaned, with anguish in his voice. ' But, oh !do no condemn without hearing me. Yesterday you heard Dr. Ponnard allude to the great losses I had sustained by the failure in Philadelphia. I did not dare to make my embarrassments known, as that would have hastened my ruin—my ruin ! God knows ifc -was not for liiyself that 1 cared, but for Alice, my darling child. It -was on the 14th December that you lost the money. Oh j I shall never forget the date. It was on that day that I meditated suicide. I was short 20,000d015. to meet my liabilities, maturing on the 15th. 1 was overwhelmed with despair; the air of the office seemed to stifle me, and I rushed into the street. I had hardly gone ten yards, when my foot struck something. It was your pocket book. I opened it, and the sight turned me giddy and faint. Then commenced within my breast ono of those mortal struggles, which, even to conquer, is fearful, but in which, alas! I was miserably vanquished. The next day I satisfied all claims upon me. To the world I was George Thorne, an honest, upright man ; to myself I was nothing better than a malefactor. You know the rest. Through my guilt you passed two weeks in indescribable anguish. I have since endeavoured to make reparation for this misery I caused; but I also suffered. Moral atonements are the most cruel, because they are eternal. I have known and yet feel the bitterness of expiation. Say my son, can you forgive my crime ?'

Could I forgive ? I looted at the pallid face, anguished eyes. What were my sufferings of thof.a two terrible weeks compared to tho secret pain and shame this man had borne for years ? —this man, the victim of one solitary deviation from rectitude, so upright in all else, and whose life since had been one long atonement. I grasped his hand ; tears filled my eyes.

'Father,' I cried, ' Alice's father and mine, all ia forgiven, forgotten. Do I not owe all the happiness of my life to that same lost pocketbook.'