PHILANTHROPY
Mist enwrapped Restington-on-Sea; not very thick, but exceedingly clammy. It decked the autumn trees in weirdness, cobwebbed the tamarisks, and compelled Henry Ivor to shut his window, excluding the faint hiss and rustle from the beach. He seldom wrote after tea without the accompaniment of fresh air, and was drowsing over his pen when his housekeeper entered.
“A couple to see you, sir; they came once before, when you was away.”
Ivor blinked. “Well, show them in.”
When the door was again opened a scent of whisky came in first, then a man, a woman, and a dog.
Ivor laid down his pen, and rose; he had never seen any of them before, and immediately doubted whether he wanted to see any of them again. Never able, however, to be disagreeable at a moment’s notice, he waited defensively. The man, who might have been thirty-five, pale, warped, and thin, seemed to extract his face from the grip of nerves.
“Hearing you were down here, sir, and being in the printing trade, if you understand my meaning——”
Ivor nodded; he did not want to nod, but it seemed unavoidable; and he looked at the woman. Her face was buttoned, the most expressionless he had ever seen.
“Well?” he said.
The man’s lips, thin and down at one corner, writhed again.
“You being a well-known writer,” he said, and the scent of whisky deepened.
Ivor thought: ‘It wants courage to beg; it’s damp too. Perhaps he’s only primed himself.’
“Well?” he said again.
“If you understand me,” said the man, “I’m in a very delicate position. I expect you know Mr. Gloy—Charles Gloy—editor of Cribbage——”
“No,” said Ivor. “But will you sit down?” And he placed two chairs.
The man and the woman sat down on their edges, the dog, too, sat on its edge! Ivor regarded it—a Schipperke—thinking:
‘Did they bring their dog to undermine me?’ As to that, it was the only kind of dog he did not like, but it looked damp and woeful.
“My brother works for Mr. Gloy,” said the man; “so, being at Beachhampton—out of a job, if you understand my meaning—I brought my wife—you being a well-known philanthropist——”
Ivor nervously took out a cigarette, and nervously put it back.
“I don’t know what I can do for you,” he murmured.
“I’m one to speak the truth,” resumed the man, “if you follow me——” And Ivor did—he followed on and on behind a wandering tale of printing, the war, ill-health. At last he said in despair:
“I really can’t recommend people I know nothing about. What exactly do you want me to do?”
The woman’s face seemed suddenly to lose a button, as if she were going to cry, but just then the dog whimpered; she took it up on her lap. Ivor thought:
‘How much have I got on me?’
“The fact is, Mr. Ivor,” said the man, “I’m broke to the world, if you understand my meaning. If once I could get back to London——”
“What do you say, madam?”
The woman’s mouth quivered and mumbled; Ivor stopped her with his hand.
“Well,” he said, “I can give you enough to get up to London with, and a little over. But that’s all, I’m afraid. And, forgive me, I’m very busy.” He stood up. The man rose also.
“I don’t want to say anything about my wife; you’ll forgive my mentioning it, but there’s not a lady in England that’s her equal at makin’ babies’ slippers.”
“Indeed!” said Ivor. “Well, here you are!” And he held out some pound notes. The man took the notes; one of his trouser-legs was pitiably patched.
“I’m sure I’m more than grateful——” he said; and looking at Ivor as if he expected to be contradicted, added: “I can’t say better than that, can I?”
“No,” said Ivor, and opened the door.
“I’ll be ready to repay you as soon as ever I can—if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes,” said Ivor. “Good-day! Good-day, Mrs. ——! Good-bye, little dog!”
One by one the three passed him and went out into the mist. Ivor saw them trailing down the road, shut the outer door, returned to his chair, sighed profoundly, and took up his pen.
When he had written three pages, and it was getting too dusk to see, his housekeeper came in.
“There’s a boy from the Black Cow, sir, come to say they want you down there.”
“Want me?”
“Yes, sir. That couple—the boy says they don’t know what to do with them. They gave your name as being a friend.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, sir; and the landlord says they don’t seem to know where they come from like.”
“Heavens!” said Ivor. He got up, however, put on his overcoat, and went out.
In the lighted doorway of the Black Cow stood the landlord.
“Sorry to have troubled you, sir, but really I can’t tell how to deal with these friends of yours.”
Ivor frowned. “I only saw them for the first time this afternoon. I just gave them money to go up to London with. Are they drunk?”
“Drunk!” said the landlord. “Well, if I’d known the man was half gone when he came in—of course I’d never—— As to the woman, she sits and smiles. I can’t get them to budge, and it’s early closin’——”
“Well,” muttered Ivor, “let’s look at them!” And he followed the landlord in.
On the window-seat in the bar parlour those two were sitting, with mugs beside them, and the dog asleep on the feet of the woman, whose lips were unbuttoned in a foolish smile. Ivor looked at the man; his face was blank and beatific. Specimens of a damp and doleful world, they now seemed almost blissful.
“Mist’ Ivor?” said the man suddenly.
“Yes,” said Ivor, “but I thought you wanted to go up to London. The station’s not half a mile.”
“Cert’nly—go up to London.”
“Come along, then; I’ll show you the way.”
“Ve’y good, we can walk, if you understand my meaning.” And the man stood up, the dog and the woman also. All three passed unsteadily out.
The man walked first, then the woman, then the dog, wavering into the dusky mist. Ivor followed, praying that they might meet no traffic. The man’s voice broke the silence in front.
“Hen’y Ivor!” Ivor closed up nervously.
“Hen’y Ivor! I see ’m sayin’ to ’mself: ‘What’ll they move on for!’ I see him, if y’ understand my meaning. Wha’sh he good for—Hen’y Ivor—only writer o’ books. Is he any better than me—no! Not ’s good, if you f-follow me. I see ’m thinkin’: ‘How can I get rid of ’m?’” He stood still suddenly, almost on Ivor’s toes. “Where’s dog—carry th’ dog—get ’is feet wet.”
The woman stooped unsteadily, picked up the dog, and they both wavered on again. Ivor walked alongside now, grim and apprehensive. The man seemed to have become aware of him.
“Mist’ Ivor,” he said. “Thought so—I’m not tight—can’t say better than that, can I?—I’m not writer of books like you—not plutocrat, if you understand my meaning. Want to ask you question: What would you do if you was me?”
There was silence, but for the slip-slippering of the woman’s feet behind.
“I don’ blame you,” said the man, whose speech was getting thicker; “you can’t help being a plutothrist. But whash the good of anything for me, except ob-oblivion, if you follow me?”
A faint radiance shone through the mist. The station building loomed suddenly quite close. Ivor steered towards it.
“Goin’ up t’ London,” said the man. “Qui’ right!”
He lurched past into the lighted entry, and the woman followed with the dog. Ivor saw them waver through the doorway. And, spinning round, he ran into the mist. ‘Perfectly true!’ he thought while he was running. Perfectly true! Why had he helped them? What did he care so long as he got rid of man, woman, and dog?
1922.