THE MOCKBEGGAR

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 3, Issue 4, 1 October 1924, Page 20

THE MOCKBEGGAR

A Very Human Story

SHEILA KAYE-SMITH

J\|R. AND MRS. REGINALD DALRYMPLE were walking along the high road that leads from Iden to Wittersham, across the Isle of Oxney. They were very particular about being given their full name of Reginald Dalrymple, to distinguish them from Mr. and Mrs. Charley Dalrymple, who were in Northampton Workhouse; from the Peter Dalrymples, who tramped in Wales; from the Stanley Dalrymples, who were in prison; and from Serena Dalrymple, who had put herself outside the pale of decent society on the roads by marrying a nigger. Mr. Reginald Dalrymple was about sixty-five years old, and his back was bent. Otherwise he looked hale enough, and his face, at least as much as could be seen of it through a thatch of brown whiskers, was red as an autumn pear. He wore a frock coat, grey flannel trousers, a pair of brown beach shoes with rather inadequate uppers, and a bowler hat. Mrs. Reginald Dalrymple was about three years younger than her husband, and Avas inclined to stoutness, though she looked an able-bodied Avoman. She Avore a very handsome cape trimmed Avith jet; a Avoollen muffler that might have been grey, but to which she referred as “my Avhite scarf,” and a man’s cap set at a rakish angle. She Avheeled a perambulator, which did not, hoAvever, contain a baby, but the Reginald Dalrymples’ luggageindeed, it may be said, their entire household equipment, Avhieh at a first glance Avould appear to consist entirely of old rags. However, a more sympathetic inspection Avould reveal a really excellent kettle (the leak A\ r as only just beloAV the spout), a very suspiciouslooking rug, an assortment of cups, a tin plate, a sere Av-driver, an ancient copy of Tit-Bits , a photograph of a robust young woman Avith a hat full of feathers, and another photograph of a sailor. “I’m beginning to feel my feet,” said Mrs. Reginald Dalrymple to her husband. “And I’m thinking it’s coming on to rain,” said he, Avith a look up at the loAvering sky. It Avas autumn, and the red leaves Avere shaking against soft clouds of October grey Avhich the Avind brought doAvn from Benenden in the AA T est. “Where’s our next chance of a doss?” asked Mrs. Dalrymple. “There’s the Throws, up at Potman’s Heath,” replied her husband, “but I. reckon they’ll be damp to-night.” “Reg! Don’t use words,” said Mrs. Dalrymple with dignity. “You forget my mother was a Stanley.”

“Pm never likely to forget it the way you go on about it. Anyone ’ud think she’d been Queen Victoria on her throne to hear you talk. But what I say is, it’s coming on to rain, and there ain’t no Union within fifteen miles. Besides, you’re feeling your feet,” be added kindly. “I’ve walked twelve miles since dinner, Reg,” said Mrs. Dalrymple with a little plaintive sigh. “Hook on, then,” said he, extending a ragged elbow. She hooked, and for some moments they walked on in silence. Then he said: “It’ll be awkward for you pushing the pram with one hand,” and took it from her, though Mr. Reginald Dalrymple had often boasted that he had never come down to wheeling a perambulator, and never would. “I’ve been thinking,” said she a few minutes later, by which time the rain was spattering freely in the dust, “I’ve been thinking we must have come near that Mockbeggar place by the Stocks Road. The house was standing there five year ago when we was on the roads with Sue and her lot, and if it hasn’t tumbled down since, there’s one good room in it anyway, with the ceiling tight, and there’s water in the well at the bottom of the yard,” Mr. Dalrymple reflected, “You’re right, Hannah— believe you’re right this once. We should be coming to that Mockbeggar in half an hour. It’ll be raining the skies down by that time, so we might go in and light a fire and not trouble about getting further to-night. It’s a good way from the nearest place, and we’re not like to be meddled with.” Mrs. Dalrymple was feeling her feet more and more, in spite of the supporting elbow and the removal of the pram. She. was also beginning to get wet, though this did not worry her, as she was accustomed to it. She was far more preoccupied with the thought that she could not walk a twelve-mile stretch without getting tired —and she’d been able to walk twice that as a girl, when she and Reginald had tramped all round the country by Chichester. She had had the children then as well —one slung at her breast, and the other hanging on her skirt when his dad did not carry him. She was glad when she saw three sharp gables suddenly draw themselves against the sky, which sagged low over the fields, squirting rain. “That’s it,” she said, “that’s the Mockbeggar. I knew it was somewhere in those parts, though we haven’t been here since Sue was on the roads with her man. D’you remember that time we dossed under the stack at Wassail?”

"LOVE IN A COTTAGE" HAS LONG BEEN ACCEPTED AS A POSSIBILITY, BUT THOUGH MR. AND MRS. REGINALD DALRYMPLE DID NOT EVEN POSSESS A COTTAGE THEY WERE ABLE TO POINT A LESSON TO TWO VERY MODERN YOUNG PEOPLE: BY ONE OF THE MOST GIFTED OF MODERN WOMEN WRITERS:

Mr. Dalrymple grunted. He was looking for a gap in the hedge, for it struck him that it would be best to go straight across the fields to shelter instead of walking round by the road. He soon found what he thought was a proper opening, and proceeded to enlarge it to meet the ample requirements of his wife by pushing the perambulator through it. He then gallantly offered a hand to Mrs. Dalrymple, and, after much gasping and effort and crackling of twigs, she was at his side in the paddock which belonged to the Mockbeggar. “A Mockbeggar House” in Kent is any large-sized house which stands empty close to a high road, and seems to mock the beggar who plods along thinking he will find charity at those doors which, on bis close arrival, are found to be either swinging on their hinges or barred on emptiness. The Mockbeggar at Wittersham was an especially large house which, owing to want of repairs, a poor landlord, and a defective water supply, had stood empty for some time. “A downstairs room ’ud be best,” said Mrs. Reginald. They went into one next the passageon the ground floor. It was full of dead leaves and bits of glass from a broken window, but there was a grate in it where a fire might possibly burn, ant] the rain was confined to a small pool under the window-sill. “You unpack here, Hannah, and I’ll go and get some water for the kettle.” Mrs. Dalrymple extracted the kettle from the pram, carefully wrapped in a piece of newspaper, and Avhile her husband went off she proceeded to arrange her various belongings. The sinisterlooking rug she put in the corner with a nice, comfortable bit of sackingthat was the bedroom. The cups, the plate, and a broken knife she put on the remains of a —that was the kitchen; while the two photographs she set proudly among the dust and cobwebs on the mantelpiecethat was the parlour. She was then, according to custom, going to make herself really comfortable by taking off her shoes when she was startled by a noise overhead. An empty house is full of noises, and Mrs. Dalrymple had a wide experience of empty houses. Mere seuttlings of rats or bootings of owls or rustlings of crickets or bowlings of wind in chimneys could not alarm her, but this sound she knew at once was none of these. It was a footstep, a human footstep, which moved in the room overhead, and she held her , breath to listen. The next minute she heard more and worse —that murmur

coming to her through the boards was a human voice. She stuck her head out of the window (no need to open it first), and made a sign to Reginald, who was coming up the yard with the kettle. The sign urged both silence and attention, also haste. His response was immediate; they had often been together in these emergencies demanding a quick stealth. He did not speak a word till he was back beside her in the room. “It’s people!” said Mrs. Dalrymple in a hoarse whisper, “there’s people here!” “How d’you know? Where are they?” “They’re up above. I heard ’em talking. Listen!” They both listened. The sounds in the upper room continuedvoices and footsteps. “There’s two,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, “I. can tell by their feet. Who can it be? It’s road people like ourselves, most like. No one else ’ud ever come here.” “I wonder if it’s anyone we know. It might be the Lovells know Lance and Aurelia Lovell are walking in Kent.” “I hope it ain’t folk in the house after repairs,” said Mr. Dalrymple, struck by a sudden thought. “You never know your luck, and someone may have bought, the place.” “I hope it’s not that stuck-up Eleanor Ripley and her husband,” said Mrs. Dalrymple. “We had enough of their airs when Ave met them at Maidstone. She’s got saucers to all her cups.” “Well, I’d sooner it was her than gaujos,” returned Mr. Dalrymple, “it ’ud never do for us to get found here, and it ’ud mean oiling of the place for visitors.” “You go and have a look,” suggested his wife. “Take off your shoes.” Mr. Dalrymple shuffled them off without undoing the laces, and left the room with extreme caution. His progress upstairs and along the passage was as silent as only his kind know how to make it. Mrs. Dalrymple strained her ears, which were as quick as they were when she was seventeen. The voices continued, but she detected more than conversation —she thought she heard a sound of sobbing. Time went on. Reginald was evidently manoeuvring with his usual discretion, for the flow of talk above remained uninterrupted. Indeed, so velvet-footed was he that he was back at her side before she expected him, and, old stager that she was, nearly made her jump. “It’s gaujos,” he said in a low voice. “There’s two of ’em, mighty queer ” “How queer?” “Oh, the girl’s got short hair like a boy, and the hoyhe’s soft looking. They’re only a hoy and girl maybe we could scare ’em out.” “I don’t want to scare them,” said Mrs. Dalrymple. “The night ain’t fit for a dog, and I’d be sorry to turn ’em out in it. But if they ain’t road people, what are they doing here?” “They’re quarrelling,” said Mr. Dalrymple, “quarrelling and crying.” “I thought I heard crying.” “It’s the girl’s crying into a handkerchief. She’s got a white handkerchief with a blue border.” “Are they gentry?” “Fine gentry, I should say, by their clothes, but I don’t think they’re after repairs or taking the house or anything.” “What are they doing, then?” “Sheltering from the rain like us, and I don’t think they’ve got much money, for

they’re talking a lot of words about the price of a ticket to London.” “Is that what the trouble’s about?” “No, I don’t know as it is. I can’t make out a lot of their foolish words, but it seems as either he wants to marry her and she won’t, or else as they are married and she wants to get shut of him, and he won’t have it.” “I should think not!” said Mrs. Dalrymple. “I’m all for sticking to your lawful certificated husband, and that’s why I’d never go to the 'workhouse except just now and again for a rest.” “Well, maybe they ain’t married —I don’t rightly know. They had too many words for me to be able to make out the lot of them. But hold your tongue, Hannah; they’re coming down.” Steps sounded on the rickety stairs of the Mockbeggarunskilful, gaujo steps that made every stair creak. Mrs. Dalrymple made a hasty movement as if to gather up her possessions, and thrust them back under the rags in the perambulator— perhaps by

some dim instinct of far-off ancestors who must not let the stranger look upon their household gods. Her husband laid hold of her arm. “Don’t he seared ; they’re —hardly cut their teeth yet!” At the same moment a young man appeared in the doorway. He was tall and loosely knit, with a heavy coltishness about him as of one not full grown. Behind him a girl’s face stood out of the shadows framed in a queer little stiff mane of cropped hair. Her eyes were bright and resolute, but at the same time frightened. “Hullo said the youth truculently to Mr. Dalrvmple, “what are von doing here?” Mr. Dalrymple looked the aggressor up and down. “This place belongs to us as much as you.” “More than you,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, “seeing as we’re road people and you’re house people who have no business here !” “Well, I might ask what your business is?” “Our business is to have supper and a doss on a wet night, and if you keep clear and don’t come round talking foolishness we won’t meddle with you, and there’s room enough for the lot of us.” “It’s all right, Bob,” said the girl ; “let’s go hack.” Her face was flushed and the eyes were a little swollen under the straight line of her fringe. Mrs. Dalrymple suddenly became professional. “I’m not the one to interfere with a real lady and gentleman,” she whined, putting on the manner which she kept for ell-dressed strangers. “I’m sure you’re a real fine lady and gentleman, and if the lady will only cross my hand with silver I’ll tell her some gorgeous things about herself, and maybe about the gentleman, too. I can see a lot of

money coming to you, lady—even more than the price of a ticket to London.” The girl darted a surprised look at her companion. “Come, lady,” wheedled Mrs. Dalrymple, “I’ll tell you a high-class tale about husbands.” The girl turned away with a heightening of her flush. “I can’t bear this nonsense,” she said in a low Amice to the young man. “These people needn’t interfere with us, nor we with them. Let’s go upstairs.” The youth looked sulky. “It’s all very well,” he said, “but they’ve got the only decent room; the rain’s coming through all the ceilings above.” “You should have put your traps in here,” said Mr. Dalrymple, “then we should have kept out of it; but as we’re here, we mean to stick. My old woman’s wet through, and she’s going to have a dry doss, I’m bloAved if she ain’t.” “Oh, well, come on,” said the young man. “It may clear up before night, and then we’ll start again.” He turned away, following the girl upstairs, and the Reginald Dalrymples were left in peace. “There’s queer things you meets on the roads,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, “and it isn’t so much the people you meet as the places where you meets ’em. Now, what are those two doing here? I’m beat.” “You’re curious,” retorted Mr. Dalrymple—“fair eat up with curiosity—because you’re a woman. Now, I don’t think ■ twice about ’em as long as they leaves me alone, and nor won’t you, Hannah, if you’ve got sense. Here, let us have a fire and get ourselves dry.” He turned to the all-providing pram, and from its depths drew forth its last treasuressome blocks of wood and a bundle of sticks. The Dalrymples always carried a supply of dry firewood about with them, for they were getting old, and considered themselves entitled to a certain amount of luxury in their old age. A fire was soon lit and the kettle put on to boil; once it was blazing, the addition of a few damp sticks gathered outside no longer mattered. The room grew warm, and Mrs. Dalrym pie’s clothes began to steam. Her husband took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. “There you are, Hannah,” he said. “I don’t Avant it. This weather makes me eat, but you’ve got to take care of your bones.” They made tea, which they ate in great comfort, with half a stale loaf and a lump of lard. Outside, the rain was hissing down, while the wind howled in the chimney. “It’ll be wet upstairs,” said Mrs. Dalrymple pleasantly. The fire was beginning to die down, and Mr. Dalrymple did not fancy going outside to get in more sticks. “I’ll go and have a look at the banisters,” he said, “and maybe there’s a bit of a cupboard door.” The banisters looked satisfactory as fuel* and he was in the act of wrenching a couple of them out when he saw the young man on the staircase above him. “Hi!” said the latter dejectedly, “we’re half flooded out upstairs. I was going to suggest that we come in with you till it stops raining. We’ll clear out as soon as the weather lets us.” “We’re poor people,” said Mr. Dal-

rymple, “Mrs. Reginald Dalrymple and I are poor people, and we can’t afford to take lodgers at our fire without a bit of silver.” “We aren’t asking you to take us as lodgers, damn it! I’m just asking you to let the young lady come and sit in a dry place. It’s what you wouldn’t refuse a dog.” “I would certainly refuse a dog,” returned Mr. Dalrymple with dignity. “My wife and I never allows .no dogs to sit with us, it being well known as dogs have fleas, and my wife being a lady as’ll have nothing to do with fleas.” The young man surveyed Mr. Dalrymple as if he himself belonged to that species. “Well, if you want money,” he said, “1 suppose you must have it. Will a shilling do you?” “A shilling will do me very well,” said Mr. Dalrymple loftily, “and it includes the fire. We have a very excellent fire!” “So I gather,” said the young man as he coughed in the smoke that was eddying upstairs. But even the Dalrymples’ quarters, full of smoke and the smell of ancient rags, were hotter than the leaking, dripping rooms where he and Meave Anstey had been struggling in vain to keep warm and dry. Meave was shivering now, and her little face was not pink but blue as she sat down gingerly beside Mrs. Dalrymple’s fire. “Cross my hand with silver, lady,” said that good woman, returning unabashed to the attack, “and I’ll tell you the prettiest fortune that ever was spoke.” “I don’t Avant your lies,” said the girl angrily, with a sudden gulp. “Lies, lady! I never tells lies! May I be struck dead if I does!” “My wife is well known as a truthtelling woman,” said Mr. Dalrymple, “and I’ll thank you not to miscall her!” For some reason Meave felt rebuked, though she believed neither of them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Well, you may tell my fortune if you like, but I’ve only got sixpence.” “Thank you, lady. Thank you kindly, lady. Sixpence will buy me a packet of tea at the next village, lady. And I’ll drink your very good health in it, for I never drinks nothing stronger than tea, which is well known.” Meave held out a soft, artistic-look-ing hand, which was by this time more than a, little grimy. “I likes dirt on the hand,” remarked Mrs. Dalrymple, “it helps me to see the lines better. Now what I see is this: I see a railway line, with a train on it going to London, and you and a gentleman are in that train, and when you get to London 1 see a church, and a priest, and a great crowd of people, and rice, and slippers. I see all that, and you in the middle of it, beautiful as an angel, and beside you a. tall, handsome young gentleman with light hair and brown eyes.” The girl pulled her hand away angrily. “Don’t talk such nonsense, please! I can’t stand it.” “You don’t want to get married!” “No, I don’t. As if I’d— Rice! Slippers ! White veil!” The scorn grew in her voice. “There’s a wedding cake,” encouraged Mrs. Dalrymple, “with sugar all over it.” “I don’t want to hear any more. Look here, you’re a fortune-teller, aren’t you? 1 suppose I’m the first girl you’ve ever

met who hasn’t wanted to hear about marriage ?” “You would be the first if I believed you,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, who had dropped her company manner in the familiarity of the scene. “Well, you can believe it. I don’t Avant to get marriedl don’t believe in marriage,” and she threw a defiant glance, not at Mrs. Dalrymple, but at the young man. “But a girl can’t never live by herself; it ain’t natural.” “And it ain’t safe,” said Mr. Dalrymple. “I’ve known more than one time when my wife here might have got copped if it hadn’t been for having me handy to show her. the right trick.” “1 don’t mean to be alone,” said the girl. “I don’t believe in that either. What I hate is the hypocrisy and slavery of marriage”her voice rose and warmed, she became a little lecturer“it’s the idea of losing my freedom which I can’t bear. If women hadn’t been slaves for centuries none of them could bear it. When I

choose my mate Ave shall both of us be free— to love and free to part. There shall be no keeping of the outer husk when the kernel has rotted.” Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple stared silently with their mouths open, and the young man looked uneasy. “You see me and my friend here now,” continued Meave, “and even you, a woman outside the ordinary conventions of society, immediately form the idea that we’re going to be married. I tell you you’re utterly wrong. If we were going to be married we shouldn’t be running away, we should be sitting at home unpacking wedding presents.. We are going to join our lives together, but in freedom, not in bondage. We shall be free to part whenever we choose, free to work, free to go our own ways ” She had almost forgotten that she had not got her debating society before her. “Well,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, “I don’t want to part and I don’t want to work, and I don’t want to go any different ways from Mr. Dalrymple, so I can’t see the sense of what you’re saying. Mr. Dalrymple and me has been married close on forty years, and we’ve got a daughter, Sue, who’s been married twenty years to a fine feller in the osier trade. She has a caravan with brass rods on the door and lace curtains in the windows, and five of the dearest little children you could think of, leastways the eldest’s nearly grown up now. And we’ve got a son, Jerome, who’s a sailor, and has hack two wives one after the other. The wife he’s got now lives in a house and has a china tea service. We’re proud of our children, but they’ve gone away from us, and I don’t know what we’d do if we hadn’t got each other.” “She’s uncommon set on her children,” said Mr. Dalrymple: “that’s their likenesses up there on the shelf, what we carries about with us everywhere. Mv

daughter Sue ’ud have us stay with her, and once we went and stopped with my son and daughter at Portsmouth, and slept in a bed. But we’d just us soon be i, ■ ■ •’ " J IJVOII wv along of each other here.” “Reckon you wants your husband more when you’re old than when you’re young,” said Mrs. Dalrymple. “I’m getting too old to do most of the things I used, and I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for Mr. Dalrymple, who does them for me. Our idea is to keep on the roads till we’re old enough to go into the Married Quarters at the Workhouse. It ’ud break our hearts if we was to be separated after all this time. I don’t hold with being parted from your certificated husband.” “You gets used to each other like,” said Mr. Dalrymple. “If I was to go on the roads with anyone else I’d be so bothered and vexed I shouldn’t know what to do.” “If I was ever to see you on the roads with anyone else- — ” said Mrs. Dalrymple menacingly. “Not likely, old lady,” replied he, pushing her cap over one eye in playful affection. “Now, now,” said she, “none of your larks.” But she looked pleased and a little proud of him. The rain had become a storm, with a rush of wind in the chimneys of the Mockbeggar. Dead leaves flew rustling round the yard, and the pool under the window was a little lake. But beside the fire it was warm and dry, though the smoke, as it eddied and waved under the low ceiling, made Meave choke a little and strange tears come into her eyes. Of course that was the smoke. She felt proud and thrilled. She had broken free at last, and she was saving Bob, who otherwise would have become a slave, having all the instincts of one. —ooo —yah!” A loud yawn from Air. Dalrymple made her start. “I’m —— sleepy,” he added conversationally. “Now, don’t start using words again,” said his wife. “I’m not accustomed to them, being a Stanley, and I reckon the young lady ain’t either, for all her uncertificated ideas. If you wants to go to —go.” “I’m going,” said Air. Dalrymple. “Then take back your coat. I’ve dried under it nicely.” “I don’t want any coat. I’m warm as toast.” “You want it, and you’ll take it—here now.” An amiable tussle followed, which ended in Air. Dalrymple putting on his coat, while his wife had the piece of sacking in addition to her share of the rug. They took no more notice of Meave Anstey and Bob Pettigrew, but were soon asleep, with the queer, stiff, silent sleep of animats who rest among foes. “Rum old pair!” said Bob under his breath. “I’m sorry you’ve been let in for this, Meave, but it’s better than being swamped upstairs.” “Oh, they’re all right. I rather like them, though, of course, they’re frauds. They’re decent to each other, which is odd. I rather thought that type of man always bullied his wife.” “Men aren’t quite such rotters as you think, even tramps.” He spoke irritably, for the sordid side of the adventure was unpleasantly obvious on this night of wind and rain without and stuffiness and teasing smoko within. To his surprise she did not take up his challenge. She sat watching the

old couple as they lay huddled in the corner, a confused blot of rags and shadows. “It’s love that holds them together,” she said in her debating-society voice hushed down to a whisper, “not the mere fact of marriage.” “I dunno,” said he truculently. “I don’t believe they’d be together now if they weren’t married—anyhow, not together like this.” “Why not? Why shouldn’t lovers be faithful “It’s different, as I’ve told you a hundred times, especially when you’re old. I’d think nothing of it if they were young or middle-aged. But they’re old, and there must have been lots of times when they were tired of loving and tired of life, and would never have gone on if they hadn’t belonged to each other.” “That’s just it —they were tied.” “And the tie kept them together over the bad places. It’s like being roped on a climb. When one or another of them went down there was always the rope, and as soon as they were on their legs again they didn’t notice it. I believe people who aren’t married matter how much they love each othersomehow they’re hardly ever in together at the finish. You generally find that if the going’s rough they drift apart. Why, you yourself say you’d hate to belong to a man all your life; you want the one great Moment, and then not to spoil it by going on together. I think there’s a good deal to be said for that, though, as I’ve told you dozens of times, I want to marry you.” He looked very young as he sat there beside her in the dying firelight. He was only a boy, or he wouldn’t have come with her; he wouldn’t have let her force her adventure on him like that. He was very young, but he would grow old, like Mr. Dalrymple. That soft brown lock of hair on his forehead would be grey, his face a little worn, perhaps. Should she see it then, or would they have gone their separate ways? She wondered what he would look like when he was old —what he would be like? Kind, protective, unselfish, like Mr. Dalrymple? A strong arm to lean on when she needed it most? Growing old togethertogether not only at the start, but at the journey’s endbut tied, as Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple were tied, by the memories of struggles and toils together, by adventures and hardships shared, by long years of companionship in wayfaring, by the love of their children. She bowed her head suddenly over her lap and tears fell into her hands. “Meave, darling, what is it? Tell me.” His arm was round her, his shoulder under her cheek. —Bob—will you always love me —when we’re old?” “Of course, I shall always love you.” “As much as that— — ?” She waved her hand towards the indefinite mass of Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple. “I should hope —with a little contempt.

“Thenßob —let’s go back.” “Go back where?” “Home —I want us to get married.” “My little Meave! But you said ” “It’s seeing them. They’re so happy they’re so true. They’re dirty, terrible, shameless • old . things, but they’re happy. They’ve got something that we haven’t got, that we can’t ever have, unless we’re married.” He had the wisdom to be silent, hugging her without a word. “Let’s go back home. It’s not ten o’clock yet, and we can tell Mother we were caught in the rain and waited to see if it would stop. She need never know.” “And we’ll get married?” “Yes—though you know she’ll make us go in for everythingbridesmaids and rice and church bells and all that.” “Never mind ! It’ll make Mrs. Dalrymple’s fortune come true.”

They both laughed a little. “When shall we start?” he asked her. “Oh, soon —now.” “But it’s coming down in buckets!” “Never mind. We’re only an hour from home. We haven’t got to face all that walk into Ryde, and then the. journey into London.” She shivered a little, and he drew her close in sudden, fierce protection. “I shouldn’t have let you come. I’ve, been a fool about all this. I didn’t believe in it, and yet I gave way. because I was afraid of losing you. I should have had sense enough for both of--us, and made you go my way instead of yours.” “Is that what you’re going to do in future?” “Yes— you’re a silly little thing!” She laughed with her mouth close to his. It was he who remembered the need for quick action. “Come, we must be getting off, or we shan’t be home till it’s too late to explain. Are you ready ?” “Quite. I’m glad we didn’t bring any luggage, except in our ulster pockets. It would have been difficult to explain why we’d gone for a walk with two suitcases.” They giggled light-heartedly, and went out on tip-toe. They were off, but just as they were leaving the Mockbeggar she remembered something that had been left undone. “Bob, we ought to toll them. I want them to know.” “For heaven’s sake don’t go back and wake them up. What do you want them to know?”

“That we’re going to be married.” U T^TI. _J. ... i.l 1.. jl. j_ . x_ 1_ -n vv mil un ea-rtii nits mat go to uO vvitil them “Oh, nothing, of course, but I thought Give me a leaf out of your pocket-book, there’s a darling.” . He gave it, and she scribbled on it: “We are going to be married,” and creeping back into the room, put it on the mantelpiece beside the pictures of the blowsy girl and the sailor. “And look here,” she added, “as we’re not going to London, we might just leave the price of our tickets , with them. It may help them a lot.” “They’ll probably spend it on drink.” “Well, let them. I don’t care. I can’t bear to think of people without proper boots on their feet.” The firelight was playing reproachfully on the toe of Mr. Dalrymple’s shoe. “Nor can I. • Well, here’s the money. It’ll be a surprise for them when they wake up.” He put it beside the paper on the mantelpiece, and they both went out. ■ It was . daylight when Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Dalrymple awoke ; the storm had ceased. ‘ “Hullo ! They’ve gone !” said he. “Not taken any of our things with them, have they, Reg?” asked his wife, looking round anxiously. “Not they—they’re gentry. Gentry ■don’t take poor people’s things without a lawyer. What’s this?” Her husband had found the treasure on the mantelpiece. “I’m blowed if they haven’t left their money behind ’em— pound, if it’s a tanner!” “That’s luck for us, anyway, if it ain’t exactly luck for them.” , “Oh, I reckon they ; done it on purpose. They’d never have put their dough just there by our Jack’s likeness. It’s Christian charity, that’s what it is.” “I don’t believe it’s Christian charity -that’ud be tuppence. A pound’s nothing but an accident. Howsumever, it makes no difference to me what it is, so long as ■ it’s there. I could do with '* a plate o’ ham.” “A plate o’ ham and a cup o’ coffee, and a bottle o’ whisky to come along with us to Tonbridge.” “That’s it. But look there, Reg there’s writing on the paper!” “So there is. Pity we ain’t scollards.” “Maybe it’s a word for us.” “That’s what it is, I reckon.” She picked up the paper and inspected it solemnly, then passed it on to her husband, who did the same. “Pity we never got no school-learning, Reg.” “I’ve never felt the want.” “But I’d like to be able to read the word they’ve left us.” “That’s because you’re a woman, and made of curiosity. I, being a man, says let’s take the money and be , thankful. And now, old lady, pack up your traps, for, thanks to this bit of luck, we’ll have our breakfast at the ‘Blue Boar.’ ”