hH«.r 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 Spinster of This Parish 
 
 A Little More 
 
 For Better, for Worse 
 
 Glamour 
 
 The Mirror and the Lamp 
 
 The Devil's Garden 
 
 General Mallock's Shadow 
 
 In Cotton Wool 
 
 Mrs. Thompson 
 
 The Rest Cure 
 
 Seymour Charlton 
 
 Hill Rise • 
 
 The Guarded Flame 
 
 Vivien 
 
 The Ragged Messenger 
 
 The Countess of Maybury 
 
 SHORT STORIES 
 
 Life Can Never be the Same 
 Odd Lengths 
 Fabulous Fancies 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 BY 
 
 W. B. MAXWELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MRS. THOMPSON," "THE REST CURE," 
 "THE GUARDED FLAME," ETC. 
 
 . NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 1922 
 
Copyright, 1912, by 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 / would say that one of the greatest evils of our modern 
 civilization is the steady increase of egoism. As society 
 is now constituted, a man with a moderate but assured in- 
 come can find people who in exchange for his money will 
 perform for him nearly all the duties of manhood; and, 
 as though he were something infinitely delicate and inestim- 
 ably precious, he may thus wrap himself in cotton wool and 
 evade the shocks and perils of active existence. And the 
 fact that within the packing of cotton wool all the best 
 of the man has perished, and only the husk of a man remains, 
 seems of no consequence to any of the parties to the bar- 
 gain. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 DO you ever think of yourself, Mr. Lenny?" 
 "Of course I do." 
 "I don't believe it." 
 
 Miss Workman smiled, nodded with vehement negation, 
 waved her hand; and young Mr. Leonard Calcraft hurried 
 along the sea-front, to overtake his father's Bath-chair. 
 
 "Well, Lenny, what did she want? Why did she 
 stop you?" 
 
 At the sound of the firm footsteps, at the sight of the 
 strong figure, the old man's dim eyes brightened. 
 
 "Oh, she was only making polite inquiries about your 
 health, dad." 
 
 "Thank her for nothing," said old Mr. Calcraft, rather 
 querulously. "None the better for seeing her. . . . 
 Tell Miss Workman, with my compliments, that I'm not 
 going to lend the room for any more of her Tom-fool 
 meetings." 
 
 "Very well, father. . . . Certainly not, if you find it 
 upsetting." 
 
 "Of course I find it upsetting. Surely you saw that 
 for yourself, last time?" 
 
 The afternoon sunshine made pebbles flash and Sparkle 
 on the beach; gulls dipped and hovered above white 
 fringes of breaking foam; and presently the breeze, 
 sweeping with a swift unexpected rustle across hitherto 
 
 1 
 
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IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 lazy waves, sent wisps of sea-weed, bubbles of spray, and 
 a gyrating cloud of sand over the stone wall to the eighth 
 hole of the golf links. For a few moments all light and 
 helpless things were driven before the cruel wind. 
 
 And really the old fellow in the Bath-chair looked so 
 weak and frail that one might almost have expected to 
 see him blown away too. Instinctively his big son came 
 to the weather side of the chair, and endeavoured to shelter 
 and protect him from danger or annoyance. 
 
 "Shall we turn now, father?" 
 
 The Bath-chair man, bending his back and slowly plod- 
 ding, had taken them nearly to the end of the sea-wall. 
 
 "No," said old Calcraft, gasping, "the confounded wind 
 catches one's breath — but I'm all right. Go on. We'll do 
 our full journey." 
 
 When they reached the last bench and the white post, 
 he asked for his walking-stick. 
 
 Mr. Lenny fished out an ebony cane from the side of 
 the chair and handed it to him. 
 
 "There," and the invalid, feebly stretching it forward, 
 gave three shaky taps on the white post. "There, my bear 
 is free;" and he chuckled and coughed. 
 
 "Yes, dad, your bear is free." 
 
 The stalwart son had watched with a tender solicitude 
 while this little ceremony was being performed ; and he put 
 away the stick carefully and gently, as if it had been a part 
 of the arm that held it outstretched and shaking. All this 
 was a diurnal rite. Mr. Calcraft had his airing in the 
 Bath-chair every afternoon, and he was apt to come home 
 depressed and fretful if bad weather curtailed the expedi- 
 tion and prevented him from "freeing the bear." 
 
 As they returned by the long sea-front his son was talk- 
 ing gaily and cheerily, and he listened with an attentive 
 but perhaps condescending satisfaction. He loved this pleas- 
 
 2 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ant babble; it was music in his ears, and yet he sometimes 
 cut it short with an ungracious abruptness. 
 
 "Rubbish, Lenny. . . . Don't believe half what people 
 tell you. . . . And don't repeat compliments that have 
 been paid to yourself." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't intend to blow my own trumpet, dad; 
 but I thought you'd be gratified. . . ." 
 
 "Well, I'm not so easily gratified as you are. That's all 
 about it. Don't let people flatter you. At your age you 
 ought to know that flattery is never sincere." 
 
 He was rude to his son; perhaps merely because he was 
 rude to everybody, and gratitude and love could not enable 
 him to make one exception to his rule. Even in sickness 
 and weakness, he remained what he had been in health — 
 a hard and cranky sort of man, self-willed and obstinate, 
 with a cynical disregard of those finer susceptibilities of 
 thought and feeling that he himself did not possess. 
 
 He hated his infirmities, rebelled against the fate which 
 condemned him to sick-rooms and Bath-chairs instead of 
 allowing him to enjoy a hale and hearty old age, and he 
 made of his tongue a sharp and redoubtable weapon, as 
 if trying to prove that he was not yet quite impotent and 
 defenceless. 
 
 And the struggle to avoid that outward aspect of 
 decrepitude which invites nothing but pity showed itself 
 very queerly in the style and material of his garments. 
 He had a passion for robustness of costume; choosing the 
 heaviest and coarsest things, rough pea-jackets, huge wool- 
 len capes; wrapping undyed mufflers round his skinny neck, 
 and hiding his white hair beneath vast dreadnought caps. 
 The caps were terrific, with their monstrous flaps and peaks; 
 and in truth they added a touch of grotesqueness rather 
 than force to the thin bird-like nose, the bushy frowning 
 eyebrows, the drawn lips, and the fleshless pallid cheeks. 
 
 3 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Young Mr. Calcraft, for his part, was always so beauti- 
 fully and appropriately dressed that, walking beside the 
 Bath-chair throughout the changing seasons of the year, 
 he offered a pattern and example for all other young men. 
 His deportment moreover was as worthy of imitation as 
 his admirable clothes; for, however slowly he paced, ac- 
 commodating his stride to the restricted progress of the 
 chair, he carried himself firmly and erectly. Altogether, 
 he seemed to humble observers a fine broad-shouldered gen- 
 tleman, as big as one might be without being too big; sun- 
 burned and smooth of cheek; with a natural curl in his 
 well-cut brown hair, and a reddish glossiness about the 
 small brushed-up moustache beneath which white teeth 
 gleamed pleasantly in a genial smile. 
 
 A marked difference here between parent and child. Too 
 often when you touched your hat to the old bloke, he gave 
 you a frown for your pains; but the young gentleman never 
 failed to exchange smile against smile. And all the world 
 smiled at Mr. Leonard. 
 
 Thus, as they passed homeward, they met many kind 
 greetings — from fishermen mending a net, from fishermen 
 tarring a boat; from pig-tailed maidens and an austere gov- 
 erness; from golfers who brandished irons, from cabmen 
 who saluted with whips. You can't live ten years in a 
 small watering-place without being known, and everybody 
 knew these two. 
 
 Except that they were moving instead of stationary ob- 
 jects, they were as much a part of Westchurch as the 
 church, the club, or the lifeboat house. 
 
 "He hangs on, don't he?" said the net-menders, nodding 
 sagaciously when the Bath-chair had passed. "But see 
 how he's looked after." 
 
 There was everything the matter with old Calcraft — 
 weak heart, weak lungs, liver trouble, kidney complica- 
 
 4 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 tions. As Dr. Searle said again and again, he was only 
 kept alive by the unremitting care that surrounded him. 
 
 "In other words," said Miss Workman, "you mean by 
 Mr. Lenny." 
 
 "Well, and so I do," said the good doctor cordially. 
 "/ never saw anything like it." 
 
 "If was the devotion — continued during so many years — 
 of the faithful son. The whole town understood and ad- 
 mired it. It was a traditional legend, and a live fact of 
 the place, something very beautiful to contemplate — like 
 the new view across the river, or the evening light upon 
 the hill-side — something of which the community felt justly 
 proud. 
 
II 
 
 THEY lived at Number One, The Crescent — that is 
 to say, in quite the best row of houses on the whole 
 sea-front. 
 
 Once Mr. Calcraft had been rich; now, entirely from 
 his own fault, he was much poorer. He had speculated 
 rashly. Miss Workman — elderly spinster and leader of 
 Westchurch society — professed intimate knowledge of those 
 far-off days of extreme prosperity, and gave vivid sketches 
 of the Calcraft family seated in a Midland shire, with 
 mansion and park, with stables full of horses, larders full 
 of game, pockets full of money. Oh, how sad it is when 
 you see a well-connected, long-established country magnate 
 jeopardize ease and forfeit grandeur by his own stupidity! 
 
 "Perhaps it is natural that common people should be 
 reckless and ignorant, but you do expect our landed gentry 
 to hold fast to what has come to them through inheritance — 
 at least until Radical legislation takes it away from them." 
 
 Fortunately, said Miss Workman, there were the tied-up 
 funds which Mr. Calcraft could not touch — poor Mrs. 
 Calcraft's marriage settlement, and so forth; something 
 considerable saved from a catastrophe that ought never 
 to have occurred; but altogether it was a miserable busi- 
 ness to look back upon. 
 
 Think of it. One night at dinner — lovely flowers, cut- 
 glass, gold and silver plate all over the table — the idiotic 
 man coolly announced that he had made a mess of things, 
 and that retrenchment had become absolutely necessary. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Not a note of warning before this dire announcement. 
 Without prelude or preparation, the unhappy mother, who 
 till then had been a great lady; the two daughters, who 
 might have aspired to alliances with English dukes; the son 
 who was riding thoroughbred hunters, studying politics, 
 training with his smart militia corps, fitting himself for a 
 splendid and useful career — the whole family were driven 
 to the obscurity of a small sea-side town, and converted into 
 comparative nobodies. 
 
 Young Leonard bravely submitted to this reverse of for- 
 tune. His career gone for ever, his life cut in two as 
 though it had been a delicate silk thread snapped by a 
 clumsy blundering hand — and yet he uttered no word of 
 reproach. Miss Workman used to say, and all agreed 
 with her, that it was a notable instance of courage and 
 magnanimity. Poor Mrs. Calcraft bore up under the blow; 
 but Leonard scarcely showed that he had been hit. 
 
 Miss Workman said further that, in spite of her cheerful 
 demeanour, the mother died of a broken heart, and that on 
 her death-bed she consigned the father to Lenny's care, 
 made Lenny give a solemn vow that he would ever remain 
 faithful to his charge. 
 
 Miss Workman could not really know what happened 
 at the death-bed scene; but Lenny's conduct during nine 
 long years might be adduced as evidence confirming the 
 accuracy of her conjectures. 
 
 There never was such a son. 
 
 And Mr. Calcraft had not been lucky in all his children. 
 The two daughters, Sarah and Jane, had defied him. One 
 after the other they had married against his wish. It was 
 an irreparable breach; they could never be forgiven; Mr. 
 Calcraft could not permit anyone to mention their names 
 at No. i, The Crescent. 
 
 How much money did the old man still possess? But 
 
 7 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 for that tale of bygone grandeur, a past that by its glory 
 so eclipsed the present, people would have spoken of him 
 as very well off. He was infinitely better off than Colonel 
 Blacklock and other old soldiers in retreat; he undoubt- 
 edly had more than Mr. Reed or Mr. Price- Young. Fif- 
 teen hundred a year? Two thousand? It was a question 
 often debated by the ladies at their tea-parties and the 
 gentlemen at their golf. 
 
 No. I was the large corner house next to the garden of 
 the Esplanade Hotel; unlike the other and narrower houses 
 it had rooms on each side of the hall; and, whether con- 
 sidered from without or within, it impressed one with a 
 sense of substantial comfort. Indeed, as judged by local 
 standards of wealth and poverty, there appeared to be 
 every sign of relative affluence. Good furniture, fine big 
 pieces saved from the financial wreck, and books, china, pic- 
 tures that had once adorned the more stately home; good 
 food, good wine; five women-servants kept to wait upon 
 two masters, not counting the hospital nurse who was now 
 a fixture in the establishment — and such thick carpets on 
 the stairs, such deep and reposeful armchairs in dining- 
 room and library! 
 
 Mr. Leonard's bedroom and dressing-room on the second 
 floor were spacious and airy, full of useful things and 
 pretty things ; with windows from which you looked straight 
 out at the yellow sands and blue sea, or sideways at the 
 dark green foliage of the ilex trees in the hotel garden. 
 On this floor there were unoccupied apartments, and one 
 of these had recently been fitted up as a bathroom after the 
 most modern style: so that the son of the house enjoyed 
 close at hand, without risk or trouble, every amenity of 
 warm douches, cool sprays, and tepid plunges. The bath- 
 room was a birthday present from father to son — and the 
 old chap had been rather nice about it, trying to keep his 
 
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IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 plans a secret, and sparing no expense in carrying them to 
 a successful issue. 
 
 Mr. Calcraft's bedroom was on the first floor, with a 
 little room behind it in which the nurse slept; and on the 
 other side of the landing stood the rarely opened door of 
 the big drawing-room. 
 
 Downstairs were the dining-room and library, and a 
 room for hats and coats, or for Leonard to use as his own 
 den if he cared to do so. But in fact he preferred the 
 library, with its air of dignity and quiet, its fine array of 
 well-bound volumes, its marble busts, its vast writing-desks 
 and leather fauteuils; and after 9.30 every night, when 
 the invalid regularly retired to bed, he might consider it 
 as his domain also. It was here that Dr. Searle, Colonel 
 Blacklock, and other respectable elders would smoke a 
 pipe with him now and then; and it was here that he 
 generally received the admiring youths who came to him 
 for counsel and aid at critical moments of their budding 
 existence. All the adolescent males of Westchurch ad- 
 mired him and believed in him, and would suffer themselves 
 to be guided by his advice when they were openly scorning 
 the wisdom of their parents and guardians. 
 
 "Look here, Jack," he used to say, with his pleasant 
 smile, "you drop in any night after a quarter to ten, and 
 we'll have a good pow-wow." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 "Nothing to thank me for. . . . And, I say, don't 
 call me Mister Calcraft — you're getting too old, or I don't 
 feel old enough for that. Let it be Calcraft — or Lenny. 
 Lenny is what my pals call me." 
 
 "Oh, may I ?" And a blush of pleasure no doubt suf- 
 fused the candid young face. "May I really?" 
 
 "Of course you may. . . All right, then. To- 
 morrow evening, and we'll put our heads together, Jack. 
 
 9 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Two heads are better than one. I don't pretend to be an 
 oracle, but I do know something of the world. I shall 
 just talk to you as man to man." 
 
 "That's what I want;" and again the lad blushed. "Man 
 to man! That's where the governor and the mater make 
 their mistake — wanting to treat me like a child for ever, 
 . . . A thousand thanks — er — Lenny!" 
 
 Then perhaps some time next day before the appointed 
 hour had come, Lenny was buttonholed at the club or on 
 the promenade by Jack's father. 
 
 "I say, Lenny, my dear fellow, if you should ever have 
 an opportunity, do tell that boy of mine not to be such 
 a dashed young ass. You have great influence with him. 
 Throw your weight into our scale. . . . On my word, 
 I don't know what these youngsters are coming to. If I 
 hadn't removed him from his school two years before I 
 ought to have, I should write and ask his head-master 
 to give him a dashed good caning." 
 
 Lenny laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 "You can't put back the clock, sir. It's no good talking 
 about head-masters and canes at Jack's age. By the way, 
 how old is Jack?" 
 
 "Eighteen. A stripling — a mere child — and yet he has 
 the audacity to set his judgment against mine, and main- 
 tains that we are to discuss his future in a tone of perfect 
 equality. Speaks of his rights/ If you could make him 
 understand that it will be time enough to talk of the privi- 
 leges of manhood three years hence — well, his mother and 
 I would both be enormously grateful to you." 
 
 "Very well, sir, I'll see what I can do." 
 
 Although the task of pleasing at the same time rebel- 
 lious youth and domineering age might seem difficult, Mr. 
 Leonard generally accomplished it. Doubtless great tact 
 
 10 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 was needed, but everybody owned that Lenny's tact was 
 inexhaustible. 
 
 And he never showed this quality more conspicuously 
 than on those rare occasions when the drawing-room was 
 thrown open to visitors. In this room the decorations be- 
 longed to a bygone fashion — tall looking-glasses, gilt con- 
 sole tables, polished steel fireplaces: nothing in it had been 
 altered since Mrs. Calcraft's death, and no one had used 
 it since the marriage of the second daughter. But it was 
 so noble a saloon, running the whole depth of the house 
 from front windows to back windows, offering such pomp 
 and space, that its fame had reached to the farthest con- 
 fines of the neighbourhood, and people who wished to hold 
 meetings, debates, or causeries, often begged for the loan 
 of it. 
 
 Mr. Calcraft lent the room grudgingly, and never pro- 
 vided tea for the company assembled under his roof in 
 the cause of charity. A carafe of fresh drinking-water for 
 the principal speaker — beyond that the hospitality of the 
 host could not be persuaded to run. 
 
 But Leonard made up for all deficiencies, and by his 
 unfailing amiability and limitless tact set the guests, how- 
 ever numerous and heterogeneous, at their ease. It was 
 he who smoothed over all those little difficulties which 
 must unavoidably be felt when the representatives of half 
 a dozen different worlds are temporarily drawn together, 
 but remain quite unlinked except by the common purpose 
 of the hour. Gentry and tradesfolk cannot be expected 
 really to amalgamate. Yet if you are trying to raise money, 
 you must invite those who can afford to give money — 
 whether they belong to society or not. It is very embar- 
 rassing, however, to find yourself placed between the dis- 
 senting minister whose daughters were black-balled for the 
 
 2 n 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Badminton club last year, and the coal merchant to whom 
 you wrote the sharp but perfectly justified note three days 
 ago. 
 
 But Leonard made everything all right. 
 
 "Mr. Mayor, I want you to sit here — to be handy when 
 called upon. . . . Mr. Lockhart, over here, please. I 
 know you like to be out of the draught. . . . Miss 
 Workman! May I ask you and Mrs. Scott to take these 
 chairs?" 
 
 At the last meeting — a semi-religious gathering convoked 
 by Miss Workman — none but gentry, the Church of Eng- 
 land gentry, were present; it was like a pleasant family 
 party, with no clash of social differences; and all were of 
 one mind in asking Lenny to take the chair. 
 
 "Very well then." Lenny deprecatingly seated himself 
 at the small table with the water-bottle, and glanced at 
 the audience. "There are one or two letters which Miss 
 Workman desires me to read. . . . Or perhaps Miss 
 Workman will be good enough to read them herself?" 
 
 He was conscious of a friendly and congenial atmosphere. 
 These people all liked and respected him. Wherever he 
 turned, eyes rested on him with interest, sympathy, affec- 
 tion. Close to him in the front row, were Mrs. Reed, a 
 fussy untiring woman, and her two youngest daughters — 
 rosy-cheeked, stubborn-haired bouncers, just showing their 
 solid ankles beneath their tailor-made skirts; a little fur- 
 ther from him Mrs. Oliver was faintly rustling the beads 
 and sequins of her black mantle; the delicate anaemic wife 
 of Colonel Blacklock had brought out her smelling-salts 
 and already sought invigoration by furtive sniffs; Miss 
 Workman, tall, thin, and throbbing with nervous energy, 
 stood a yard to the left of him and fumbled the sheaf of 
 letters in her gloved hands; and beyond the front row, 
 right away to the distant windows, sat Mrs. This and Mrs. 
 
 12 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 That with or without their feminine offspring — in fact 
 nearly all the softer, sweeter half of the residential gentle- 
 folk of Westchurch. And he knew them all; had known 
 them for such a comfortably long time that they seemed 
 to give off the restful charm one experiences when sur- 
 rounded by familiar, valued, but inanimate objects. 
 
 Only three men — deaf Sir Thomas Garbett, with hand 
 to ear even in this silent pause; the clergyman who was 
 about to address the meeting ; and Mr. Mack, the secretary 
 of the local branch of the Church Lads' Brigade. 
 
 "This one letter," said Miss Workman, nervously and 
 huskily, "I should like to read. . . . It is from a dear 
 kind helpful friend." 
 
 Lenny bowed, folded his hands, and turned his head 
 towards Miss Workman. 
 
 He could see himself in the looking-glass above the near- 
 est console table — half-length, very clear and vivid, — and 
 the reflection gave him fuller confidence, increased com- 
 fort. He noticed the easy attitude of the mirrored chair- 
 man, and felt glad that, when dressing this morning, he 
 had chosen the serge suit and the black tie with the white 
 spots. His blue shirt showed very nicely under the tie, 
 and his collar — one of the new shape — was not a bit too 
 low. It seemed just right. For the rest, he was satisfied — 
 really a fellow of pleasant aspect, not handsome but more 
 or less engaging, sun-burnt and substantial, blue-eyed and 
 frank, with well-trimmed moustache and hair parted very 
 high on the right side of the head. Until the time came 
 for him to speak, his attention was intermittently occupied 
 by what the looking-glass displayed. 
 
 Himself? No, that was not truly himself. That was 
 what he seemed to others — the brightly colored, three- 
 dimensioned picture that walks with us through the world 
 and serves as symbol for the vast internal mystery that out- 
 
 13 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 siders can never reach. As he glanced at him again, the 
 man in the glass had the air of an affable stranger. 
 
 His real self was the astounding, complex organization 
 over here — this glow or throb of bodily sensations, this 
 firm and unshakable belief in an individual intimacy, this 
 warm circle of incoming impressions, with its marvelous 
 storehouse of memories and clearing-house of recognitions — 
 this widening, contracting, but always warm circle into 
 which there were flashing even now, faint and strong, re- 
 corded and unregistered, myriads and myriads of mes- 
 sages. 
 
 He could no more admit the outward shape over there 
 to be all that there was of Lenny than the deep and tre- 
 mendous Atlantic Ocean would allow that it was nothing 
 more or greater than the surface as seen by passengers 
 from the deck of a steamer. 
 
 "Now, if you please," — Miss Workman was handing 
 him the remainder of the letters. 
 
 "Yes" — And he ran through the apologies and excuses 
 of masculine Westchurch. "Colonel Blacklock regrets that 
 he cannot be with us. . . . Mr. Newall would cer- 
 tainly have been here, had not business intervened. . . . 
 Mr. Underwood, Mr. Tasker, and Mr. Malins are also 
 unavoidably prevented. . . . Yes." He looked up, 
 smiling, and hazarded a little mild facetiousness. "I 
 would not mention the word Golf; but it is, I believe, a 
 fact that this is competition day." 
 
 Many of the ladies laughed, in rapid comprehension 
 and exquisite enjoyment of the joke. 
 
 "Well then, ladies and gentlemen" — Lenny had risen 
 — "It now devolves upon me to introduce our friend the 
 Reverend Trevenna Dale, who has come at considerable 
 personal inconvenience to tell us about his Hoxton mis- 
 sion. He will enlighten us as to its aims, and, ah, its 
 
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IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 scope. And if I speak of his bringing light to us, I do 
 not wish to imply that this is a dark place." . . . 
 
 "What does he say?" asked deaf Sir Thomas. "Who 
 has got a dark face?" 
 
 "Dark place," whispered the lady by his side, "dark 
 place." 
 
 "No," continued Lenny, "we are not altogether in a 
 state of darkness, but we welcome further illumination" — 
 and so on. Barely three minutes, and Lenny had sat down 
 again. But his speech enchanted the audience. It seemed 
 to them so neat and graceful — delivered, too, with such a 
 charming shy geniality, — so exactly what it ought to have 
 been, that at its conclusion there was a loud clapping of 
 hands. 
 
 Then almost immediately a parlourmaid entered the 
 room, bringing an oral communication for the chairman. 
 
 Mr. Calcraft's compliments — and could they conduct 
 their meeting without applause? 
 
 Lenny explained simply and candidly. "It is my father. 
 This is one of his bad days. He did not sleep last night, 
 and is resting now — and, as the house isn't too well built, 
 I fear that any unusual noise penetrates to him." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Miss Workman, "so inconsiderate of us! 
 I'm sure I voice the general feeling when I say that we 
 would not disturb him for worlds." 
 
 Then the meeting went on in a quiet and sober fashion. 
 Mr. Trevenna Dale was listened to with hushed interest, 
 and he fancied with some enthusiasm too ; but, as the actors 
 say, "he did not get a hand." 
 
 Nevertheless old Calcraft was grievously upset. At din- 
 ner he quarrelled with his chicken broth, and banished his 
 milk pudding in hopeless disgrace. 
 
 "Tell that woman downstairs that I begin to think she 
 
 15 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wants change of air. . . J Tell her to go to South 
 Africa and cook for our poor starved Tommies, or the 
 Boers — or the Hottentots. She's not fit to cook in a gen- 
 tleman's household." So much was to the parlourmaid, 
 flying with the pudding. Then he addressed Lenny. "She 
 must be got rid of. I won't stand it. Give her notice — 
 from me — to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Yes, if you decide so — and no doubt there are as good 
 fish in the sea. . . . But I must confess that I think 
 Parsons — on the whole, dad — does us fairly well." 
 
 "Rubbish," said Mr. Calcraft, becoming more angry than 
 before. 
 
 "She gives us greater variety than the others ever man- 
 aged." 
 
 "I don't want variety. I'm not like you — I don't happen 
 to have the digestion of an ostrich, and I won't submit 
 to slow poisoning to oblige you or Parsons or anyone 
 else." 
 
 After dinner, while Lenny lingered at the table to smoke 
 a cigarette in solitude, an urgent summons came to him 
 from the library. Mr. Calcraft, said the parlourmaid, was 
 refusing to take his drops. 
 
 Lenny found the hospital nurse standing by one of the 
 big armchairs and feebly offering the rejected wine-glass, 
 while the invalid, sunk deep in the chair, his snowy head 
 just showing over the leather back, shuffled his thin legs and 
 spluttered wrathfully, exactly after the manner of a naughty 
 child. 
 
 "No, I won't," he repeated. "I won't." 
 
 "Oh, you'd better," said the nurse. "Hadn't he, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, dad, if I may venture to advise " 
 
 "You can keep your advice to polish your boots," said 
 Mr. Calcraft, sinking still lower in the chair. 
 
 Lenny shrugged his shoulders and smiled; then he indi- 
 
 16 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 cated to the nurse by signs that she was to put the glass 
 of medicine on a table and leave the room. 
 
 'Til read The Times to you now, father;" and he un- 
 folded the day's paper and soon began to recite the latest 
 news. 
 
 The voice was music; really the words did not greatly 
 matter; but at this time all that the newspapers could tell 
 one was of absorbing interest. The South African War 
 had just opened the first scenes of its interminable drama, 
 and already one began to guess that the plot contained 
 tragic as well as comic elements. Gradually old Calcraft 
 raised himself in the chair, sat erect, and, with eyes that 
 faintly glittered, watched the reader's calm face. 
 
 Presently, during a pause, he pointed to the adjacent 
 wine-glass. 
 
 "Give that to me now, Lenny. . . . Yes, I'll drink 
 it — for your sake." . . . Then he drank his medi- 
 cine, and, making a grimace, handed the glass back to his 
 son. 
 
 "Bravo, father." 
 
 "All right. . . . You're very good to me, Lenny. I 
 don't know what I should do without you." 
 
 "Shall I go on reading?" 
 
 "No, let us talk a bit. I'm tired. I've been upset. I'll 
 go to bed half an hour earlier — if that nurse has finished 
 her supper." 
 
 Old Mr. Calcraft went to bed, and young Mr. Calcraft 
 spent the rest of the evening at the little local club. 
 
 It was quite late when he returned to the Crescent, and 
 softly and cautiously let himself into the hall of No. I. 
 The deep silence of night filled the house; through the 
 staircase window pale moonbeams streamed down from a 
 wind-swept sky, and shed a pallid ghostlike radiance on 
 
 17 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the wall. With no other light than the grey moonbeams, 
 Lenny slowly ascended, stepping noiselessly over the thick 
 carpet, pausing to listen on the landing outside his father's 
 door. 
 
 He undressed quickly; and then, before turning into his 
 snug bed, he wrapped himself in a thick quilted dressing- 
 gown, came out from his room, and listened again. 
 
 All silent — yet slowly and cautiously he once more de- 
 scended. Unrecognized instincts drew him, unanalysed 
 thoughts pushed him downwards. 
 
 The sound of rhythmic breathing at one of the lower 
 doors told him that at least the nurse was sleeping com- 
 fortably. But was father all right? He wished to know, 
 he must know, if he himself was to sleep without worrying 
 dreams and abrupt awakenings. 
 
 Very cautiously he turned the door-handle and went into 
 the invalid's room. Fire in the grate, the night-light burn- 
 ing, and the warm air faintly impregnated with the odor 
 of a liniment; and father, as it seemed, safely wafted away 
 to the kind land of nod — all well! As Lenny stood look- 
 ing at the back of the fleshless head, the wisp of white 
 hair that obtruded from its nest of pillow, the flannel 
 jacket that guarded a bony shoulder — as he looked with 
 yearning pity at these familiar external objects, he was 
 governed and swayed entirely by instinct. 
 
 To shelter what has been strong and is now weak — 
 does any other duty make so poignantly intense an appeal 
 to that protective instinct which is implanted in every 
 human breast, whether male or female? 
 
 "What is it? Who the devil is it?" 
 
 The white head turned, struggled to raise itself from 
 the pillows. 
 
 "It's only I, dad. . . . I'm awfully sorry if I woke 
 you." 
 
 18 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, Lenny." And the invalid's voice changed from harsh 
 alarm to weary softness. "I wasn't asleep." 
 
 "Why can't you sleep?" 
 
 "I don't know. I'm very tired. , . . Perhaps I'm 
 too old to sleep. ... I doze, and then I wake. . . . 
 Old people never sleep long — till they sleep for ever." 
 
 "Father, don't — don't speak like that." 
 
 "Very well. . . . Good-night, Lenny. Thank you 
 for looking in. Good-night — my dear boy." 
 
Ill 
 
 PERHAPS if Leonard Calcraft had been a shabby, 
 long-haired, bilious-looking young man, his filial 
 piety would have made less stir in the world. At 
 any rate, it would have seemed more natural to chain such 
 an ill-favoured milksop to the slowly turning wheels of a 
 Bath-chair. 
 
 But Leonard was large and grand to the view; brilliant, 
 many-sided, able to shoot, to ride, to play bridge and 
 snooker pool; in the phrase of Westchurch ladies, "quite 
 a man's man." 
 
 And how beautifully he dressed, and what a prodigious 
 wardrobe he unfolded to the admiring gaze of the lads 
 who vainly strove to dress after him and up to him! No 
 matter how great the occasion, he rose to it — soared at 
 once to the highest, the most tremendous necessities. On 
 wet regatta days, when the drenched sight-seers cowered 
 beneath inadequate umbrellas, there was Lenny clothed 
 from head to foot in yellow oilskins; at the hunt ball, when 
 local youths all felt ashamed of their dingy unornamental 
 black, there was Lenny in red swallow-tails, brass buttons, 
 and white facings; and when the Mayor gave something 
 like a state dinner to the officers of the Fleet, and one hated 
 oneself for being a mere civilian, there was Lenny in full 
 uniform — scarlet and gold, sword and sash, the glorious 
 garb of his old militia. 
 
 Naturally, if the young gentlemen were affected by these 
 splendid splendours, the young ladies did not feel untouched 
 
 20 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 by them. All the nice gfrls — and there were so many fit 
 Westchurch — had a try for Lenny, made their poor little 
 effort, and owned themselves beat. 
 
 Their mammas had warned them not to look in that 
 direction. It is no good crying for the moon. Lenny 
 would never marry while his father lived — and you know 
 the proverb about creaking doors. Lenny, although always 
 spoken of as young, was getting on; and old Calcraft, un- 
 like that dear witty king, made no apologies for being such 
 an unconscionable time dying. 
 
 Perhaps nowadays daughters as well as mothers under- 
 stood that it was useless to entertain tender hopes with re- 
 gard to Mr. Leonard; if they fell in love with him now, 
 they did it at their own proper peril; for they had all 
 seen the lamentable failure of Alma Reed. And where 
 Miss Reed had failed, how could the rashest or most con- 
 ceited anticipate success? 
 
 As was known to all, her acquaintance with Lenny had 
 opened in the most thrillingly romantic fashion. She was 
 out driving with her rich friend Mrs. Kendrew of Lywell 
 Towers. Mrs. Kendrew, in common with most of the 
 nicest best-bred people of the neighbourhood, had a great 
 liking for Alma; loved to get Alma as a staying visitor 
 at the Towers; and was well-pleased to drive her phaeton 
 and ponies into Westchurch and drive home again with 
 Alma by her side. But on this occasion, while making 
 their homeward journey, the usually well-behaved ponies 
 ran away with the phaeton. 
 
 It was far out on the London road, no living soul in 
 sight except Mr. Lenny, who looked very big and impor- 
 tant as the ponies came thundering straight at him. 
 
 As he remembered, he did it nearly all without thinking. 
 Before he knew that he was doing anything, he had the 
 nearside pony firmly by the rein and less firmly by the 
 
 21 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 bridle, and he was being dragged along in the midst of a 
 wild clatter and hum. Then came a flash of thought. They 
 were swinging towards the ditch, and now again they 
 swung away from it — either he would be thrown down, or 
 he would pull ponies and trap into the ditch, bang on top 
 of him. He was nearly down — but saved himself from 
 the fall — threw back his weight — and went slithering on, 
 ploughing up the gravel surface of the road, with a sensa- 
 tion of pins and needles like giant fireworks in the soles of 
 his feet. And then, as it seemed to him, the ponies had 
 stopped of their own accord, and Mrs. Kendrew was ex- 
 citedly saying that he had saved her life. 
 
 The episode made much talk — although he himself would 
 never discuss it. But he could not avoid the fame it brought 
 him ; and, naturally enough, the ponies, as they became mat- 
 ter for legend and history, were always growing bigger. 
 They were a pair of cobs; — they were a pair of carriage 
 horses; — they were two hunters, full of beans — two great 
 tearing devils who ought never to have been put in harness, 
 and who perhaps had never felt the irksome restraint of 
 collar and trace until that day. 
 
 Mrs. Kendrew did not cease to say that he had saved 
 her life; and incidentally, of course, he had also saved the 
 life of Alma. Perhaps one might expect that in the circum- 
 stances the younger of the ladies should have the stronger 
 feelings in relation to her heroic preserver. 
 
 Anyhow, girl, friends very soon began to report that Alma 
 Reed was going for him hammer and tongs. Lenny walked 
 with her, danced with her, skated with her; dined fre- 
 quently at her father's house, and would go to any tea- 
 party where he could be sure of finding her among the 
 guests. 
 
 She was a tall girl, slim and graceful, with grey eyes, 
 dark hair, and the white, almost opaque skin that some- 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 times goes with this colouring; but what made people of 
 both sexes, especially the old and the young, say that Alma 
 Reed was so fascinating and attractive, was the charm of 
 characteristic individuality. She was different from the 
 local girls. She dressed differently, had a certain typical 
 style of her very own ; so that other girls, peering and chat- 
 tering outside millinery windows, would point and say, 
 "Look at the one with the velvet bow and ostrich 
 feather. That's an Alma Reed hat, isn't it? . . . But 
 it wouldn't suit me. I couldn't carry it off." 
 
 And all her circumstances and environment aided in es- 
 tablishing her unique position. To begin with, she was a 
 Catholic, and to the minds of good stout Anglicans there 
 hung about her the glamour and mystery of Rome, and 
 something vague and awe-inspiring of an esoteric faith that 
 you don't quite understand. Again she was motherless, 
 and her father seemed the sketchy unsubstantial sort of per- 
 son who could never count as a parent. Her stepmother 
 and stepsisters belonged to the Protestant Church, so she 
 was therefore separated from them by creed as well as by 
 birth. Thus, when you saw her in the midst of the noisy 
 family life of Haven Lodge, she appeared to be isolated 
 and alone; and not very happy, one might surmise, although 
 hiding any private sorrows very carefully from inquisitorial 
 eyes. 
 
 The second Mrs. Reed was a busy, planning, purposeful 
 woman, eagerly intent on the upbringing of Alma's four 
 j'oung stepsisters; providing them with innumerable tutors 
 and governesses, instilling such useful and neglected arts 
 as cookery, carpentering, clear-starching; and telling all the 
 world — strangers in railway trains, anybody who would 
 listen — the full scheme of her maternal endeavours. "I want 
 to fit my girls to be good wives if they ever get husbands, 
 and yet render them so self-reliant and capable that they 
 
 2$ 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 can take care of themselves if they are left on the shelf. 
 Don't you think I'm wise?" 
 
 Of course if the listener was a total stranger she had 
 merely to agree; but if she was a friend she would feel 
 bound to say, "My dear Mrs. Reed, none of your girls 
 will be left on the shelf. They'll be snapped up quick 
 enough when their time comes." 
 
 "I don't know," Mrs. Reed would reply. "There are 
 more women than men in the world. Look at Alma. See 
 the fuss that people make about her — and yet not a single 
 offer. That would be a lesson, if I needed one. But no, 
 I said from the beginning, 'Here is your problem. Four 
 girls to bring up. They can't all go off. There are more 
 women than men in the world. Train them so that they 
 will never feel disappointment.' Don't you think I'm 
 wise?" 
 
 Perhaps one could truly detect a sub-acid flavour in Mrs. 
 Reed's reference to the stepdaughter, or perhaps the slight 
 unkindness was an imagination of Westchurch. "She is 
 not appreciated at home" — that was what everybody said. 
 
 To masculine guests, dining at Haven Lodge for the 
 first time, Alma came with a perceptible but pleasant shock 
 of surprise. She was something rather better than you had 
 expected. You were weighed down by the commonplace 
 embellishments of the drawing-room, already after five min- 
 utes exhausted by the exuberant energy of the hostess, over- 
 whelmed by the too substantial young ladies, and perplexed 
 by the too shadowy father; the arrival of Dr. Searle and 
 Mr. Lockhart did not rouse your spirts; the presence of 
 Father Marchant, the Catholic priest, gave dignity but no 
 relief; and then, just before dinner was announced, you 
 became aware that Alma had come into the room. She was 
 talking to Father Marchant — she had made him a pretty 
 little reverence, and he was beaming at her with paternally 
 
 54 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 affectionate pleasure. She was shaking hands with Dr. 
 Searle, with Mr. Lockhart, and the faces of both these 
 gentlemen lit up. Then it was your turn — a murmur of 
 introduction from the host, "Oh, ah, yes, you haven't met 
 my eldest girl, have you?" Or a few short sharp sentences 
 from the hostess, "Late as usual, Alma! Do you know 
 Mr. Jones? Very well. Mr. Jones, this is Alma." 
 
 And probably Mr. Jones wished that he might sit next 
 her at dinner. She looked at him so kindly and so frankly, 
 saying something amiable and nice, seeming calm, gracious, 
 so much better bred and more refined than the rest of the 
 household — "a creature of another race," as Miss Work- 
 man put it. "Altogether too good for the lot of them, 
 and not in the least appreciated by a single one of them." 
 
 But enormously appreciated outside the home circle. 
 Miss Workman's tea-parties at her rooms in Medina Ter- 
 race were notable events of the winter season; the most 
 distinguished residents were asked twice or three times be- 
 tween October and May; matrons of secondary importance 
 were glad to receive one card; very many were not asked 
 at all, and it was alwa) r s a sore point with them. 
 
 "Oh, yes, they told me at the confectioner's that Miss 
 Workman was giving a party this afternoon. And you 
 are going! Lucky person! How very nice. . . . Oh, 
 no," and perhaps there would be a toss of the head, and 
 a laugh with considerable bitterness behind it; "I assure 
 you, although I have known Miss Workman a good num- 
 ber of years, she has never honoured me with an invitation 
 to her parties. . . . The room's not large? No, so I 
 understand. It is an excellent excuse. Good afternoon. 
 I hope you will enjoy yourself." 
 
 But whoever else might be left out at these delightful 
 and select gatherings, Alma Reed was always there. Miss 
 Workman even consulted her convenience before fixing th»* 
 
 25 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 dates. "Alma dear," she used to say just before the party 
 began, "will you preside at the tea-table and see that the 
 maids wait properly, and then I can circulate freely and 
 have a few words with everyone in turn. And keep an 
 eye on me, dear — and give me a hint if I seem neglectful 
 or abstracted." 
 
 Non-residents — people from the Esplanade Hotel, and 
 sometimes people of distinction and quality — were imme- 
 diately presented to Alma. "Dear Alma," said Miss Work- 
 man, "give Lady Emily a cup of coffee, and let me make 
 you known to each other. You will get on so well to- 
 gether." 
 
 Sometimes, but not often, quite at the end of the party, 
 Alma would sing to the selectest of the select guests, who 
 lingered for this treat at Miss Workman's request. She sang 
 very prettily — in a sweet and full contralto, for which natu- 
 ral taste had done much and regular training very little. 
 At home nobody ever wanted her to sing. 
 
 If by chance there was a strange young gentleman at- 
 tending the party, some convalescent schoolboy brought by 
 his mamma, Alma's song invariably finished him, He had 
 felt it coming on, in the midst of his great shyness, while 
 the tall young lady handed him tea-cups or buns, and talked 
 to him in so jolly and easy a style, asking how and why 
 he caught those stupid measles, and emitting a sympathetic 
 ripple of laughter when he summoned all his courage to 
 tell her a school anecdote. But now she gave him the 
 coup de grace. 
 
 As she sat down at the piano, he could see that, although 
 braver, she was really as shy as himself. She hated having 
 to sing; but she was too much of a ripper to refuse, since 
 the old hag begged for it as a favour. Then he watched 
 her recover confidence — it was a beastly grind, but she 
 meant to go through it. A smile, like a flicker of light 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 about her lips; a faint pinkness where all had been white- 
 ness; a resolute lift of the graceful head, as if all that 
 dark hair was something heavy, and not beautiful, to be 
 thrown off, forgotten ; — and then there came rolling through 
 the warm air waves of soft overwhelming melody. It was 
 like the bugle call on the field-days with the cadet corps, 
 stimulating, disturbing; it was like a sword of flame, pierc- 
 ing, penetrating, burning; it was like a poison extracted 
 from concentrated essences of sweetness, sending a deadly 
 sugared ecstasy all through the veins — it made one feel as 
 if lengths of velvet from an endless web were being pulled 
 over one's head; as if one had been caught in a net made 
 of beaten gold and spun glass; as if one were a tiny little 
 boat being blown out into the middle of a dark purple 
 sea under a blazing crimson sunset sky. And the young 
 gentleman, gaping, gasping, blushing, unnoticed in a corner, 
 recognized by all these signs that it had truly happened. 
 He was desperately in love — at first sight. 
 
 All schoolboys worshipped Miss Reed. 
 
 And perhaps a stepmother might be forgiven if the sound 
 of so much praise produced a certain amount of internal 
 acidity. "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Reed, "I agree with every 
 word. In many respects Alma is a paragon. . . . My 
 own four will never be paragons. That is why I am giv- 
 ing them a workaday education, and not cultivating the 
 airs and graces. Don't you think I'm wise?" 
 
 She and the younger Miss Reeds used to speak face- 
 tiously of "Alma's trumpeters." Three people especially 
 were loudest and most persistent in chanting her praise: 
 Miss Workman, the Catholic priest, and Frances Shipham. 
 Frances was the independent, self-supporting, journalistic 
 girl who always spent Christmas at the Garbetts'. Frances 
 adored Alma. And, coming straight from London, where 
 she was supposed to consort with the brightest spirits of 
 3 27 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the art world, she boldly said that Alma was the cleverest 
 and most accomplished person she had ever met. 
 
 Well, then, when Alma and Lenny were seen with linked 
 hands at the skating rink, or standing at the bend of the 
 sea-wall with shoulders almost touching as they looked out 
 across the sunlit waters, a good many observers thought 
 that on the whole she was worthy of him. And when they 
 saw her again and again talking to Mr. Calcraft in his 
 Bath-chair, seeming not only to be suffered, but liked by 
 him, walking alongside the chair to the very end of the 
 parade and there helping him to free his bear — when they 
 saw this, they would indeed have been ready to wager any 
 stake that Alma Reed had won the great prize. 
 
 But all this was long ago. Suddenly it appeared that 
 Miss Reed gave it up as a bad job. She had left West- 
 church for ever. Unhappy at home, she went to London 
 and joined forces with Frances Shipham. It was under- 
 stood that they lived together. Alma had some small inde- 
 pendent means, derived from her Romish mother — a hun- 
 dred, perhaps a hundred and fifty a year; and she was act- 
 ing as one of the secretaries to some public organization. 
 
 Together with the loud-voiced grief of Miss Workman 
 and other staunch friends, there had been some rather nasty 
 unfriendly talk about Alma. People in small seaside towns 
 will talk, and girls are willing to say anything when strug- 
 gling to give a jocose turn to their usually vapid conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Alma is emancipated, don't you know; quite up-to-date 
 now — religious and all other scruples melted in the glare 
 of the great city. Don't you believe it? Well, very likely 
 it isn't true. 
 
 Matrons did not encourage such chatter. They said to 
 their Marys and Kates, "I would prefer that you should 
 not speak of it at all." 
 
 28 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Talking to one another they said "Yes, Alma — or so I 
 am given to understand — is living with that queer young 
 woman, Miss Shipham. They are two bachelor girls — you 
 know what I mean, latchkeys and no chaperon. Personally, 
 I am glad that, having completely cut herself adrift, she 
 does not return to Haven Lodge. It would be very awk- 
 ward to know how to act. For I am particularly anxious 
 that Mary should not be imbued with any of these modern 
 notions." 
 
 "Yes, that's exactly what I feel about Kate." 
 
IV 
 
 THE colder winds had interfered with Mr. Calcraft's 
 outings; the sea-front saw him but rarely, and 
 then only in brief glimpses of sunshine; he had be- 
 come like the old man on top of the barometric toy, who 
 creeps out of his house to mark fine weather and pops in 
 again at imperceptible signs of storm. 
 
 One evening after he had been confined to his bedroom 
 all day, Lenny came to him for a few minutes' chat. 
 
 "How's the cough, dad? Easier?" 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 "Any news in the Pall Mall Gazette?" 
 
 "Only bad news." 
 
 The papers provided lugubrious reading at this period 
 — ugly scenes from the Boer war, things going badly for 
 England; everything falling; stocks and shares, reputations 
 and traditions, hopes and dreams, all, all falling together. 
 
 Lenny could not stay more than a few minutes, because 
 he was due at the club billiard-room to play his second 
 heat in the winter tournament. But he had something to 
 say to his father — something of weight. 
 
 Although the bedroom was very hot, old Calcraft sat 
 crouching close to the fire with a shawl round his shoul- 
 ders and blankets round his knees. The nurse, seated on 
 the other side of the hearth, was knitting, but would go 
 on reading aloud whenever her invalid told her to do so. 
 Lenny sent the nurse out of the room, and approached the 
 subject that he wished to discuss. 
 
 30 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Father, IVe been thinking whether I oughtn't to go 
 out there, and take my share in this rough-and-tumble." 
 
 "What are you talking of?" said Mr. Calcraft queru- 
 lously. 
 
 "South Africa. The war." 
 
 "Oh!" Mr. Calcraft looked up quickly, interrogating 
 his son's face, and then he looked back at the fire. "What 
 can I think about it, my boy? What do you think your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Well, of course, I should like to go. But, on the other 
 hand, I don't like to leave you." 
 
 "That's very good of you." Mr. Calcraft did not raise 
 his eyes again. 
 
 "Of course I am past the age." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well — thirty-five last birthday. If military service was 
 compulsory, they would not take fellows over thirty-five." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Calcraft; and there was a long pause. 
 
 Nevertheless, as Lenny explained, the age difficulty was 
 not insuperable. He had no doubt that he could rejoin 
 his old militia regiment — he was sure that they would be 
 glad to have him back. They were to be embodied almost 
 immediately, and after a month's training — according to 
 newspaper correspondents — they would be despatched to 
 the seat of war. He spoke wistfully of the old corps, seem- 
 ing in imagination to see the bustle of preparation, the 
 camp, the ship, and finally the open veldt. 
 
 But then, as he looked down at the invalid's white hair 
 and tremulous hands, he spoke very gently and tenderly, 
 and his gaze was softened and veiled by a perceptible 
 moisture. 
 
 "Of course," he said tentatively, "if you feel that you 
 
 could get on without me — if you would not miss me " 
 
 And there was another long pause. 
 
 31 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny," said his father, in a shaky voice, "I should 
 miss you. I should miss you most dreadfully/' 
 
 "That was what I was afraid of," said Lenny. 
 
 Then it was tacitly decided that Lenny would not leave 
 his post. No more words were spoken, but it was under- 
 stood that the invalid should not be deserted. 
 
 After his son had gone from the room, Mr. Calcraft 
 sat staring at the fire without moving. His eyes were full 
 of tears, and his hands shook pitiably. It seemed as though 
 this talk about the war, and the dread of losing his con- 
 stant companion, had greatly shaken him. But he burst 
 into an unreasonable fit of anger when presently the nurse 
 returned and began to talk to him about local matters in a 
 lively vein. 
 
 The invalid had been very trying throughout the day, 
 but he was most trying of all in this last hour; and the 
 news passed up and down the house that Mr. Leonard 
 had somehow distressed the old gentleman. 
 
 Next morning bright sunshine streamed into both of 
 Lenny's rooms while their occupant, sauntering backwards 
 and forwards between the two, slowly dressed himself. 
 The bath, certain gymnastic exercises before and after it, 
 shaving, anointing his hair with perfumed oils or washes, 
 the thoughtful selection and laying out of suitable garments 
 — all these tasks added together consumed a long time. But 
 in this quiet back-water of life there was no pressing reason 
 why one should get afloat early in the day. 
 
 Bath and exercises were done; he was in drawers and 
 vest now ; and he idly ambled to and fro, picking up a silver- 
 stoppered bottle, stooping over a receptacle that held his 
 coloured socks, or sliding out a shelf of fancy waistcoats, 
 amusing himself rather than going on with his labour. 
 
 32 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 The sunlight brightened everything, fought the shadows, 
 and drove them from the farthest recesses; so that the 
 whole dressing-room seemed as gay as it was comfortable. 
 The door of a vast wardrobe bore a panel of looking-glass, 
 and when it swung on its hinges, there came a flash across 
 the floor and upward to the ceiling, as of a moving rain- 
 bow. Lenny closed the door and stood meditatively looking 
 at himself in the glass. 
 
 Beneath the silk vest his chest and shoulders showed 
 finely, and from it his neck rose round and strong. He 
 patted his chest, and, drawing a deep breath, made it swell 
 out larger. Then he began gently to stroke his bare arms. 
 The muscles and flesh felt as if they w T ere moulded into 
 one substance, solid, hard, firm, and yet the skin was soft 
 as satin — as smooth to the touch as a girl's skin. He folded 
 his arms, to see the effect of enhanced size given to the 
 fore-arms by this attitude. Posed thus for a few moments, 
 he reminded himself of a picture of a prize-fighter. 
 
 Then, leaning a little forward, he studied his face in 
 the glass. Wonderful how long one can preserve the sum- 
 mer sun-burn when one lives by the sea! December al- 
 ready, and yet his cheeks carried the even, polished tan of 
 August, a dark-toned rich glaze — such as you see in choice 
 tiles or well-painted pieces of porcelain — which the autumn 
 winds seemed merely to have fixed, instead of turning it 
 red and brick-dusty. He brought his head close to the 
 glass in order to investigate his eyes and their orbits, and 
 turned it to study the hair on his temples. The eyes were 
 clear, full colour in the iris and no stains or vein-pencil- 
 lings in the white, and all round them one could scarcely 
 trace the little lines marked by the years, the emotions, the 
 passions; just a few grey hairs feathered the curl that had 
 been so cruelly clipped on each side of the smooth fore- 
 
 33 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 head, but no more than he had seen there five years ago. 
 Really, nothing to complain of — at thirty-six. He smiled 
 at the glass before he turned away from it. 
 
 The kindly sunshine had drawn him towards the win- 
 dow. With its curved fagade and southern prospect the 
 Crescent was like a sun-trap, and this morning not the 
 least wind struck it. The window ledge was quite hot; 
 the sunbeams made another bath, a delightful shower of 
 soothing, vivifying flame. 
 
 Down below, all was sparkling brightness and gaiety. He 
 looked at the friendly jolly little place lying at his feet and 
 smiling up at him. The esplanade and empty band-stand; 
 the piled beach and stretching sand; over there a pleasant 
 confusion of wooden rampart, upturned boats, extended 
 nets, and wound cordage; the grassy mound that gave shel- 
 ter to the club premises, and above their red roof the flag- 
 staff that indicated the position of the new life-boat house — 
 how well he knew it all, and yet how fresh and pretty 
 it seemed in its familiarity and insignificance! 
 
 The harbour was out of sight; but beyond the houses 
 you had the broad estuary, with the sandy ridge of the 
 islands, and the further shore, hill-topped, wooded, faint 
 now at its nearest point, and growing rapidly fainter as 
 it ran away westward to fade in the golden mist far out 
 at sea. Fishermen's boats with brown sails one after an- 
 other came round the point, and gently drifted off towards 
 the deep fields where to-night they would snatch their 
 harvest ; and two clumsy brigs beat about the islands, stand- 
 ing off and on as they felt for the channel or waited for the 
 tide — like two blind men groping at the door behind which 
 lay rest and shelter. In the silence and the sunlight the 
 whole scene seemed so calm and peaceful that one could 
 scarcely believe there might be storms here, or anywhere 
 else in the world. 
 
 34 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 The peace of it crept into his heart, and he sat lazily 
 basking by the open window. 
 
 Miss Workman had once asked him if he ever thought 
 of himself; but that was palpably a ridiculous question. 
 Since we ourselves are at once the source, the bed, and the 
 driving energy of the only stream of thought we really 
 know, how can we hope that its swift unceasing flow shall 
 ever be untinged by the colour of personal elements? 
 
 In a sense Lenny possessed considerable range of thought. 
 He was imaginative, with great power of mental visuali- 
 zation; his thought roved freely through the past and the 
 future — and things unseen were almost as vivid and clearly 
 defined as the seen things. 
 
 It might be said that he had fully what is described as 
 one particular attribute of genius; for him, as for the mas- 
 ter minds, the past remained open, accessible, permanent; 
 nothing of it was forgotten; all that he had once lived 
 through he could live through again — was indeed forced 
 to do so, in certain episodes, against his will. 
 
 He remembered voluptuous thrills given to him by women 
 just as he remembered pleasures of the table, or the healthy 
 rapture of a gallop between the fence he had leapt and the 
 fence that lay before him. In a moment the past was pres- 
 ent — the unveiled quivering mystery of alcoved darkness; 
 the diffused glow of satisfaction beneath the shaded candles 
 of a restaurant; or the thud of flying hoofs, the wind of 
 swift motion, the tense delight of violent effort, in the 
 bright winter sunlight of the Midland pasture. To the 
 impulse of awakened memory every sense organ responded 
 with startling promptness, gave off again a fresh wave 
 along the once-travelled path of reception, until the co- 
 ordinated group of images, sensations, thoughts, was again 
 firmly established as a whole. 
 
 "What is it? Don't come in." 
 
 35 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 A tap at the door and a voice outside had interrupted his 
 reverie. 
 
 "Your shirts, sir." 
 
 One of the maids had brought a tray of shirts, and was 
 standing outside the door. He opened it a couple of inches 
 and talked to her. 
 
 "Have you aired them?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I've shown them to the fire." 
 
 "But — I say — I want them to be more than shown to 
 the fire. I want them to be properly introduced. I want 
 it to be a regular acquaintance;" and he laughed cheerily. 
 
 "All right, sir;" and the girl laughed too. 
 
 "Good people are scarce, you know;" and they both 
 laughed. 
 
 Then he shut the door, and went on with his dressing. 
 As he pottered about the room he felt extraordinarily happy 
 and light-hearted — at peace with the universe and every 
 living creature in it. 
 
 He was a long time dressing — but why hurry? This 
 golden sunny day would last — not a threatening cloud from 
 zenith to horizon. The tranquil night's rest had restored 
 his supply of nerve- force; he felt fit and hearty; his sun- 
 bath at the window seemed to have filled him to the brim 
 with genial sympathies, pleasant fancies, evenly balanced 
 hopes. 
 
V 
 
 AFTER breakfast he did a little shopping in the town 
 — one of Dr. Searle's prescriptions to be taken to 
 the chemist, cigarettes to be ordered from the tobac- 
 conist, a jacket to be tried on at the tailor's; — and, wher- 
 ever he went, he enjoyed an unusual sense of gaiety and 
 contentment. The respectful salutations of tradesmen and 
 the amiable greetings of friends seemed to carry on and in- 
 tensify the kindly work of the sunshine: they enhanced 
 one's internal store of warmth and well-being. 
 
 In twenty minutes he had talked to more than twenty 
 people. This morning it appeared as though he was known 
 to everybody, gentle or simple, and the attention of those 
 whom he himself did not know seemed quite natural, even 
 when quite unexpected. However small the stage, we like 
 to feel that we are occupying the centre of it; and no mat- 
 ter how little important our part, there is a pleasure in the 
 thought that for the moment we are dominating the scene, 
 concentrating the gaze of all eyes, obliterating the general 
 interest in the rest of the characters. 
 
 Popular, widely-recognized, promptly welcomed, Lenny 
 could easily have indulged and fostered the illusion that he 
 was the central figure in the town's life, or the favourite 
 actor of its daily drama. Just now, while he sat at break- 
 fast, these streets were dark and silent ; but now the curtain 
 had gone up, lights were turned on, he had appeared. 
 
 And the scenic background before which he moved 
 seemed to him more than adequate: it was charming. Pass- 
 ing from High Street to Duke Street, he had a glimpse 
 
 37 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 into Nelson Square, and thought he had never seen it look- 
 ing so pretty. The sunshine struck against the red-brick 
 tower of the church, the white windows and green shut- 
 ters of sedate houses, and the topmost branches of the bare 
 trees above which rooks cawed and fluttered; and in the 
 shadow thrown by the church some children were crossing 
 the road and coming towards him. Presently, as they 
 advanced, the sunlight fell upon their faces, and the sha- 
 dow receded to their waists, to their ankles, so that they 
 seemed as if they were wading through grey transparent 
 water. 
 
 He had paused to watch them; and to his surprise he 
 found that one of them, the smallest, was crying. 
 
 "What's the matter, my dear?" He patted her tear- 
 laden cheek, and then turned to the others reproachfully. 
 "Why is she crying? Poor little thing — I hope you 
 haven't been unkind to her." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir. She cries for nothing. She don't know 
 what she's crying for — mother'll tell you just the same." 
 
 "See now!" He was stooping over the child and smil- 
 ing at her. "If I give you this to buy sweeties or something 
 nice, will you be happy again? . . . There. That's 
 right." 
 
 The child had taken the silver coin, and, clasping it 
 tight, instantly checked her tears and lamentations. 
 
 Two ladies — Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Oliver — called to 
 Lenny from the opposite pavement. Unobserved on the 
 threshold of Randies' drug store, they had been witnesses 
 of his gentleness and generosity. 
 
 "That was like you, Mr. Lenny — always trying to make 
 people happy;" and Mrs. Oliver beamed at him. 
 
 "And you know the right way to children's hearts," said 
 Mrs. Scott appreciatively. 
 
 "Poor little beggars," said Lenny in a light tone, dis- 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 regarding unnecessary and uninvited compliments. "I hate 
 to see 'em blubbering — always makes me think they have 
 been ill-treated. . . . We shall meet on the front?" 
 
 He went down narrow sloping Harbour Street, between 
 the queer little flint houses with their bulging bow windows 
 and squat doorways. The street was so narrow that it 
 made a long dark peep-hole to the sea; and here, walking 
 for the first time in shadow, Lenny felt something cold 
 and uncomfortable. 
 
 It was the distant formal recognition of Father Mar- 
 chant, the Catholic priest, who emerged from one of the 
 humblest of the flint houses. This Mr. Marchant was a 
 tall old man with a clear-cut, clean-shaven face and the 
 bloodless, ivory-tinted complexion that seems to suggest the 
 ascetic renouncements of priestly duties, celibate vows, and 
 vegetarian habits; he had a great air of dignity, even of 
 stateliness, on ceremonious occasions; but, as Lenny knew, 
 he could and did often unbend, would laugh, tell jovial 
 anecdotes, take a hand at cards or play a romping game — 
 in a word, could be as jolly as anybody else. Lenny 
 used to meet him at dinner at the Reeds', and in the old 
 days they always got on well together. 
 
 Yet from him had come the only snub or rebuff that 
 Lenny had ever received in Westchurch. The priest was 
 getting up some fund, to which apparently heretics as well 
 as the faithful were invited to subscribe; but when Lenny 
 cheerily offered his subscription, it was refused. Lenny 
 laughed and shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. You 
 can't quarrel with a man for letting you off cheap when 
 you thought you were bound to stump up — least of all 
 with a f rocked and collared senior. And indeed Mr. Mar- 
 chant gave him no excuse for a quarrel. 
 
 "Thank you," he said; "but really I don't feel justi- 
 fied. Our fund— it is, strictly speaking, connected with the 
 
 39 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 church — is doing excellently; so I should have no excuse." 
 And he was courteous in replying to a further inquiry of 
 Lenny's. "No, it is not exactly our rule — and every rule, 
 Mr. Calcraft, has exceptions. But in this case I can only 
 thank you, while declining to avail myself of your assist- 
 ance." 
 
 After this Lenny had often pondered upon the matter, 
 seeking some explanation of how and why the priest should 
 have become so hostile to him. Or was it, after all, a 
 mere fancy of his own? 
 
 To-day, however, he could not be in doubt. They met 
 face to face on the narrow pavement, and, as acknowledg- 
 ment of Lenny's cheery good-morning, the priest took off 
 his hat and silently bowed. The stately salute was accom- 
 panied with a glance that seemed rather stern, very cold, 
 and unquestionably inimical. Mr. Marchant could no 
 longer be counted as a friend. 
 
 Not that it mattered, either way — only, coming after 
 so much welcoming friendliness, striking one who had been 
 steeped in the genial atmosphere of popularity, it produced 
 a slight but wide superficial chill. 
 
 Very soon the sunshine warmed him again. He was 
 out in the open now, on the esplanade, with the delightful 
 breath of the sea like an innocent caress softly touching 
 his face; and he quickened his footsteps, threw back his 
 head, and swung along jauntily. There was a real friend 
 in sight now — young Gerald Dryden, gesticulating and 
 talking volubly to three girls who leaned their backs against 
 the wooden rails, and laughed so loudly that one could 
 hear them when fifty yards away. 
 
 The receding figure of Mr. Reed, who with vague dreamy 
 air and shambling uncertain gait had just passed by on 
 his way to the golf links, told Lenny what the young 
 people were laughing about. 
 
 40 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Perhaps the only salient or concrete fact that shadowy 
 Mr. Reed offered for the consideration of the world was 
 his golf. He furnished a rare instance of a man who 
 would never, could never learn the game. He had taken 
 it up fifteen years ago, when the links were opened, and 
 had been getting worse ever since. At first he had a 
 handicap of eighteen; then at his request he was advanced 
 to twenty- four ; and then the committee gave him a handi- 
 cap of thirty, to enable him to play with the ladies. Now 
 no one of either sex would play with him, He played 
 alone, every day — never practising, — simply attacking the 
 course in solitary ardour; — and the joke was to calculate 
 his real handicap on form, getting the caddies to count his 
 actual strokes for the completed round. The caddies al- 
 ways counted, but they could make only an approximate 
 return — because there were so many have-backs, miss-fires, 
 and lost balls. Nevertheless their report supplied sufficient 
 data for the maintenance of an old-established jest, and it 
 had been recently decided that Mr. Reed's authentic and 
 justifiable handicap was two hundred and eleven. 
 
 But the little group at the railings had ceased to laugh 
 before they were joined by Lenny. From discussion of 
 the father they had drifted to the subject of his daughter. 
 The young ladies had endeavoured to be funny on this 
 subject also, talking lightly and disparagingly of Alma 
 Reed, and the young man had burst forth in her defence. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Leonard," said one of the girls, "do come to 
 our rescue. He is being so rude." 
 
 "Oh, surely not?" said Lenny, smiling at them all. 
 
 "But, he is," said another girl — "hideously rude." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Dryden bluntly, "it's better to be 
 rude, than spiteful and malicious — any day of the week." 
 
 "Oh," and the third girl gave a little squeak of protest. 
 "How horrid he is! Mr. Lenny, don't let him go on." 
 
 41 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But the young man would go on. He said nothing 
 could be so horrid as saying unkind things behind people's 
 backs, and he continued his enthusiastic praise of the absent 
 Alma. 
 
 The girls winced beneath the masculine eloquence, and 
 Lenny smiled at them sympathetically. They looked not 
 exactly pretty, but seductively fresh and clean; the breeze 
 blowing through the railings was just strong enough to 
 plaster their cloth skirts about their firm legs, to set their 
 Tarn o' Shanters flopping, disarrange their hair, and make 
 their faces glow; a knitted scarf of mauve colour streamed 
 out like a signal pennant till its owner with graceful move- 
 ments gave it another turn round her neck. 
 
 The young man confronted them in an attitude of almost 
 wrathful vigour, his black billycock tilted to the back of 
 his head, his honest but perhaps rather common face suf- 
 fused with a hot blush, his mouth opening and shutting 
 even in moments of silence, and a contraction and expan- 
 sion of his wide nostrils alternating spasmodically. 
 
 "And couldn't she sing?" he went on, very loudly. 
 "By Jupiter, could any of you dare to sing after her? 
 . . . And — and do any of 3 ou go about among the poor 
 as she did? Ask down there," and he pointed violently 
 towards the harbour, "in Rose Cottages or Haven Lane, 
 what they thought of her — and if they don't miss her. 
 Or ask the people who fancy themselves. Ask the nobs," 
 and he swung round and pointed in the other direction. 
 "Ask Miss Workman — whom you're always sucking up 
 to. Ask Miss Workman what she thinks. I bet she's 
 of my opinion — and you shall have it, for both of us. 
 You were all beastly jealous of Alma Reed, and you're 
 none of you fit to tie her shoe-laces;" and he blew out his 
 cheeks and snorted. 
 
 "Oh, really," said Miss Malins, the oldest of the girls. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "I'm not going to stay and be abused like this. . . . 
 Good-morning, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 The other two girls laughed constrainedly and followed 
 Miss Malins; but the girl with the mauve scarf paused 
 to fire a parting and obliquely aimed shot. 
 
 "Mr. Lenny, please teach him manners. I don't think 
 he's a bit nice — in spite of all your recommendations." 
 
 But for the fact that Lenny had vouched for him, young 
 Gerald Dryden might never have been accepted on equal 
 terms in the higher society of Westchurch. As the son 
 of the local auctioneer, he could scarcely aspire to such 
 honours; moreover, many social critics, condemning his 
 free and easy manner, his noisy tones, and confident way 
 of carrying himself, classed him as a bounder. However, 
 he was an ardent admirer of Lenny; and Lenny, perhaps 
 touched by a devotion that was as sincere as it was artless, 
 shielded and protected him from the effects of adverse criti- 
 cism, gave him useful hints as to dress and deportment, 
 and insisted that he should be admitted a member of the 
 club. 
 
 "Hullo, Lenny," Colonel Blacklock had said. "What's 
 this about young Dryden? D'you really mean it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny. "He's all right — quite a good 
 sort." 
 
 "Lenny says he is all right" — the news flew round. 
 "Colonel Blacklock says he is all right." . . . "They 
 have elected him to the club, so he must be all right," 
 Thenceforth he was considered all right by everybody. 
 
 Admirer and protector walked along side by side now, 
 and all the world might see the terms of complete intimacy 
 that existed between them. The elder gently reproved 
 the younger for his recent warmth, and added that it 
 was always a mistake to excite oneself about nothing. 
 
 "Yes," said Dryden, cool and collected again, "I made 
 i 43 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 an ass of myself. I don't care. Those girls are such rot- 
 ters." Then, linking his arm with Lenny's, he asked a 
 question. "Lenny, when you were my age, had you ever 
 been in love?" 
 
 Lenny laughed. "My dear boy, at least a hundred 
 times." 
 
 "Can you remember the first time — the first person who 
 ever bowled you over?" 
 
 "No, I'm afraid I can't." 
 
 "Well, the first person," and Gerald Dryden hesitated — 
 "the first time I fell in love — it was Alma Reed." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "But the funny thing is this — I'm in love with her still." 
 
 "What — does absence make the heart grow fonder?" 
 
 "Yes." And Dryden told Lenny how sweet and kind 
 Miss Reed had been to him when he was a boy of four- 
 teen. He had met her for the first time one Christmas 
 holidays at a semi-public juvenile ball. "The mater took 
 me, and — well, Alma Reed saw that we were feeling jolly 
 well out of it. I couldn't dance; anH the mater was too 
 shy to push herself forward. So Miss Reed — it's dashed 
 cheek of me to call her Alma — came over to us, and was 
 awfully jolly to the mater, and made the other boys talk 
 to me." 
 
 "Yes. Go on." 
 
 "After that I was her slave. And she never knew it, 
 but often spoke to me — if I saw her in the street, any- 
 where, — asking me what I intended to do and to be — 
 and so on." 
 
 "Yes? I am enormously interested, Gerald." 
 
 Gerald glanced at his friend, and hesitated. 
 "I was half mad with jealousy of you, Lenny. . . . 
 She showed — or I thought she showed — that she was very 
 fond of you. . . . But you didn't think much of her." 
 
 44 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Pardon me," said Lenny, "I had, and I still have, an 
 immense respect for Miss Reed." 
 
 "Have you?" And the young man looked at him with 
 cordial affection. "But you didn't stick up for her just 
 now." 
 
 Lenny shrugged his shoulders. "Is it ever worth while 
 noticing that sort of thing? I didn't hear what they said 
 — but I guess very well what it amounted to. Frankly, 
 when girls talk of another girl in that style, they are be- 
 neath contempt." 
 
 "So they were. I as good as told them so, didn't I? 
 But I wish you had let 'em see you thought the same." 
 
 "I fancy they gathered that, from my silence." 
 
 "Of course," said Gerald, musingly, "she had a rotten 
 time at home. They were pigs to her. I don't wonder 
 she chucked them, and went to live on her own. But I 
 wish she'd come back and show herself sometimes. That 
 might put the lid on half of all this cackling." 
 
 And then Gerald with sentimental diffidence spoke of 
 what he called his dream. If ever he were independent 
 and prosperous, he would go and fish out Miss Reed and 
 ask her to marry him. 
 
 Lenny stopped short, and laid his hand on Gerald's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Gerald, take my advice and renounce your childish 
 dream. Give up that idea." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "For many reasons." 
 
 "I don't see any of them. . . . I've been in love 
 with her tor eight years — I shall never get her out of my 
 head." 
 
 "To begin with, Alma is much older than you." 
 "I don't mind that. It is my chance. Probably when 
 I am ready, she'll be much older still — and then it may 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 not seem to her that she is so completely chucking herself 
 away, if she says yes." 
 
 "But it would be an unsuitable alliance. Gerald, take 
 it from me. If you hold to this idea, you will meet with 
 certain disappointment." 
 
 Young Dryden's face clouded, and he looked at Lenny 
 searchingly. 
 
 "Does that mean you don't think she is — you yourself 
 believe the talk?" 
 
 "No. Certainly not." 
 
 The earnestness and decision with which Lenny gave 
 this assurance promptly changed the troubled, darkened 
 aspect of Gerald's face to an expression of youthful self- 
 confidence. 
 
 "Very well. Then I intend to go on with it. A man 
 is all the better for a fixed ambition — a guiding star — 
 you know what I mean, — even if he fails in the end. I 
 shall steer my course for the star." 
 
 "Then remember, when the disappointment comes," said 
 Lenny very impressively, "I warned you — that is, I gave 
 you my strong advice. . . . But what nonsense ail this 
 is!" And he laughed. "You and I can't keep ourselves, 
 much less keep wives." 
 
 "Not yet, Lenny — but one day." 
 
 They had walked far out beyond the sea-wall and the 
 links, to the grassy slopes of a rising cliff, and now they 
 turned and came homeward at a slower pace. Nearly 
 all the way back, till they reached the band-stand, they 
 were talking of Gerald's future. 
 
 Gerald spoke sadly and regretfully of another of his 
 dreams, one that he had already been forced to abandon. 
 "The governor" would not let him be a soldier. 
 
 "And perhaps," said Lenny gently, "your father is wise 
 
 4G 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 in thwarting you. It seems to me, the army is no profes- 
 sion." 
 
 "A man can make it one. Look at your pal George 
 Verinder. See what he has done. And think of what is 
 going on at this moment. It's the beginning of a new 
 era — everybody says so." 
 
 Then the young man explained that he had defeated 
 the governor in some terrible family debates. No power 
 on earth will ever make him consent to follow in the 
 paternal footsteps as an auctioneer. This point at least is 
 settled. He is going to be an electrical engineer. 
 
 "That I don't mind. It's honest straightforward work; 
 and if you have to hide anything, it's only your live wires 
 — and you conceal them for the safety and convenience of 
 the public. But the other thing's rotten — all underground 
 — won't bear inspection. It suits the governor because 
 he has been at it all his life, but it wouldn't suit yours 
 truly;" and Mr. Dryden junior contemptuously hammered 
 the railings with his stick. "For the last time, gentlemen — 
 going — gone! No thank you." 
 
 Lenny smiled, but nevertheless reproved him for adopt- 
 ing so scornful a tone when speaking of a parent. 
 
 "Yes," said Dryden, "I thought you'd say that. But, 
 you know, all fathers and sons aren't the same. There 
 never has been any real affection between my governor 
 and me." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 Lenny of a sudden had become absent-minded, and he 
 was staring at Dryden's brown boots. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" Dryden asked uneasily. 
 "What's wrong?" 
 
 "Not brown boots, Gerald, with a black bowler — black 
 boots!" 
 
 47 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 ' "Yes," said Lenny gravely. "I was just thinking hovr 
 nicely you were dressed — but the boots spoil it. Quite 
 right, if you were wearing a Homburg hat, but not with 
 a hard felt — a black hard felt. . . . Another thing! 
 / always think it's a dangerous experiment to wear a silk 
 tie with what I call a knock-about suit. . . . You see, 
 Gerald, you are such a fine, well-set-up chap , that you 
 ought to do yourself justice." 
 
 Dryden blushed, but he was profoundly pleased. He 
 thanked his friend with warm gratitude for these hints. 
 Then he laughed joyously. 
 
 "How is it, Lenny, that when you say anything, I like 
 it — whereas, if any other fellow said it, I should merely 
 want to kick him? How do you always contrive to gild 
 the pill, and make a snub seem as pleasant as a pat on 
 the back?" Admiration and regard shone out of his eyes 
 as he looked at Lenny. "It's what we all feel — what 
 old Verinder said — it sums it up. You're a tip-topper." 
 
 "Bosh! I think you have all entered into a conspiracy 
 to spoil me." They were drawing near the club, and 
 Lenny glanced at his handsome gold watch. "I am going 
 in, to run through the illustrated papers; and I've only 
 just time before luncheon. Father doesn't like me to be 
 late." 
 
VI 
 
 HE was very fond of the little club, in which for 
 years he had enjoyed a supreme influence, and where 
 he was always welcomed with acclamation, no mat- 
 ter how frequently he visited it. As a fact, he was an as- 
 siduous attendant. 
 
 "Where's Lenny Calcraft?" members used to say of 
 an evening. "I thought he'd be with us before now. 
 Nearly ten o'clock!" 
 
 "Perhaps he isn't coming to-night. The old boy may 
 be worse. . . . Ah!" 
 
 "Hullo, Lenny! Talk of an angel! We'd almost given 
 you up." 
 
 Before sitting down to the card table, he often reported 
 progress to Dr. Searle. 
 
 "Father was very restless this evening. Nothing appears 
 to interest him. He has lost his pleasure in being read 
 aloud to." 
 
 "Has he taken the cough mixture? . . . Very good. 
 I will look in to-morrow morning. Don't worry your- 
 self;" and then Dr. Searle would go to the billiard-room, 
 and Lenny to the card-room. 
 
 If nights were wet and boisterous, Lenny used to ap- 
 proach his goal by back streets, going behind the Crescent 
 instead of in front, and reaching the club's side entrance 
 without exposing himself to the full fury of the tempest. 
 
 On one such night during this winter time, when the 
 
 49 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wind was roaring, and rain was driving, and Lenny had 
 come by the backway, the club seemed to him most ex- 
 traordinarily snug and pleasant. There was noise and 
 laughter and vivid light issuing from the billiard-room, 
 while a soberer mirth and a more subdued radiance came 
 through the open doors of the card-room. To-night all 
 internal doors were open, and all windows hermetically 
 closed, in order to give members a little ventilation with- 
 out allowing them to be blown out of their chairs. There 
 were two bridge tables actively engaged, and Lenny's ar- 
 rival made up a third. Colonel Blacklock, Mr. Price- 
 Young, and Mr. Underwood — all oldish men — had refused 
 to cut in till now; they shunned the chance of partnership 
 with certain juvenile and erratic performers, and they loved 
 to play with Lenny. 
 
 The cards fell from dealers' hands with a light patter 
 on the green cloth, as of leaves from some choice and 
 carefully tended shrub, falling in a hot-house; the window 
 sashes rattled angrily, a trembling vibration ran across the 
 wooden floor, fierce gusts buffeted walls, roof, chimneys; 
 and the contrast between the cold violence out there and 
 the warm peace in here seemed to add a delightful zest to 
 one's amusement, and to draw the whole sheltered com- 
 munity into a closer circle of intimacy, kindness, and cheer- 
 ful feeling. 
 
 Shadwell, the steward — an old and faithful servant — 
 carrying round the first tray of drinks, gave trite expres- 
 sion to the general sentiment when he said to Lenny, "I'd 
 rather be indoors than out of doors to-night, sir." 
 
 "Yes, by George," said Mr. Price- Young, "I agree with 
 you, Shadwell." 
 
 "Never knew it come on to blow so quick, or so hard, 
 sir. It's fit to blow the house down." 
 
 The card-players laughed and chaffed; after each rubber 
 
 50 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 there was a chorus of chatter; everybody wanted to pay for 
 everybody else's drink, and old Shadwell was kept on the 
 trot. 
 
 Then there was mild excitement, and temporary inter- 
 ruption. Shadwell failed to answer the bell; someone 
 said he heard voices shouting outside in the darkness; some- 
 one said he thought he had heard guns. Players at two 
 tables got up, pulled curtains aside, and peered through 
 ' the wet window panes. One or two men laid down their 
 cards, and went into front rooms to inquire or see for 
 themselves what was really happening. 
 
 Then, all at once, young Dryden in his shirt sleeves, 
 with his billiard cue in his hand, came shouting at the open 
 door of the card-room. 
 
 "It's a wreck! A wreck!" And, still shouting, he dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "What an infernal row they're making!" said Colonel 
 Blacklock. "Whose card is that? ... I suppose I 
 mustn't ask to see the last trick?" 
 
 "No, I'm afraid not," said Lenny. 
 
 No one at his table had stirred! and presently the noise 
 and excitement came to an end. The players at the other 
 tables sat down again; the cards fell lightly and rhythmic- 
 ally; the steward brought in tray after tray of drink, and 
 slowly but delightfully the snug and comfortable evening 
 wore itself out. 
 
 When members were going home, the wind, even in 
 back streets, was so tremendous that Colonel Blacklock 
 felt glad to accept the stalwart arm of Lenny Calcraft. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear fellow! Something solid to cling 
 on to." 
 
 And Lenny confessed that, measuring himself the other 
 day, before starting some new exercises, he found his fore- 
 arm and the biceps quite unusually well-developed. 
 
 51 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Solid all through," said Colonel Blacklock. "By Jove, 
 it's like walking home with a Martello tower." 
 
 Next day all the town was talking about the wreck, 
 and the splendid rescue effected by the lifeboat. No 
 lives lost; — and seven lives saved — by the heroism and 
 promptitude of these lifeboat men. The shipwrecked sail- 
 ors had been fed, and clothed, and sent on their way to 
 London, before Lenny got up; but the local heroes re- 
 mained, to sun themselves in the kind words and kinder 
 looks shed upon them by admiring citizens. All praised 
 their action; and Lenny himself joined the chorus late that 
 afternoon. 
 
 The wind had abated, but the sea still ran high; clouds 
 were racing overhead; and sea gulls, driven inland by the 
 gale, flew low and warily, while Lenny in his tarpaulin 
 coat stood outside the big doors of the lifeboat house and 
 talked to the weather-beaten men. The men surrounded 
 him, nodding their heads, grinning, and pointing across 
 the waves to the black, dismasted, broken-backed vessel. 
 Promenaders stopped and made an outer ring; Lenny 
 formed the attractive nucleus of a growing crowd; the 
 concentrated eyes of the public watched him. 
 
 He clapped a hero on the shoulder, he called another 
 "my lad," he mingled humorous chaff with the seriousness 
 of his praise, and the little crowd applauded. 
 
 "Famous, my lads! Upon my word, you have made 
 us all proud of you." 
 
 He was groping in a waistcoat pocket now, and he 
 brought out two or three sovereigns, and distributed them 
 among the men; and once more the crowd applauded. 
 
 This substantial recognition was moreover received in 
 the best part by the men. 
 
 "Oh, sir," said their spokesman, "it was nothing, sir; 
 
 52 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 no more than our duty. I'm sure none of us thought a 
 minute when we got the call. The luck was in being 
 able to get to her in time. But I'm sure it's very kind of 
 you, sir. Thank you, sir. And I'm sure we all appreciate 
 your liberality and kindness, sir." 
 
 Lenny went into the club feeling full of a very generous 
 glow; sympathy, kindness, and enthusiasm, warming him 
 through and through. There were several members in the 
 front room, including Colonel Blacklock, and they were 
 all still talking of the wreck. Lenny, chiming in, began 
 to relate how much impressed he had been by the modesty 
 of these rough fellows. 
 
 "They did it last night, and they'd do it again to-night, 
 if they got the call." And he hinted at the donation and 
 good words with which he had rewarded them. "Yes, I 
 told them what I thought." 
 
 Somehow the members would not listen: they cut him 
 short. They were talking, but it was not of the lifeboat 
 men that they talked. 
 
 "Oh, yes — just so. But it's young Dryden who has 
 shown himself such a tip-topper. I didn't think he had 
 such grit in him. ... By Jove! Say what you will, 
 it was a clinking fine thing to do. The young harum- 
 scarum devil bangs out of the club just as he was, in his 
 shirt sleeves, and is the first man into the boat — he and 
 Jones, the butcher, were the volunteers; and without them 
 the boat could not have been manned." 
 
 Lenny walked into the card-room, and heard the card- 
 players talking of young Dryden between the rubbers. 
 Then he went into the billiard-room, and heard the billiard- 
 players talking about him unceasingly. Then he retired 
 to the writing-room, where, conspicuously displayed on the 
 mantelpiece, there was a large placard with a word in 
 capital letters — Silence ! 
 
 53 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But soon he was joined by Colonel Blacklock, who 
 altogether disregarded the placard. 
 
 "Lenny," said the Colonel, affectionately holding him 
 by the lapel of his coat, "you were right about it — abso- 
 lutely right. You are always right." 
 
 "I don't quite follow you," said Lenny coldly. "What 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean about him — when you said we mustn't pill 
 him. . . . Upon my word, I can't get over this per- 
 formance;" and the Colonel chuckled and rolled his head. 
 "Quite the military instinct! What they taught us when 
 we were youngsters. 'March straight for the sound of 
 the guns. Go, straight as a dart, to the danger zone.' 
 Well, that's what the young dog did, didn't he? Dashed 
 straight for it, without waiting to put on his coat! And 
 he was in the thick of it, fighting hard, while you and I, 
 old boy, were comfortably marching in the opposite direc- 
 tion." And the Colonel chuckled again. "Makes one 
 feel small, eh? Never mind. We can't all go; and I have 
 grandchildren to look after, and you have got a father." 
 
 Lenny did not attempt to analyse his feelings, and 
 probably they were quite unanalysable. When he thought 
 of Dryden's prompt and courageous action, he felt again 
 that generous glow of sympathy and enthusiasm; — but 
 this time it was for the deed, and not for the man. His 
 heart had warmed to the rough sailors; it grew cold to 
 the young engineer. Why? There was no envy, no 
 malice; really no base thought at all. He admired young 
 Dryden, he admired him enormously. He felt as if from 
 now onwards his admiration would be always increasing; 
 and yet — he disliked young Dryden. He liked him yes- 
 terday, he disliked him to-day. Very curious, and quite 
 unanalysable. Only one explanation suggested itself — 
 
 54 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 surely an explanation to be rejected as absurd. Is it per- 
 haps a mysterious law of life that one cannot like the 
 man who, however innocently and inadvertently, gets the 
 better of one? But how could the law, if it existed, apply 
 here? Well — young Dryden had done the thing that he 
 ought to have done himself 
 
VII 
 
 AFTER much broken weather the sun was shining 
 again. At noon the day became so bright and dry 
 that one could safely sit on the beach. Lenny had 
 come down the steps from the parade to light his pipe 
 behind one of the wooden groins; and in this shelter, 
 with the sunlight bathing him and the breeze faintly sing- 
 ing above his head but never touching him, he reclined 
 almost at full length, puffing the fragrant tobacco, fingering 
 the clean pebbles, and lazily thinking. 
 
 The small waves rolled so fast towards him, swept up 
 the beach with such vigorous motion, collapsed and dragged 
 their remnants away with such a deceptive aspect of in- 
 dividuality, that it seemed impossible to believe that each 
 hurrying crest and following trough did not indeed move 
 onward, but was merely an uprising and down-falling of 
 water in which every atom hovered over the same station- 
 ary spot. And his thoughts were like the waves, seeming 
 to roll right away, but really in one place all the time. 
 
 He thought of exploits by which people gain the praise 
 of crowds. This war — what possibilities it offered for 
 quick fame, easily achieved glory! Had he gone out there, 
 he might have distinguished himself and come home fa- 
 mous. Mentioned in despatches, — D.S.O., — more even? A 
 Victoria Cross? 
 
 Why not? Given the opportunity, you would make the 
 effort in a white-hot fury of excitement. It would be like a 
 fast thing with hounds. And one particular thirty minutes 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 came back to him with extraordinary vividness. It had 
 been very late on a November afternoon, when a long 
 blank day had sent most of the field home in low spirits; 
 there was a touch of frost towards dusk; one could smell 
 the fallen leaves beneath the trees; and suddenly hounds 
 were running like blazes. His horse seemed to go mad 
 with joy. Bang, crack, whack — that timber had been hit 
 uncommonly hard, but he is free of the copse; he is sailing 
 over firm turf; then a scramble after a deep drop — Lenny 
 felt again the nasty checking jar and the infinitesimal 
 pause, — but those hindlegs are under him again; he is 
 flying straight in the wake of the flying pack. Not an- 
 other moment's doubt or trouble. Thirty minutes, and 
 the splendid end had come — a kill in the open and only 
 one man up. As he remembered the scene, his blood 
 flowed more richly through his veins. . . . Now the 
 other men are here — red perspiring faces all round him — 
 frank hearty congratulations uttered by friendly voices. 
 "By Jove, Lenny, ) r ou were in your element. You fairly 
 streaked away, old chap. We only saw your coat-tails." 
 
 Well, that was how he would distinguish himself in 
 war — rapidly — if the lucky chance came. At worst it 
 would seem nothing greater or more difficult than stopping 
 a pair of runaway carriage horses. 
 
 Then he thought of the bronze cross won by his great 
 friend George Verinder. Nothing easy or quick about 
 his exploit! 
 
 He and a small number of cavalry had been surprised 
 in a hollow among hills, and so knocked about by the 
 well-posted foe that a sauve qui petit seemed likely to en- 
 sue. But George, apparently, had rallied them; had slowly 
 and methodically extricated them from this devil's hot- 
 pot; got them clear off, and then had ridden back alone 
 — into the hot-pot again — to find a trooper who had shouted 
 
 57 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 imploringly as he fell. George knew that the troops under 
 his command were safe now; he was risking his own life, 
 not their lives. 
 
 Gone for thirty-six hours! Putting the wounded man 
 on his horse, walking beside the horse amid a rain of bul- 
 lets' — walking through a night, hiding through a day;— 
 discovered and attacked, with sputter of revolver fire 
 beating off a dozen riflemen, and again getting clear; 
 Staggering on into another night, without food, without 
 drink, without warmth — in imagination Lenny could see 
 it all. While he thought of those thirty-six hours, it was 
 as if his brain contained one of the new American cinema- 
 tograph theatres about which people were beginning to 
 speak. An endless thread of animated pictures spun out 
 before his introspective eyes. No, not endless; for here 
 is the last of the film, the final picture. 
 
 Camp fires burning pale at dawn, the challenge of a 
 sentry — George has reached the British lines; and the 
 dying horse still carries a live man. Oh, what steel-bright 
 courage, what indomitable resolve, what infinite capacity 
 of endurance, went to the doing of all this! 
 
 And he thought of the long-standing friendship between 
 George and himself. It would be a terrible misfortune 
 to forfeit the affection and esteem of such a knight-like 
 friend as that. 
 
 George Verinder was not in any way connected with 
 Westchurch ; he belonged to Lenny's earlier history, and 
 was known to Dryden and other club members only as 
 the brilliant guest who once came to stay for a month at 
 No. I, The Crescent. He and Lenny had served in the 
 same militia; it was then that the regard was born and 
 grew to such strength as to survive the dulling effects of 
 time, separation, and changed habits. After those militia 
 days they were parted. One of them had gone with a 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 sword in his hand to conquer the world, and the other 
 had slowly paced to and fro on a concrete path by the 
 narrow sea and carried an old man's walking stick. 
 
 Lenny's pipe had gone out; in his recumbent position 
 it would not draw properly. He raised himself, sat cross- 
 legged, and, picking up a handful of pebbles, threw them 
 from him with a slow reluctant gesture that typified the 
 phase of his thought. 
 
 But he had voluntarily given up the hope of going to 
 the war; and he must not regret the loss of a dream. 
 
 Then, perhaps for the first time, he thought distinctly 
 and consecutively of all he had sacrificed to filial love. 
 
 The hunting with those jolly red-faced companions; 
 the shooting, the fishing, the whole programme of rural 
 sport; the life in London with wild bloods and costly 
 sirens, facile courtships and swift surrenders, late nights 
 and later mornings, life illuminated by a candle that is 
 being lavishly burnt at both ends; then the period of wider 
 aims and more extended hopes, reputation, public im- 
 portance, marriage, home — all that he had been taught to 
 expect ultimately as quite his own, all of it had gone from 
 him. 
 
 And as exchange the long dull years in this little hole 
 of a place — numbing and deadening oneself with its futile 
 amusements, insipid vapours of old maids at tea-parties, 
 garrulous twaddle of old men on club sofas. To think 
 of it — plainly to recognize the vapid monotony, the measure- 
 less emptiness that can be contained in infinitely restricted 
 space, made one feel the sick yearning of an eagle chained 
 to a perch, or a lion barred in a cage. Again the mental 
 pictures began to flash and pass. The world as it seems 
 when you look at it through prison bars, and the world 
 that is open and free — these formed the new series of his 
 thought films. Travel, exploration, adventure, the renewal 
 5 59 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of youth that comes to those who boldly seek and drink at 
 Nature's hidden fountains, that wine of life which is sweeter 
 and stronger when Danger holds the cup than when we 
 take it from the hands of Fame — how much, how very 
 much he had offered in willing sacrifice to his love ! 
 
 Two warmly-clad children, followed by a nursery gover- 
 ness, passed in the sunlight at the water's edge. The little 
 boy trailed a rope of sea-weed, swished it on the running 
 foam, released it and retrieved it; the little girl laughed 
 and danced; and the governess told them both to be careful 
 not to get their boots wet. 
 
 Ah — the paramount sacrifice! As he watched the chil- 
 dren he thought of the greatest thing he had surrendered — 
 little hands to link themselves about his fingers, treble 
 voices to call him father, small faces to show him in their 
 upturned glance the magic mirror that contains the future 
 and the past. 
 
 That immortality of fatherhood — why, in one sense at 
 least, he had given not only his life, but life everlasting. 
 
 Yet he did not grudge it. He got up, stretched him- 
 self, and climbed the steps to the parade. As he walked 
 along the well-worn track, his thoughts began to flow 
 smooth in their customary channel. When he thought of 
 his father, the sense of curbed strength and balked aim 
 at once faded; his mind was suffused with softness and 
 gentleness; and it was as if from a thousand invisible 
 traces of the Bath-chair wheels there rose as many guid- 
 ing lines to hold him steadfast in purpose and direction. 
 
 That was his duty — a duty which he must perform 
 because it had become an instinct, — to guard and protect 
 the strong man whose strength had turned to weakness. 
 All the firmest part of his nature was irrevocably bound 
 to the self-imposed task. That was the real interest of 
 
 60 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 his life; and if he were shut out of it, there could now be 
 no true comfort for him. The mere recollection of his 
 father's dependence upon him always seemed automatically 
 to melt his heart, to fill his breast with a warm suffocating 
 pain, and — as it had done now — to bring tears into his 
 blinking eyes. 
 
 And the bad temper, the frequent rudeness, the occa- 
 sional harshness, all aided in the maintenance of an ab- 
 sorbing dominion. Such manifestations of power issuing 
 from absolute impotence completed the poignancy of the 
 appeal to one's magnanimous forbearance. 
 
 He felt altogether at peace again. Walking on more 
 briskly, nodding to acquaintances, but not stopping to talk, 
 he remembered how easily he had shaken down in the 
 narrow orbit described by fate, and considered the manifold 
 compensations of his lot. The friendly jolly little town, 
 the surrounding atmosphere of kindliness, the immunity 
 from personal care and worry! Truly he had been able 
 to make himself comfortable enough. At first the allowance 
 given to him by his father was moderate, almost exiguous; 
 but the allowance had been increased until it became a very 
 ample one; of late it might be counted almost as a fund 
 without other limit than his own discretion. And it was 
 all of it spending money — everything found for one at 
 home, not a penny deflected to household charges. So that 
 a waistcoat dive always brought ready gold to the surface, 
 and one could be large — if in a small way. He liked to 
 deal open-handedly with little claims, to tip handsomely, 
 to head testimonial lists, to stand thirsty people long drinks. 
 
 Then he thought of further solaces: those visits to Lon- 
 don at fairly regular intervals; two or three nights at a 
 time spent far away from the stuffiness of sick-rooms, the 
 smell of medicaments, the society of hospital nurses — 
 solaces unspeakably greater than he had ever merited. 
 
 61 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Then, all at once; with a further flash of memory, he 
 thought of the luncheon-table that was now probably be- 
 ing laid by skilful hands in the cosy dining-room at No. I. 
 He looked at his watch — a present from his father, mono- 
 gram on one side, crest on the other. Yes, nearly lunch- 
 time! 
 
 What the watch said merely confirmed the information 
 of the clock — a gift of Nature — that he carried inside 
 him. He felt quite hungry — really sharp-set. And had 
 there not been some talk yesterday about a particular dish 
 that Parsons was to attempt as an experiment? 
 
 He walked home cheerfully and jauntily. 
 
 No, he must never forget the sacrifices. Ungenerous 
 to do so. Fulfil one's proximate and pressing duty — what 
 else matters? 
 
 Besides, in truth, nothing to complain of! 
 
VIII 
 
 THAT feeling of the sacrifice justified, the duty 
 obeyed, the task fulfilled, was strong upon him dur- 
 ing the next few days. With it had come a pacifica- 
 tion of the nerves, a more evenly balanced rhythm of the 
 pulses, and perhaps unconsciously he nourished and en- 
 couraged its growth in order to continue and increase the 
 benefit he was deriving from it. Certainly it filled his 
 whole mental field when he began to speak sentimentally 
 of the past to his father. 
 
 A cold wet morning, the invalid out of bed and dressed, 
 but unlikely to venture downstairs — Lenny came into the 
 bedroom, took the bowl of arrowroot from nurse, and 
 himself waited upon her irritable patient. This wretched 
 meal might very likely prove to be Mr. Calcraft's break- 
 fast, luncheon, and dinner; for he was suffering horribly 
 from the defective processes of his digestion. 
 
 Lenny did not consider whether the moment was oppor- 
 tune, but, assuming that he would be sure of a sympa- 
 thetic response, allowed his thoughts to brim over into 
 verbal utterance. 
 
 "Father" — and really he was like a man who thought 
 aloud, — "I have been brooding upon all these years that 
 we have spent together, and I felt that I regret nothing." 
 
 "What should you regret?" 
 
 Old Calcraft was nursing the bowl on his lap, blowing 
 at the hot gruel, and occasionally taking a cautious spoon- 
 
 63 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ful. Now he put the bowl on the little table at his side, 
 and stared at Lenny. 
 
 "I only mean, the thought comes that I might possibly 
 have been better employed." As he said it his eyes grew 
 moist, and he took his father's hand and pressed it. "But 
 I know, I feel that I couldn't have been better employed 
 than in looking after you." 
 
 His father grunted. Then he grasped the bowl again, 
 and went on sipping. 
 
 Lenny went on talking, sentimentally, affectionately, de- 
 votedly. 
 
 "Rubbish!" cried old Calcraft, with a splutter and 
 cough. "Do you want to make me choke by ramming 
 such chatter down my throat? Can't you see that I'm 
 trying to fwallow this trash that I hold in my hands — 
 this nauseating muck — this abominable filth — to which I 
 am condemned by my infirmities, and cursed bad luck, and 
 the damnable cruelty of fate?" 
 
 Then of course Lenny knew that he had chosen a mo- 
 ment unfavourable to a sentimental subject. 
 
 But the subject did not rest there. Mr. Calcraft returned 
 to it later in the day — at dusk. 
 
 "Well, dad," said Lenny breezily, "I hope you have 
 picked up a little appetite for tea." 
 
 The old man sat deep-sunken in his chair by the bed- 
 room fire; his hands on the arms of the chair were shaking; 
 his shrunken face was like a parchment mask with dusky 
 shadows on it, and out of the deepest shadow his eyes 
 glittered wrathfully. 
 
 For a month he had been the prey of irrepressible fits 
 of anger. The ruin of the digestive organs created, ac- 
 cording to Dr. Searle, a fearful state of affairs. The food 
 that would not consent to be assimilated, set up a chemical 
 
 64 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 laboratory for the production of poison, which went stream- 
 ing through the impoverished blood and sent black waves 
 of poisoned fury to the higher centres of the brain. That 
 was the physiological explanation of tantrums that had 
 nearly broken the nurse's heart. 
 
 As Lenny was aware, the nurse had been severely -tried. 
 The patient forbade her to wear the hospital dress; and 
 when rules and regulations were quoted and there was a 
 question of writing to ask Sister's permission, he said dis- 
 respectful things of Sister. "I'm not going to have that 
 apron and Tom-fool cap bobbing round me to please 
 Sister. I'd as soon have a mourning mute messing about 
 the room, or an undertaker following my chair. Either 
 you'll dress yourself like an ordinary young woman, or 
 you'll pack and go home to Sister by the next train. . . . 
 Which is it to be? . . . Very well, here's a sovereign. 
 Go out and buy yourself a bonnet." 
 
 Then, when the poor soul appeared in the bonnet, it 
 was — "Lord save us! Why, the idiot has converted herself 
 into a Salvation Army girl. Where's your tambourine? 
 Where's your tambourine?" 
 
 It made Nurse Ferguson cry. She sobbed as she told 
 Lenny about it. 
 
 "He said a bonnet — or I shouldn't have bought a bon- 
 net. I've never worn a bonnet in my life." 
 
 "I know," said Lenny soothingly. "But, don't you see, 
 father used the old-fashioned word. Father doesn't under- 
 stand the difference between bonnets, and hats, and toques, 
 and all that. But you mustn't let it distress you. Bear 
 with him — he's very fond of you really." 
 
 By some such tactful words Lenny consoled the weeping 
 nurse after she had suffered so much rudeness. Now it 
 was Lenny's turn to suffer. 
 
 "Never mind my tea, Lenny," said Mr. Calcraft, "no, 
 
 65 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 nor my appetite either. But attend to what I say. I 
 propose to have a few serious words with you." 
 
 "I am all attention." 
 
 "Thank you. Then will you be good enough to explain 
 precisely what you meant by your remarks this morning." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Lenny, smiling deprecatingly, "my 
 meaning — if I had one — was surely obvious; but perhaps 
 I had better have kept it to myself." 
 
 "Please explain the obviousness. I am old, and slow 
 of wit." 
 
 "Father, why are you making yourself angry? I spoke 
 in all affection — and my wish was simply to reassure you." 
 
 "Ah! Well, I cannot allow this tone of patronage — 
 which I've noticed once or twice before to-day. You and 
 I, Master Lenny, must understand each other. I'm not 
 dead yet. I'm still the master in my own house." 
 
 "Have I ever disputed your authority?" 
 
 "Possibly not — but I require respectful usage as well 
 as tacit obedience. I'm not going to be treated as a 
 mummy or a dummy — a something broken and done for, 
 and laid upon a shelf, — to which the common courtesies 
 of life are only granted out of compassion." 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Yes, and please to remember I'm something more than 
 your father. I'm your host too. And you're a guest — 
 not even a paying guest, but a person maintained in idle- 
 ness because it happens to be my pleasure not to live alto- 
 gether alone." 
 
 The blood had rushed to Lenny's face; now he became 
 very pale, and very grave. 
 
 "Father, these are not words that I ever expected to 
 hear from your lips." 
 
 "Oh, you'll hear more words from my lips, and, whether 
 you like them or not, they'll do you good. You've been 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 getting above yourself of late. You want taking down a 
 peg or two." 
 
 "Father, you are carried away by anger; — you are mak- 
 ing yourself ill; — and I must not answer you. Please 
 don't say any more." 
 
 "Oh, but I will though." 
 
 "Don't drive me to answer you — to say things I should 
 regret. Father," said Lenny beseechingly, "if you and I 
 were to quarrel, it would be the end of the world to me." 
 
 "I dare say it would. But you won't quarrel with me. 
 No," and Mr. Calcraft laughed scornfully, and began to 
 cough. "No — you know on which side your bread is but- 
 tered." 
 
 "And that sneer is your thanks — my recompense after 
 all these years?" 
 
 "Rubbish — stuff " Mr. Calcraft was temporarily 
 
 checked by the cough. 
 
 "I was vain enough to believe that you relied on me — 
 needed me." 
 
 "And so I did. So I do. I frankly admit that if left 
 to myself in this large house — this comparatively large 
 house, — if quite by myself, with only servants, I should be 
 lonely — very lonely. I am grateful to you for your com- 
 pany — the little of it that you grant me; but what I won't 
 stand, what I shall never stand, is the assumption that 
 you are doing everything for me and that I am doing noth- 
 ing for you." 
 
 Lenny turned, and moved a few steps towards the door. 
 
 "Stop. Don't turn tail. Now we've begun, let's have 
 it out like men." 
 
 "Father, you're not yourself, or you wouldn't, you 
 couldn't say these things to me." Lenny had turned again, 
 and his words bubbled out vehemently and rapidly. "How 
 can you and I weigh the facts of our dual existence as if 
 
 67 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 they were matters of common business — like tradesmen 
 making up an account in a ledger, till they can strike a 
 balance and estimate the amount of credit and debit? 
 If I said how you've wounded — cut me — I should go on 
 to tell you the truth." 
 
 "Fire ahead. I'm never afraid of the truth." 
 
 "Then strike the balance by yourself, at leisure — think 
 quietly of what you've had from me and what I've had 
 from you, and see where the debt lies and how much it is. 
 I'll not ask you to pay it. For you couldn't pay it — no, 
 not if you lived for a hundred years." 
 
 "You have had the run of your teeth, clothes to wear, 
 money to jingle in your pockets — what more could you 
 have got elsewhere?" 
 
 "It isn't what I might have got elsewhere, it is what I 
 have given up here." 
 
 "What have you given up? Name any single thing." 
 
 "Well — the war for one thing. You didn't want me 
 to go." 
 
 "You didn't want to go either." 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Of course you didn't. When you came humming and 
 hawing about it, I twigged in a minute." Mr. Calcraft 
 coughed almost to asphyxiation. "I — admit — didn't — 
 want to lose you; but would not — selfishly — oppose a real 
 desire " 
 
 "You have said more than enough, sir. I'll listen to 
 no more." 
 
 "Yes, sir. . . . We're 'sir' now. Very good. So be 
 it, sir." 
 
 Lenny's hand was on the door handle. He looked 
 round at his father, who was leaning forward in the arm- 
 chair, with the firelight on his face. 
 
 The face was distorted by passion. The blackest wave 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of the poisonous stream flooded the nearly worn-out but 
 still active brain. Forehead veins swelled ominously, sunken 
 eyes glittered balefully, knotted hands twitched spasmodic- 
 ally; but old Calcraft went on talking, only hesitating in 
 order to choose words with the keenest cutting edge and 
 the sharpest and most direful point. 
 
 "Didn't want to go, sir. And now, if you please, try 
 to shift the onus — or blame — or disgrace — on me. . . . 
 Want to bully and blackguard me, when I call you to 
 order! . . . Sir, you are like some doctored Tom-cat 
 who hasn't the pluck to go and risk its fur by fighting at 
 night, but because it is given a soft bed to lie on and spiced 
 food to put in its belly, gets impudent — yes, takes it all 
 as a right, and has the damned impudence to spit at its 
 master, and scratch and claw the hand that feeds it." 
 
 Lenny had opened the door. He stood on the threshold, 
 seeming very big and erect as he looked at his father and 
 spoke to him in a low husky voice. 
 
 "I think you must yourself feel now that you have 
 said all you wished to say to me. You told me they were 
 to be serious words — and I accept them seriously." 
 
 "Lenny," cried his father, "come back." Suddenly the 
 unreasoning fury had waned, and in an instant it died out 
 altogether. "Lenny," and the familiar name was uttered 
 now with a tone of piteous entreaty, "Lenny, don't go. 
 I didn't mean it — I didn't mean one word of it." 
 
 But the door closed, and old Calcraft stretched his hand 
 towards it with a frightened gesture. 
 
IX 
 
 TRULY it seemed like the end of the world to Lenny. 
 Something incredible, terrific, overwhelming had oc- 
 curred; all static laws had ceased to act; each of 
 Nature's forces had broken loose from the compensating 
 control of her other forces, and the disruption of the uni- 
 verse was the immediate consequence. 
 
 He walked fast along the parade, through the gathering 
 darkness, through the boiling turmoil of his thoughts. 
 
 His mouth was hot and dry; his eyes were smarting; 
 there was a hard lump in his throat. He squared his 
 shoulders, arched his chest, moved his legs with a firm 
 strong swing; but inwardly he felt empty and lacerated, 
 as if nearly all that was soft and tender had been scooped 
 out of its case of skin and bones, and the torn remainder 
 was draining his last drops of blood. This sensation 
 occupied the whole trunk area below the throat; but 
 above it, right through the head to the tightened scalp, 
 there burned a fire which every now and then blazed 
 into fierce explosions. This upper phenomenon was the 
 burning sense of injustice, with periodic luminous recog- 
 nitions of its vastness and intensity. 
 
 "My reward, yes" — He was muttering the words aloud — 
 "It has come to this then. So this is what I am asked to 
 submit to finally." 
 
 When a man has been bitten by a mad dog, he cannot 
 for a little while recover his composure and take a calm 
 view of the incident from the dog's point of view. Be 
 
 70 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 he the most philosophic and kind-hearted man alive, he 
 will not immediately begin saying, "Don't blame the poor 
 creature. It knows no better. It meant no harm." So, 
 analagously, Lenny could at first make no excuses for the 
 sick, the practically dying man who had taunted and in- 
 sulted him. At first the uttermost effort that he could 
 achieve in the direction of equanimity was by opposing 
 a sort of angry contempt to the memory of his wrongs. 
 
 What does anything matter ? If we ourselves are big 
 enough, all that strikes us must seem small. Gratitude 
 is the payment demanded by weak fools. The strong and 
 the wise comprehend that their intrinsic value is not en- 
 hanced by praise or decreased by censure. One ought not 
 to mind ingratitude. If you do your duty, that should be 
 its own reward. 
 
 He walked faster, as if flying from the spot where he 
 had undergone his pain. Instinctively he had turned his 
 back to the sunset and was hurrying eastwards. Out of 
 the east the blackness of night was slowly emerging; and 
 the dark gloom, as it spread and came towards him, har- 
 monized exactly with the obscure background of his expand- 
 ing thought. 
 
 He stared at the sea; but already the darkness had 
 swallowed it, and only the sound of breaking waves told 
 one that it was still there. He stared at the golf links 
 — they too had disappeared; not one familiar contour visi- 
 ble. But staring to that side he had a strange conception 
 of trackless space, and insurmountable difficulties. A chill- 
 ing wind crept across the sandy waste, whispered in the 
 bent grass, and sighed as it passed away. It was as if 
 one were standing on the edge of a mighty desert, in the 
 darkness of which lay mysterious depths tenanted only by 
 savage beasts of prey — and for a moment a fanciful idea 
 presented itself. The golf links symbolized the unexplored 
 
 71 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wilderness which he must now boldly enter, and across 
 which he must fight his way. Good-bye, safe snug little 
 Westchurch ! The hour had come for him to go forth into 
 the wide world. 
 
 Yes, he could not continue the task of self-immolation, 
 now that everything which justified the sacrifice had been 
 destroyed. To recover his self-respect, he must grasp at 
 this chance of freedom. He must go — and wrestle with 
 destiny single-handed. Somebody else must pick up the 
 burden that he was laying down. One of his sisters — 
 either of them — it did not matter which — must come and 
 take care of her father. A companion was required, but 
 any companion would do. The old man had said so himself 
 — by implication, if not by explicit statement. Love counted 
 for nothing. "Very good — be it so, sir." 
 
 He turned abruptly, and gazed at the west. Against 
 the last angry red glow of the sky, the church tower 
 loomed black and grim; one could make out the lines and 
 curves of huddled roofs; to the understanding eye the shape 
 of the sea-front, the ridge of the hill, the whole plan of 
 the little town made itself perceptible. Many, many times 
 he had seen it at such an hour as this, and yet now it 
 seemed new and strange. It was the sense of impending 
 farewell that had changed the aspect of familiar things, and 
 given a symbolic significance to the smallest and the greatest 
 of them. 
 
 He looked at the increasing luminance of distant lamps 
 on the parade, and thought of our feeble hopes — so soon 
 kindled and so soon extinguished. He looked at the faint 
 clustered lights of the fishermen's boats in the estuary, and 
 figured them as stars fallen from their high position, glim- 
 mering in the measureless void before their final coldness 
 and death. 
 
 Out of that last fancy came sadness. 
 
 n 
 
IN COTTON WOOL, 
 
 Such violent emotion as he had been sustaining could 
 not last long. The explosions of revolted self-esteem had 
 already ceased. The fire sunk, and where it had burned 
 there was coldness, blankness, sadness. 
 
 He walked back with slow short paces from the darkness 
 by the golf links towards the lamplight on the parade, and 
 at each step nearer the house that had been his home he 
 was thinking more calmly and more logically. 
 
 It is bitter, most bitter to be misunderstood, to have 
 one's highest and finest intentions distorted into the shape 
 of base motives. He could hear again his father's rasping 
 voice as it barked out the scornful, cynical, cruel accu- 
 sations. "Oh no, you won't quarrel with me. . . . 
 You know on which side your bread is buttered." 
 
 And about the war! The injustice, the cruel cruel 
 injustice of saying that he did not himself want to 
 go. 
 
 Then, like an uninvited guest, like a common outsider 
 grossly and peremptorily thrusting his way into a party of 
 great and august people, a memory came into the active 
 zone of his mind. He remembered the gayness, the light- 
 ness, the unquestioning happiness with which he had sprung 
 from his soft bed on the morning after he had irrevocably 
 decided to stay at home. Why had he felt that unusual 
 elation of spirits? Could it possibly be that after all he 
 was happy because ? 
 
 No, that thought was unthinkable. 
 
 He had returned to the lamplight now, and his shadow 
 moved slowly by his side, swept away from him, and 
 stretched far in front of him, till the next lamp sent it 
 dancing over his bowed head to drop behind him again. 
 And the lamplight took up its own special function in the 
 symbolical turn of new thoughts. It typified warmth after 
 €old, solace after pain. 
 
 73 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 There was only one person in all the world who ever 
 really understood him. She never misinterpreted motives. 
 To her, distance and proximity, yesterday and to-day, were 
 all one; her regard annihilated space, her faith was unend- 
 ing as time itself. 
 
 He stopped close to a lamp-post and brought out from 
 its hiding place the last letter that he had received from 
 her. Gold clasps on the pocket-book flashed in the light, 
 but he had to raise the unfolded notepaper to the level of 
 his eyes before he could read the half-remembered sen- 
 tences. 
 
 "Dearest, I go to and fro in the midst of five million 
 people, and they are all ghosts, shadows, in an unreal city, 
 because one man, my man, is not here." . . . And so 
 on, very sweet, showing intense love ; soothing him, warming 
 him, re-filling his veins with blood. . . . "Take care 
 of your health, my own darling. Though such a splendid 
 fellow outwardly, you are not truly strong." — There! The 
 only person in all the world who by instinct had detected 
 the truth! "You cannot take too much care of yourself — 
 for my poor sake, if for no other reason." . . . 
 
 And, as he read, he was seized with an immense long- 
 ing to be again with the writer of the letter — to be soothed 
 by the caress of her slender fingers, to be fired by the con- 
 tact of her pressed lips, to be set vibrating, thrilling, ec- 
 statically throbbing by the murmured music of her sweet 
 low voice. 
 
 Before Mr. Calcraft would permit his nurse to undress 
 him and put him to bed, he ordered her to ring the bell for 
 the parlourmaid. 
 
 "Oh — Mary — is Mr. Leonard in the house?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Did he dine at home?" 
 
 74 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, sir. He came in — rather late — to change his 
 clothes, and he told us to clear the table." 
 
 "Oh! Do you know where he is?" 
 
 "I think he is at the club. Did you wish him sent for, 
 sir?" 
 
 "No. . . . That's all, Mary. . . . Now, Miss 
 Ferguson, help me to bed." 
 
 He was awake when the latchkey turned in the lock, and 
 presently he heard ascending footsteps. They passed his 
 door, and went upwards without stopping. 
 
 He lay listening, and waiting; but the footsteps never 
 descended again. That night Lenny did not look into the 
 sleepless room. 
 
 They did not meet until the luncheon hour next day, 
 Mr. Calcraft had come downstairs for the mid-day meal, 
 and was seated at the head of the dining-table when Lenny 
 came into the room. 
 
 "Good-morning, father." 
 
 "Good-morning, Lenny." 
 
 Lenny seemed unwonted pale, and his father quite ab- 
 normally red. They both spoke stiffly, with the forced 
 politeness of two strangers who did not like the first look of 
 each other. 
 
 "I saw Lady Garbett just now, and she particularly 
 asked to be remembered to you." 
 
 "Did she? That was very kind of her." 
 
 The two maids were busy with hot dishes to be handed, 
 as well as cold dishes to be placed on the table, and they 
 remained in the room for some time. 
 
 Old Calcraft, raising his eyes from untasted food, shot 
 a wondering but gratified glance at his son. Lenny was 
 eating heartily; except for the slight pallor, he appeared 
 6 75 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to be much as usual; and, the constraint wearing off, he 
 consented to make conversation by talking of indifferent 
 matters. Then it could not be so very bad, after all. 
 
 But as soon as the servants had left them to themselves, 
 Lenny resumed his stiffly formal air, and announced that 
 he was going to London this afternoon for the purpose of 
 transacting business. Presuming that his father could spare 
 him, he intended to stay in London for four or five days 
 at least. 
 
 "Yes — of course. I — I have never wished to tie you 
 by the heels. Certainly, go. But, Lenny," and the old 
 man looked at him appealingly, "this isn't sulkiness? You 
 are not deserting me because — because I gave you the rough 
 side of my tongue yesterday?" 
 
 "Oh, no. I am called away by certain business arrange- 
 ments that I have had at the back of my mind for a 
 long time — and, in fact, they cannot be any longer de- 
 layed." 
 
 "Very good. . . . But to-day is Saturday — and Sat- 
 urday does not seem the most suitable day for business. 
 By the time you get to London all the offices and shops will 
 be closed. Wouldn't it be as well to wait till Monday — 
 to start the business?" 
 
 "No, I fear I can't put off my journey. As it happens, 
 Saturday suits some of my purposes admirably." 
 
 "And do I understand that, at the end of these five 
 or six days, you intend — you promise to return?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Lenny, slowly and enigmatically, 
 "whether I have arranged everything or not, I will come 
 back then. I mean, even if my arrangements are not 
 finally completed, I shall return then." 
 
 Mr. Calcraft pushed away his plate, and stared at the 
 table-cloth. There was a silence, during which it seemed 
 that he summoned all his pride and braced himself for an 
 
 7G 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 extreme effort. Lenny would not break the silence; and 
 at last Mr. Calcraft raised his head, and spoke again. 
 
 "Bon voyage, Lenny. . . . May I ask you to have 
 the kindness to touch the bell? I want Miss Ferguson — to 
 take me upstairs." 
 
WITH a first-class compartment to himself, a foot- 
 warmer to prevent his feet feeling chill, and mag- 
 azines to keep his mind occupied, Lenny had got 
 through three-quarters of the journey swiftly and easily. 
 But now, as the train slackened speed and approached its 
 last stopping-place twenty miles from London, he was de- 
 voured by a fever of excitement and anxiety. 
 
 He moved from side to side of the carriage, rubbed the 
 misty window-glasses with the cuff of his fur coat, and 
 peered at shapeless objects as they flitted past in the almost 
 opaque obscurity. Bridges, high brick walls, signal lamps — 
 yes, these were the outskirts of the junction. Excitedly he 
 let down a window, and allowed the cold night air to blow 
 fiercely against his heated face, while he gazed ahead at 
 the illuminated focus of a dim perspective that seemed to 
 be rushing with the wind towards him. 
 
 A wide opening fan of metals, more bridges, huge signal- 
 cabins, dozens of red and green lamps — a vast confused 
 space of light and darkness, in which his eager eyes were 
 seeking as yet vainly; then the long, the interminably long 
 platform — gas-light reflected in wet asphalt, flaring before 
 book-stalls, casting monstrous shadows of piled luggage and 
 rolled milk-cans, porters shouting, inspectors scribbling in 
 note-books, half a dozen humble passengers trotting after 
 the third-class coaches as they slowly glided by; but still 
 no sign — no slightest sign of her. 
 
 His heart sank; he felt sick with disappointment; his 
 
 78 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 forehead in a moment had become clammily frigid. She 
 had not been able to come out here to meet him. His letter 
 had not reached her early enough — he knew that she would 
 have come if she could. But some diabolical engagement 
 had prevented her: he would find her note of explanation 
 waiting for him at his rooms in Albert Street. Perhaps 
 she might not be able to meet him till to-morrow, or even 
 till Monday. ... Ah! 
 
 Suddenly he saw her — a tall figure in a dark cloak. The 
 guard, obeying instructions, earning the promised tip, had 
 found her, was hurrying her along the platform to the car- 
 riage door. 
 
 "So you came — you came. I — I began to be afraid." 
 Lenny was breathing so fast that he could scarcely speak. 
 "How long did you have to wait?" 
 
 "Nearly an hour." 
 
 "Poor darling. Did it seem long?" 
 
 "An eternity. But I didn't mind — heaven was to be 
 mine at the end of it." 
 
 The train was moving again; in clusters, in bunches, and 
 then one by one, it dropped the station lamps behind it; 
 soon it had run out into the kindly darkness. It glided 
 faster, gaining speed, flinging away all lamps that it passed 
 now as though they were sparks from the furnace; and 
 the compartment was a brilliantly lit, neatly upholstered 
 boudoir — a small magic room that flew through the night 
 and defied the prying scrutiny of all external eyes, to which 
 it had become merely one link on a long serpent of fire. 
 
 "Lenny, my king. Are you glad to see me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Take off your veil. Let me feel your dear 
 face against mine." 
 
 His joy made him husky; his haste made him grudge 
 wasted words. He had flung open his fur-coat, had pulled 
 
 79 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 her on his knees, and was folding her in a rapturous em- 
 brace. 
 
 This was what he had been yearning for. The sensation 
 of holding her tight against him instantly created a massive 
 and diffused contentment; and the deep peace of it was 
 shot through and through in all directions with fiery darts 
 of bliss. At last they two were together, and all the rest 
 of the world ceased to exist. Immense mental relief 
 mingled with the physical rapture — she was still his, what- 
 ever else he had lost. 
 
 The strength and fragility of her supple body, the soft 
 glow of her eyes so close to his own, the feel of her face, 
 firm and cool at first till it quivered and warmed beneath 
 his caresses, the well-remembered fragrance of her hair, 
 the sweet voice whispering love each time that he released 
 her lips — all these things combining and fusing sent a mani- 
 fold message of delight to thrill voluptuously, to beat tu- 
 multously, to flow ineffably in his brain, and nerves, and 
 blood. 
 
 "My own Lenny. . . . My sweetheart. . . . 
 My dearest boy." 
 
 He stifled the voice with kisses. He held her closer 
 and tighter, and still that curious mental peace deepened 
 as the embrace grew more passionately intimate. Nothing 
 else matters: this is all. 
 
 "Angel of my life. . . . Alma — my Alma." 
 
 Appeasement, confidence, unutterable satisfaction — in 
 each flying moment she gave back to him some elemental 
 comfort that had been taken from him. It was as if 
 he had been a stately mansion recently knocked to pieces, 
 and now she was building him up again; or a wounded 
 man whose wounds she was making whole; or an empty 
 box from which valuable stores had been taken, and 
 into which she was pouring the most priceless treasures. 
 
 80 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny, are you glad — are you really glad to see me?" 
 "Alma! I've no words to tell you how glad. . . . 
 Sit over there — and I'll try, I'll try to say how I have pined 
 for you." 
 
 He was contented, satisfied, ready to watch her sitting 
 opposite to him — willing to chat and laugh about insig- 
 nificant topics, or to talk seriously of the restaurant at 
 which he proposed to dine — while she was still clinging, 
 whispering, and passionately desiring. 
 
XI 
 
 THEY spent the whole of Sunday together, and now, 
 after dinner at a quiet and unfashionable restaurant, 
 they had returned to his rooms. 
 
 Situated in one of the short cuts from Bond Street to 
 Hanover Square, these furnished apartments were both con- 
 venient and comfortable, and Lenny occupied them during 
 all his visits to London. He had tried other houses, but 
 never felt quite so much at ease as here in old Albert Street. 
 The landlord and his wife catered exclusively for bachelor 
 gentlemen, understood their ways, and knew when to offer 
 attention and when to efface themselves. 
 
 Altogether there were three sets of rooms, and each iden- 
 tical in plan: sitting-room in front, bedroom at back, the 
 two rooms communicating. Lenny used to ask for the 
 first-floor rooms, and, if he could not get them, he would 
 accept the second floor, or even the third — anything rather 
 than again go vaguely hunting for suitable accommodation 
 elsewhere. He was on the second floor this time — furniture 
 less luxurious than down below, but better than up above, 
 and cost half way between. 
 
 "Has your pipe gone out, Lenny? Shall I get you 
 the matches?" 
 
 "No, don't move. I'm all right." 
 
 He sat smoking in an armchair by the hearth. Alma 
 Reed sat on a footstool, with arms stretched across his 
 knees, and while he lazily and luxuriously puffed at his 
 pipe she had been looking intently into the fire. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "There," she murmured, "that was an unlucky break. 
 These coals, Lenny, must be very good or very bad — they 
 burn so fast, and they split into such extraordinary shapes. 
 . . . They are showing me wonderful — most wonderful 
 things. There, what a pity! Another unlucky break. My 
 picture has gone." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "A valley between high mountains — terrific peaks, higher 
 than anything in Switzerland — and a roaring torrent below 
 a ledge that formed the only path for human feet. It 
 was terribly dangerous — it made me dizzy to think about; 
 but you and I were walking along it, hand in hand, quite 
 safely." 
 
 "Oh, I say. It makes me dizzy to hear about it." 
 
 She laughed and looked up at him. 
 
 "I shouldn't be afraid, with you, Lenny." 
 
 Then she looked back at the burning coals; and he, 
 watching her, thought for a moment of the last face that he 
 had seen with firelight on it. When his father spoke the 
 bitterest of many bitter words, his face was illuminated 
 by just such a red glow and yellow flicker. Lenny drove 
 away the memory of it. Futile recollections would mar 
 this exquisite comfort of unthinking rest. 
 
 "Then it's all settled about to-morrow," he said cheer- 
 fully. "Sure you can manage it?" 
 
 "Absolutely sure. Another long day with my darling. 
 . . . Lenny, even now I can hardly believe it's all true 
 — that you are really with me, that I have been with you — 
 that I am still to be with you." 
 
 "And you won't get into a row about it? They won't 
 make a fuss?" 
 
 "No — not that I should care, if they did." 
 
 "I'm afraid you work too hard." 
 
 "Oh, no. The work occupies me — if I can't say it 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 amuses me. Yes, on my honour, I like the work. But 
 of course a holiday will do me good." 
 
 It had been arranged that she was to play truant from 
 the offices of her Organization, and if the day proved fine 
 they would go out of London to some pretty place like 
 Richmond, Kingston, or Windsor. They would walk in 
 a park, stroll by a river, or stare at state saloons and 
 monarchs' writing-tables. If it rained, they were to stay 
 in London, and see pictures or listen to music. They 
 would be together — it didn't matter where. 
 
 "What excuse will you send them?" 
 
 "I shall say I'm ill — one more lie on your account, 
 Lenny;" and she laughed again. 
 
 Her laughter had in it certain tones that he remembered 
 in her singing voice. It was a natural ripple of musical 
 sound, with an unexpected drop and deepening of the 
 note that affected one strangely. It forced, as if infallibly, 
 a sympathetic response; made one vibrate and echo, and 
 yet perhaps left one ignorant of its cause and meaning. 
 One was expressing sympathy, but with what? Not with 
 mirth only. To-night while he laughed with her, he felt 
 vaguely sorry for her. 
 
 "Now I've a picture tame enough and flat enough to 
 suit the least romantic. Lenny, the coals have shown me 
 Westchurch — dull, stupid, odious little Westchurch." 
 
 The room was bright and cheerful; through the open 
 door of the bedroom he could see the light of another fire 
 flaming gaily; everything about him suggested restful peace, 
 securely sheltered pleasure; and yet, while he thoughtfully 
 looked down at Alma's pretty face and graceful figure, a 
 queer bothering kind of sadness invaded his mind. 
 
 As pretty as she had ever been? Yes, every bit — but 
 perhaps a little thinner, more worn, and perceptibly older. 
 Oh, without doubt, the slow passage of the years had left 
 
 84 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 their indelible print. That heavy tress of dark hair threw 
 its shadow on the curve of a narrowed cheek; the delicately 
 modelled nose seemed in the slightest degree longer, and 
 sharper of outline; the chin had lost roundness and full- 
 ness ; and some quality of courageous pride and candid child- 
 like defiance had vanished from the firm setting of the 
 closed lips. Looking at her shoulders and the puffy loose 
 sleeves of her blouse, he noticed how slender were the 
 wrists emerging from the sheath of unnecessary fabric. 
 Then he scrutinized the white neck bending forward, seem- 
 ing to droop from a low collar. She used to wear high col- 
 lars, when her neck was a trifle solider and bigger. 
 Changes? Yes, some slight — very slight differences be- 
 tween the girl of twenty-three and the woman of twenty- 
 nine. 
 
 But all the original charm must surely be there — in- 
 creased, intensified, multiplied by familiarity and custom. 
 Yesterday she had at once evoked the ancient raptures. 
 And now if for an instant he doubted the potency of her 
 spells, it was because the long day had tired him. 
 
 He reached out his hand and let it rest softly on the 
 nape of her bent neck. He could remember the first time 
 he had done this, and the thickening rush of emotions that 
 the action and its acceptance had produced in him — the 
 triumphant thrill of the proprietor, as intuitively he com- 
 prehends the meek submission of the thing possessed. 
 
 And he felt it again now — a fainter and more languid 
 delight, but essentially the same as the old joy. 
 
 His long day had naturally engendered fatigue. He 
 was too tired to go on smoking; his pipe was finished, and 
 he did not trouble to refill it. He could not have sus- 
 tained any animated discussion — such as his companion loved 
 — on large abstract questions; but he enjoyed their quiet 
 desultory talk about small finite things. 
 
 85 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny, you can't have exhausted your budget of local 
 news. Does nothing startling ever happen nowadays?" 
 
 "No — really nothing at all." 
 
 "No wild horses to run away?" And, smiling, she 
 looked up at him. "No opening for sensational exploits?" 
 
 "Well— no, nothing." 
 
 He had been on the point of telling her how Gerald 
 Dryden went out in the lifeboat, but he checked himself. 
 It would be a longish tale, and he felt too tired to begin 
 it. She would get excited, and make him supply endless 
 details. 
 
 "Lenny, what do they say of me nowadays?" 
 
 "My pretty Alma, how should I know? I never listen 
 to their gossip and twaddle." 
 
 "Frances Shipham told me that when she was there last 
 Christmas, they were still slandering me — not to her, of 
 course." 
 
 "Alma, I sometimes wonder — is Frances altogether dis- 
 creet?" 
 
 "Yes — altogether." 
 
 "I wonder." 
 
 "Don't wonder. Frances is as true as steel." 
 
 "Sometimes I have thought too — why don't you ever 
 come down and show yourself?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Because you don't want me to, 
 for one thing." 
 
 "Alma! . . . Well, I'll tell you exactly what I feel. 
 It's cowardly, but I have thought — I confess it — that your 
 coming might create difficulties. You would be plied with 
 questions. If you gave a doubtful answer, somebody's sus- 
 picions might be aroused. . . . And, well, you know 
 how greatly I dread anything that might threaten our 
 friendship." 
 
 86 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Yes," she said slowly, "they wouldn't quite understand 
 our friendship — at Westchurch." 
 
 "No. Whereas it is safe here. Nothing can interrupt 
 it. In London people are too busy to bother about other 
 people's affairs." 
 
 "How true!" Her laughter had a different note, and 
 it grew light instead of deepening. "Lenny, I insist on 
 your giving me some news of my home." She raised her 
 head, shaking back the weight of hair as she used to do 
 when playing the first bars of a song accompaniment. "It 
 is what the banished heroine demands in melodramas," and 
 she smiled at him. "I ask you, Leonard Calcraft, to tell 
 me something of my dear old home. . . . How is 
 papa's golf getting on?" 
 
 "Oh, it's marvellous," and Lenny laughed gaily. "They 
 say his handicap is three hundred and five." 
 
 "And how is my energetic step-mamma?" 
 
 "More energetic than ever." 
 
 "Poor dear!" And Alma imitated Mrs. Reed's hurried 
 bustling manner. "One must not flag or neglect one's 
 duties when one has four unmarried daughters. Don't 
 you think I'm wise?" 
 
 "Oh, very wise. They must be prepared for disappoint- 
 ment." 
 
 "And now for a real friend — my best friend — perhaps 
 the only friend left to me in Westchurch!" 
 
 "Miss Workman?" 
 
 "No — dear old Father Marchant." 
 
 Lenny's face grew sombre, and he spoke gravely. 
 
 "Alma, have you ever told Father Marchant that — that 
 we are such pals?" 
 
 "No. But he may have guessed." 
 
 "How could he guess?" 
 
 87 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Oh, our priests guess everything — they know every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Do they? But how?" 
 
 She had been kneeling, with her elbows on his knees; 
 and while she talked, she twisted her fingers about his 
 watch-chain. Now she subsided to the footstool, and sat 
 with her hands folded on her lap. 
 
 "In my case, Lenny, the guessing would have been a 
 simple matter. You see, after I left Westchurch Father 
 Marchant used to write me letters of advice, and he gave 
 me an introduction to another director — an old friend of 
 his — Canon Langley-Rees — at the Hebden Street church." 
 
 "You mean for confessions, and all that?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I see. That made a link — a channel of communication. 
 But, Alma, I thought the seal of the confessional was so 
 sacred. Surely this Canon What's-his-name wouldn't write 
 and tell Mr. Marchant things that you had confessed to 
 him in the most sacred and secret manner?" 
 
 "No. But he would write and tell Father Marchant 
 that I hadn't confessed anything at all." She was looking 
 into the fire, as if she could see new pictures. "I don't go 
 to confession now. I haven't been once since — since we 
 became such pals." 
 
 "Ah ! . . . Yes, I think you have hit on the right 
 explanation. Marchant has been putting two and two to- 
 gether — and he would trammel your freedom, if he could. 
 But he can't — he can't do that, can he?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She got up and stretched herself. As she raised her 
 arms above her head, and the wide sleeves drooped, he 
 again noticed the slenderness of her wrists. She must not 
 allow herself to grow any thinner. 
 
 "Lenny, it is time for me to go. What is the time?" 
 
 88 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Nearly eleven." 
 
 "Well, then — I suppose. . . . Have I worn out my 
 welcome? You don't ask me to stay." 
 
 "What would Frances think? Isn't it more prudent not 
 to relax our rules? You know I want you to stay." 
 
 "On your honour? Then suppose I take you at your 
 word? . . . No." She shook her head, and with a 
 flattened palm brushed back the loosened hair above her 
 ears. "No, I was only chaffing. . . . But I may come 
 back early to-morrow?" 
 
 "We said ten-thirty — didn't we?" 
 
 "And I am to be with you all day? That's certain, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "As certain as day succeeds to night." 
 
 She went into the bedroom to put on her hat and coat; 
 and presently he followed her. She was in front of the 
 dressing-table glass, with raised hands pinning and arrang- 
 ing her veil. He came and stood behind her, put his arms 
 round her, and held her firmly. 
 
 "I feel that I can't let you go after all." 
 
 "Then don't let me go — keep me here." 
 
 "I feel I want to." While he said the words he re- 
 leased her, and she, turning, put her hands on his shoulders. 
 "But, Alma dear, I feel that I mustn't allow you to stay 
 — even a little while longer. Frances will be sitting up 
 for you." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then who would let you in?" 
 
 "I have my key." 
 
 "But I do feel it would be folly to abandon our rules. 
 They have made the position so secure — almost unchal- 
 lengeable — no valid cause of complaint for anybody, really. 
 One imprudence — and we are in a false position. I do feel 
 that — always." 
 
 89 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Do you know what / feel? I am being turned out of 
 paradise, Lenny!" She had thrown her arms about his 
 neck; she was clinging to him, trembling from head to feet, 
 and suddenly she burst into tears. "Lenny," she sobbed, 
 "do you ever realize what you are to me?" 
 
 "My sweetest girl!" 
 
 "Do you think — or understand one thousandth part of it? 
 All night I shall lie awake. I shall think, Why am I 
 banished — why am I lying wretched and alone, when my 
 king is here — when he has come to me out of the dark- 
 ness and the distance — and — and the black despair of empty 
 weeks and months?" And she sobbed and clung most pit- 
 eously. 
 
 But soon, very soon, she was dabbing the wet veil with 
 a handkerchief, readjusting her hat, and glancing at the 
 table to find her gloves. 
 
 "It's all right, Lenny. Don't be disgusted with me — or 
 angry. . . . Go down, and see if they can get me a 
 cab. . . . Women like crying — once in a way, you 
 know — not too often. And I was really only crying be- 
 cause of my happiness — a little overstrung, you know, by 
 your coming up so unexpectedly, and to-day's treat — and 
 to-morrow's hope. . . . There, I'm quite all right 
 now." 
 
 She smiled at him reassuringly, and he went downstairs 
 to get the cab fetched. 
 
 He was dead tired, and he slept like a log. The land- 
 lord, bringing letters, tea, and bread and butter, at nine 
 o'clock next morning, had difficulty in waking him. 
 
 For a few moments Lenny was under the illusion that 
 the warmth of the bed, the wintry sunbeams, the faint 
 perfume of infusing tea, all belonged to Westchurch, and 
 that he was shaking off the heavy but delicious numbness 
 
 90 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of slumber in his own home. Then he sat up, drank the 
 hot tea, munched the nice strange-flavoured bread and but- 
 ter, and stared at the three envelopes on the tray. Two of 
 them most uninteresting, circulars re-addressed by Mary, 
 but one that stirred his pulses to a rapid beat and made him 
 wide awake — an envelope that bore his father's shaky hand- 
 writing. 
 
 The letter had been written late on Sunday, just in 
 time to catch the evening post; and, as Lenny read it, he 
 was completely overwhelmed by the emotional stress of sur- 
 prise, pleasure, and remorse. 
 
 . . . . "It has been mild and bright here, but I have 
 had no inclination to go and free the bear. The sunshine 
 cannot lure me while you are away." . . . 
 
 Lenny's throat tickled, his eyes smarted, his ribs seemed 
 to bulge outward from the internal pressure. Those two 
 sentences wiped away the rancorous aftertaste of pain. They 
 were an irresistible enticement to magnanimous oblivion of 
 past cruelty. Falling on the paper from that shaky hand, 
 they had gathered a tremendous force. And more was to 
 follow. 
 
 "It breaks my heart to feel that there is 
 
 estrangement between us. If you wished to punish me 
 for a few hasty words, my punishment has been very se- 
 vere. Truly I think that anything should be forgiven to 
 a man in my state. 
 
 "But you would not forgive; and now you don't even 
 leave me my pride, for I am compelled to implore you 
 to forgive me and come home. I promise that I will 
 never offend you again. The lesson has been learnt. Hence- 
 forth fear as well as love will restrain me." And consciously 
 or inadvertently the writer repeated one of his phrases. 
 "My sunshine is gone when you are away." 
 
 Lenny sang as he dressed himself. A vast burden had 
 7 91 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 been lifted; he felt light as air. All trace of resentment 
 had gone; all his hard thoughts had melted and were flow- 
 ing in a stream of tender sentiment. Had he wished to do 
 so, he could now scarcely have recalled the stout decisions 
 and boldly-sketched plans that he carried with him on his 
 journey to London. 
 
 When he closed his eyes while washing, the long-cher- 
 ished mental pictures reconstituted themselves, flashed and 
 glowed, grew vivid and constant in slightly altered shapes — 
 the weak old man who leaned upon his strength, who laid 
 down pride to plead for love, who stretched out praying 
 hands to implore pardon and peace. 
 
 He felt healthier and heartier than in any moment since 
 Friday afternoon. A prodigious appetite spurred him as 
 he attacked his breakfast in the front room, while the land- 
 lord began to pack his things in the back room. 
 
 He was reading the newspaper and he looked round with 
 a start when Alma, unannounced, suddenly appeared. 
 
 "The door downstairs was open, and there was nobody 
 about, so I came straight up." 
 
 She spoke joyously, and her eyes were glowingly bright 
 as they beamed at him through a new veil. She was charm- 
 ingly dressed in brown, with pheasants' feathers shining on 
 a small brown hat, and brown fur dangling round her 
 throat. A quick walk had brought the pretty pink tints 
 to her face, and her lips seemed warm and red; altogether 
 she seemed to have recovered the youthfulness that he had 
 missed last night. She seemed to him very much younger — 
 exactly like the Alma Reed who hurried along the sea-walk 
 to meet him on bright mornings five years ago. 
 
 "Heaven and the clerk of the weather have been kind 
 to us. It is a glorious day. It shall be Windsor, Lenny." 
 She was raising her veil. "Lenny, aren't you even going 
 to kiss me?" 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 "Lenny, what is it?" She had drawn back, and she 
 looked at him inquiringly. "You have something on your 
 mind. What is it?" 
 
 "Well, the fact is, there's something I want to tell you. 
 . . . Let's come over here." 
 
 They sat side by side, close together, on one of the cush- 
 ioned window-seats, and he told her of "disquieting news" 
 that he had received from Westchurch — his father not get- 
 ting on well, requiring attention, worrying himself dan- 
 gerously. 
 
 "But he was all right when you left him. You said 
 yourself he was unusually vigorous. He can't have taken 
 a bad turn so quickly. Has Dr. Searle written to you?" 
 
 "No, he wrote himself." 
 
 "Then don't be alarmed. If he were really ill, Dr. 
 Searle would have written." 
 
 "Yes, that's true. Oh, no, I don't think he is actually 
 ill yet; but he is worrying himself — making himself ill. He 
 needs me there — and, Alma, he begs me to get back to 
 him." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Oh, he doesn't name any time; but I feel myself that 
 it's my duty — that I ought to go at once — to-day." 
 
 "No," she said firmly. "You can't go. It is my day. 
 You have given it to me." 
 
 "Alma!" 
 
 He looked at her reproachfully, and he noticed the swift 
 change of her aspect. In place of the colour and anima- 
 tion, there was a stone-like, obdurate pallor; and as she 
 went on speaking, her voice sounded harshly, unnaturally, 
 with a quite unrecognizable tone. 
 
 "You have duties to me as well as to him. Is he every- 
 thing, and I nothing? . . . Your word of honour — 
 
 93 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 doesn't that count either? You said as certain as night 
 succeeds to day. How long is my night to be?" 
 
 There was something rigid and ungraceful about the atti- 
 tude of her body — the bosom retracted and seeming flat, 
 the elbows drawn back awkwardly and pressed in to the 
 sides; and when she changed the attitude, she did it with 
 a spasmodic jerk, turning round abruptly to the window 
 sashes and staring stonily downward at the narrow little 
 street. 
 
 "Alma." 
 
 She did not answer; she did not move again for a con- 
 siderable time. During this long pause he watched her 
 thoughtfully. In the full light of the window she looked 
 old, almost haggard; a bluish tint that habitually sur- 
 rounded her eyes had widened and deepened; her lips 
 seemed bloodless, and disfigured by a persistent contraction 
 at the corners. 
 
 "Very well." She had risen abruptly and walked across 
 to the fireplace, and she spoke without looking at him. "I 
 yield to the inevitable. I am not a child. I mustn't cry 
 and pout — and make myself a nuisance because I'm deprived 
 of a holiday. . . . Oh!" She swung round and pointed 
 at the bedroom door. "There's somebody in there." 
 
 "It's only Steel — my landlord." 
 
 She was startled, and a little colour showed on her 
 cheeks, while she whispered breathlessly. 
 
 "Has he been listening?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Yes, he's busy — he won't hear what we're saying." 
 
 Lenny had not stirred from the window-ledge, and pres- 
 ently she came back to him, knelt between his legs, and put 
 her gloved hands on his breast. 
 
 "Lenny, my darling, I won't be a selfish little beast. Of 
 
 94 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 course you must go. Yes, I tell you to go. But promise 
 me that this sort of thing isn't to continue for ever." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean this — you are obeying claims that you consider 
 paramount. They override all other claims. But some 
 time they will cease — in the natural course of events they 
 must cease sooner or later." 
 
 He winced and shivered; but she went on without re- 
 garding his silent protest. 
 
 "Swear to me that the time is coming when I shall be 
 with you always — that my time shall begin directly you 
 are set free." 
 
 "Alma, don't speak so callously of — of father's death. 
 I simply can't bear it." 
 
 "Very well. Then I'll put it like this. Do you swear 
 that if you were free now, you would place me first *n your 
 life?" 
 
 Her voice vibrated with intense feeling; in her whole 
 manner there was resolved purpose. 
 
 "My dear Alma." He was gently patting her hands 
 as they pressed and trembled against his waistcoat, and he 
 answered slowly, hesitatingly. "You ought to know that 
 nothing but necessity would take me away from you to-day." 
 
 "Yes, but it's not to-day. I'm not thinking of to-day 
 any more. I'm thinking of the thousands of days that lie 
 before us." 
 
 "And happy days, Alma." His hesitation increased, and 
 he spoke very slowly. "But one's future is, necessarily, a 
 closed book. Nothing is ever gained by attempting to turn 
 its leaves; and — it may be cowardly — but I always have a 
 superstitious horror of " 
 
 "No." The word came like a cry of pain, and as she 
 went on speaking her intensity had an almost tragic note. 
 "That's all right for you, but not for me. One thing in 
 
 95 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the future is certain — a page we know is there, so we 
 needn't open the book to look at it. Even if I hurt you, 
 I must say again what I mean. One day — ages ahead, per- 
 haps — you will have the power to make our companion- 
 ship permanent, unbreakable." 
 
 "Alma — my prett) Alma — don't get so excited. Can 
 you doubt that I wish for the companionship? Haven't 
 I shown it — unceasingly?" 
 
 "Yes, I don't doubt you. But I must understand — I 
 must know from your own lips again and again, if I ask 
 you. I am building — I have built my life on your prom- 
 ises. I must feel solid ground under me." 
 
 Then he pacified her by a renewal of all such promises 
 and vows as she seemed to be craving from him; and in 
 a moment the tragic mask was dropped and she again 
 smiled. 
 
 "Now, I'm quite happy. And you can leave me with a 
 light heart. Go home happily, and come back to your 
 troublesome Alma as soon as you possibly can." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her forehead. "My unselfish 
 little girl. It is sweet of you to let me go — to forgive me 
 for breaking a promise." 
 
 "I should be a wretch if I tried to detain you. And 
 what kind of treat would it be for me, if I knew that my 
 darling's thoughts and inclinations were miles and miles 
 away?" 
 
 "Yes, but I do wish you could have a little treat all the 
 same. Would Frances be available? Now that you have 
 taken the day off, it seems such a pity to waste it. ' 
 
 "Never mind about me. I shall amuse myself all right." 
 
 Mr. Steel the landlord tapped at the bedroom door, and 
 after a discreet pause opened it. 
 
 "I've strapped up everything, sir, except the dressing- 
 
 96 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 case. I've left that unstrapped for anything you might 
 have forgotten." 
 
 "Oh, thank you. Much obliged." 
 
 Alma had moved to the other window and was looking 
 down into the street. She waited until she heard the bed- 
 room door closed, and when she turned to Lenny she was 
 smiling rather piteously. 
 
 "Then it was all settled, Lenny, before I came. You 
 had quite made up your mind to go. Mr. Steel was pack- 
 ing while we were debating." 
 
 "Yes — because I knew that as soon as my generous un- 
 selfish girl understood the situation, she would herself tell 
 me to go. And you did tell me. You never fail me — so 
 I relied on you." 
 
 She moved quickly to him, and once more embraced 
 him. 
 
 "Rely on me always, Lenny — rely on every little bit of 
 me, just as surely as you rely on yourself. I am all of me 
 yours — all that there is of me — in this world or the next." 
 
 She saw him off at the railway station, and stood near 
 the steps of the dining-car till it crept away. His last 
 glimpse of her was "very pleasant. She stood quite still, 
 smiling, not waving her hand in the style of common folk; 
 she had the self-possessed graciously sedate air of charming 
 well-bred people; and she looked pretty as well as grace- 
 ful in her neat brown frock and brown fur — altogether a 
 life-companion of whom no one on earth need feel ashamed. 
 
 It was an express train, due to reach Westchurch at 
 2.50; the luncheon served in the car at 12.45 was excel- 
 lent; and by 3.30 Lenny walked along the concrete path 
 beside the wheels of his father's chair. 
 
 "Not tired, dad? Feel up to your full journey?" He 
 
 97 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 talked buoyantly and continuously. The reconciliation 
 was absolutely complete. "Then we'll free the bear to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Lenny, my bear shall be free — now that I have 
 you to help me." 
 
XII 
 
 JOURNEYS to London were out of the question for 
 a long time now. The winter passed away in an 
 atmosphere of steam-kettles, poultices, and embroca- 
 tions: the state of Mr. Calcraft's health had undergone a 
 perceptible change for the worse, and there w r as great anx- 
 iety. Dr. Searle said, "We can only wait and see what 
 the summer does for him." 
 
 The summer did nothing for him. And another winter 
 opened badly — grievous complications, heart, lungs, and 
 stomach all co-operating in mischief, the miracle of how 
 the patient was kept alive becoming every day more mirac- 
 ulous. His career had dwindled to its narrowest bounds; 
 for weeks he remained in his bed, for months he never 
 came out of his room. 
 
 Everything must be readily forgiven to such a sufferer. 
 However outrageous the things he said, they could arouse 
 no resentment now; querulousness, unjust insinuations, 
 blind rages, and violent abuse, merely moved his nurse and 
 his servants to a deeper pity. 
 
 So far as Lenny was concerned, there had been nothing 
 to forgive. Whoever got the rough side of the master's 
 tongue, it was not Lenny. Mr. Calcraft had kept that sol- 
 emn promise never to offend again. With Lenny, through- 
 out this slow-creeping time, he had been soft and gentle 
 always. That is, except once, when for a few moments— 
 a very few moments — he relapsed into rudeness. 
 
 It was on one of his best days, and he had suddenly 
 begun to talk of the future. 
 
 99 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny, I think it right to tell you that I am doing 
 something more for your two sisters than I had intended." 
 
 "What is that, father? Do you mean to have them 
 here?" 
 
 "No, no, God forbid. I'm too old, I'm too ill, it's too 
 late for family reunions. Jane was always a nuisance. 
 And I can never really forgive Sarah for her first marriage; 
 although I believe this other fellow — Holway — her second 
 shot — is a good deal better than the first. Quite a decent 
 chap, as far as I can make out." 
 
 "Then what is it, father?" 
 
 "I am talking of what is to happen after my death — 
 my will." 
 
 Lenny shuddered at the ugly sound of these words, and 
 protested that he did not want to hear anything about 
 testamentary arrangements. 
 
 "No, but it's right you should know. Your sisters have 
 each had a solid lump of money. It was my money in 
 the beginning, you know — settled by me when I married 
 your mother. I may add that it was a silly settlement — 
 settlements generally are. Much better keep your money 
 in your own hands — but that's beside the mark. Of course 
 you will have your settled lump when I die. Your sisters 
 took their lumps on marriage — and that's what made them 
 so infernally uppish with me. However, I won't go back 
 to that. They pooh-poohed me and marched off with what 
 they could get. Well, I meant that to be all they ever 
 would get; and I meant to give you the rest, whatever it 
 may come to. It seemed fair to me. You have done so 
 much more for me — so infinitely more for me than they." 
 He looked at Lenny, blinked, and raised a frail hand to 
 shade his eyes. "But then, when I thought it over very 
 carefully, it didn't seem fair— or fair, but not generous. 
 You see, you are still the gay bachelor; the probabilities 
 
 100 
 
IN COTTON WOOT, 
 
 are that you will never marry. You will have sufficient 
 anyhow. But as to those two fools — well, there are chil- 
 dren growing up, and so on, and so forth. So I decided 
 that all three of you should share alike." He dropped his 
 hand, and looked hard at Lenny. 
 
 "Father, I really cannot bear to think of what I hope 
 is not going to happen for a very long time." 
 
 "Don't be an ass," said Mr. Calcraft irritably and rudely, 
 committing his one and only relapse. "Your thinking about 
 it won't make it happen any the sooner; and there is al- 
 ways a suspicion of humbug when one gets a sentiment in 
 answer to a business question. Do you object? Do you 
 think I am treating you shabbily?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no," protested Lenny. 
 
 "Thank you, Lenny," said his father in a soft and apolo- 
 getic tone. "You see, I have trusted you in this matter. 
 It is what I wish, and I felt pretty sure — I felt altogether 
 sure — that you would respect my wish, whatever it might 
 be." 
 
 Sometimes there was a remission of the more distressing 
 symptoms, a respite or stationary period, when Mr. Cal- 
 craft showed what might be mistaken for definite improve- 
 ment; but Dr. Searle's expert eye saw very plainly that 
 the slow down-hill progress was quite unchecked. 
 
 It seemed to Lenny that gradually a shadow had de- 
 scended on the house, making a perpetual twilight, even 
 if the sun was shining its brightest or the electric lamps 
 blazing most profusely. The shadow was in his mind 
 also, filling every unexplored recess of it ; his thoughts never 
 flashed or glowed, but worked feebly, gropingly, under the 
 greyness and darkness of a prevailing dread. 
 
 Little by little he had dropped his customary habits. 
 He went no more to the club of an evening. As if sym- 
 
 101 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pathetically, his own existence had contracted to the same 
 limitations as those of the cherished invalid, so that the 
 house held him a prisoner too. Outside of It nothing con- 
 tained any real interest for him. 
 
 "Come, come," said Dr. Searle, "this won't do at all. 
 You must rouse yourself and take exercise, whether you 
 like it or not. Think where we should be if you were to 
 break down." 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny, in a forlorn voice, "I don't want 
 to break down." 
 
 Obeying the doctor, he used to go for lonely walks along 
 the concrete path by the sea; feeling at times like a ghost 
 who takes an automatic promenade through the scenes of 
 a half-forgotten life, and wishing that like a ghost he could 
 frighten people and make them run away from him. He 
 had no such repelling power. People stopped him, to 
 press his hand, utter kind inquiries, and add consolatory 
 phrases which increased the weight that already lay upon 
 his heart. 
 
 Friends bored him, and strangers could not interest him. 
 Ordinarily he would have been curious to learn about 
 the well-dressed nice-looking woman who regularly prome- 
 naded with her maid on fine afternoons. 
 
 Once or twice in passing she glanced at him, and the 
 transient glance seemed to express faint surprise or inter- 
 rogation. It was as if she had unexpectedly seen a new 
 feature in the landscape, something finer or larger than 
 she had been prepared for by previous investigation of the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Her eyes did not linger. Nevertheless, that notion of 
 a mute inquiry conveyed by a pretty woman's glance would 
 ordinarily have been sufficient to awake in him a faint 
 pleasure, interest, or hope. There would have been some 
 sort of reaction to the stimulus. Now there was nothing. 
 
 102 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He knew that she was staying at the Esplanade Hotel; 
 for he had seen her in the garden. One morning, as he 
 stood at his dressing-room window, she walked up and 
 down a path with a book in her hands. Then the maid 
 came out, carrying shawls, and established her mistress 
 upon one of the sheltered seats, wrapped the shawls round 
 her, and left her reading the book. Lenny watched her 
 dully. The sky was blue above the glistening green of 
 the ilex trees ; the garden seemed full of sunlight ; he thought 
 vaguely that this must be like a winter day in Italy; and 
 yet, for him, there hung a shadowy veil over the whole 
 view, so that there was no real colour or life in anything 
 he looked at. Presently the garden seat was empty. While 
 he had been thinking about the Mediterranean, the strange 
 lady must have gone indoors. 
 
 She proved to be a Mrs. Fletcher. One afternoon on the 
 sea-front he encountered her walking with Miss Work- 
 man, who stopped him and immediately made the intro- 
 duction. Then they all three walked on together to the 
 garden entrance of the hotel, and there stood talking for a 
 few minutes. 
 
 She was a woman of any age between twenty-three and 
 twenty-seven — plump and round in outline, not tall, but 
 yet not what one would describe as short. Lenny noticed 
 that her figure, though so fully developed for her size, 
 was exceedingly well-proportioned. Examining her more 
 closely while she spoke to Miss Workman, he saw that she 
 was fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a delicate transparent 
 complexion in which the rose tints flushed and faded rap- 
 idly. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, smiling at him and offering 
 her hand. "Please take pity on me, and come in to 
 tea any day you feel you ought to do a charitable 
 action." 
 
 103 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Directly she had gone, enthusiastic Miss Workman be- 
 gan to praise her. 
 
 "Isn't she delightful? So charming — so fascinating? Do 
 go and see her. She was particularly anxious to meet you, 
 and / was most anxious to bring you together. She is ac- 
 customed to the great world, and naturally can have noth- 
 ing in common with most of the people here — and it is so 
 sad to be thrown entirely on oneself, as she is." 
 
 "Isn't her husband with her?" 
 
 "Her husband is dead. She has been a widow for over 
 two years." 
 
 It seemed churlish totally to disregard the appeal of a 
 disconsolate stranger; and so Lenny, after waiting for an 
 afternoon when Mr. Calcraft was drowsy and inert, per- 
 formed a charitable action by drinking tea with Mrs. 
 Fletcher. 
 
 The waiter, an old friend, conducted him to her private 
 sitting-room, where he found her all by herself, playing 
 patience to beguile the dull hours; and she welcomed him 
 with obvious pleasure. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Calcraft — how really nice of you!" 
 
 At first they stood in the large bow window, and talked 
 about the agreeable outlook and the fine sunset. 
 
 "We rather pride ourselves on our sunsets," said Lenny. 
 "They are quite a specialty." 
 
 Already dusk was falling. A silver greyness enveloped 
 the islands, and the western hills rose out of a shadow that 
 stretched right across the land-locked waters of the estuary; 
 but their undulating ridge was still clean-cut, hard of out- 
 line, like a piece of painted scenery. 
 
 "Beginning to fade," said Mrs. Fletcher, "in the light 
 that she loved, on a bank of daffodil sky. But that would 
 have to be a red daffodil — and there aren't any. . . . 
 
 Oh, yes, it is all very pretty, but " 
 
 104 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Then she explained that, tired of Egypt and the Riviera, 
 she was trying to spend a winter in England, and beginning 
 to think that she must give it up as a bad job and bolt. 
 
 "These English watering-places are too triste. How do 
 you contrive to exist here, Mr. Calcraft? . . . I'm 
 told you are the uncrowned king of Westchurch — and that 
 you reside among your loyal subjects throughout the year. 
 I suppose you have amusements and amenities that are not 
 accessible to casual visitors — of the inferior sex." 
 
 Certainly she was elegant as well as good-looking. Stand- 
 ing by her in the window, he became conscious of consid- 
 erable personal charm. She had a quick intense way of 
 talking, and an eager way of listening with arched eye- 
 brows and parted lips — conveying an idea that the rapidity 
 of her thought was outrunning your words, and that you 
 must speak faster if you wished to keep up with her. 
 
 "How stupid they are not to bring the tea! You do take 
 tea, don't you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'm like Mrs. Gamp — or Dr. Johnson — very 
 fond of tea." 
 
 "Dr. Johnson wouldn't have cared for many cups of Es- 
 planade Hotel tea. — You shall have our own brew. I sent 
 my maid out to buy some real tea, after one dose of the 
 stuff supplied by the management." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Lenny, with polite solicitude, "that 
 they are not making you very comfortable." 
 
 She gave a little sigh, and shrugged her plump shoulders. 
 "They mean well," and she smiled. "I always think that 
 is the most damaging thing one can ever say by way of 
 criticism. When you hear that people mean well, doesn't 
 it immediately open wide vistas of incompetence and fail- 
 ure?" 
 
 The waiter brought the tea-things, and her own maid 
 came in and prepared the tea. 
 
 105 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Evidently, thought Lenny, she was very well-off. The 
 maid seemed a most superior young woman, discreetly splen- 
 did in attire, with quite the style and manner of a lady. 
 As he knew, this first-floor suite of rooms was the "Es- 
 planade's" very best and most expensive. And all about 
 the room he could see lesser indications of affluence. The 
 patience-table was one of those costly toys that fold into 
 a small compass, and cost a prodigious amount for doing so ; 
 and he noticed a large cut-glass bowl full of Parma violets, 
 a writing-desk of purple morocco with gold fittings, a small 
 Sevres clock that unquestionably did not belong to Mr. 
 Nield the proprietor. Then there were innumerable pho- 
 tograph frames, bright-coloured pieces of embroidery, and a 
 silver cigarette box — all the things that rich women la- 
 boriously carry about with them, endeavouring always to 
 reproduce their old environment in new places. 
 
 She insisted that he should occupy what she said was the 
 only easy chair in the whole hotel, and, while waiting on 
 him very prettily at tea, she again thanked him for his visit. 
 
 And all at once, as he sat sipping and munching, he 
 was very glad that he had made the effort to come here. 
 Her atmosphere was pleasant to him; the fact that she now 
 did most of the talking saved him from trouble; the al- 
 tered aspect of the room since she had decorated it was 
 delightful. The whole thing was very soothing and 
 restful. 
 
 When tea was over, she opened the silver box, gave him 
 a cigarette, and lighted one herself. 
 
 "I know," she said, slowly, after puffing out a little 
 cloud of smoke, "that you have anxieties — great anxieties; 
 and if I don't speak of them, it isn't that I'm unsympa- 
 thetic." 
 
 She did not look at him as she said this, and he felt 
 grateful to her for her delicacy and reticence. 
 
 106 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "You understand, don't you? Expressions of sympathy 
 from strangers are bothering, if they aren't impertinent." 
 Then she passed lightly to easier ground. "What an old 
 dear Miss Workman is, isn't she? — and very fond of you, 
 Mr. Calcraft. But, of course, you have been very good 
 to her." 
 
 "Good to her? I've never done anything for Miss 
 Workman in her life." 
 
 "You've always been kind to her, and in some lives 
 kindness is everything," 
 
 Each minute the room was growing darker. The plate- 
 glass windows had become faint squares of dull silver, and 
 all the space of the large bow was vague and shadowy; 
 but the fire burned cheerily, and made of the hearth a sort 
 of cosy corner with shadow walls on either side. 
 
 "Do you mind the twilight?" she asked, as if guessing 
 at his thought. 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "I love it. I hate everything sham, including artificial 
 light." 
 
 She had settled down in the chair opposite to him on 
 the other side of the hearth, and there was a pleasant si- 
 lence during which their acquaintanceship seemed to be 
 ripening so swiftly that it would soon develop into friend- 
 ship. 
 
 When she spoke again, it was meditatively, and as if to a 
 person with whom one might let one's thoughts fall just 
 as they presented themselves, without waiting to arrange 
 them in logical sequence. And he answered her in the 
 same tranquil unlaboured style. 
 
 Thus they smoked their cigarettes and chatted for a little 
 while, and then she swung the talk into very wide fields 
 indeed — immortality, the riddle of the universe, ethics 
 and morals. 
 
 8 lor 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "The new religions are as stupid as the old. ... I 
 suppose you have done with all that ages ago — religion?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I have," said Lenny. 
 
 "But do you believe in anything? Mr. Calcraft, is 
 there anything to believe inV 
 
 Lenny got up from the easy chair, stood with his elbow 
 on the chimney-piece, and talked — and was astounded to 
 hear how well he talked. Psychology, metaphysics, philo- 
 sophic doubt and scientific conjecture — it all came glibly 
 rolling off his tongue, and seemed as if, should that be 
 necessary, it could go rolling on at the same high level of 
 excellence for ever. 
 
 ". . . . So I adopt the waiting frame of mind. I 
 draw no conclusions. I say, The evidence is inadequate. 
 You men of science, you theologians, you dreamers of 
 dreams, have laid before me no proofs. So I say I will 
 wait for the proofs. You may be — you may — er " 
 
 Unexpectedly he hesitated and began to flounder. He 
 had noticed her patent leather shoe on the fender, with the 
 firelight shining against it. While listening to him, ap- 
 parently with rapt attention, she had drawn away her 
 skirts in order to warm her feet, and had exposed the 
 stockings and ankles. Somehow the slight action, together 
 with the faint rustle of her silk petticoat, caused him to 
 lose the thread of his eloquent discourse. 
 
 "Yes — er — as I was saying," he went on lamely, "they 
 may be all right, or they may be all wrong." 
 
 "I'm sure your attitude is the correct one." 
 
 Then, without perceptible transition, they were discuss- 
 ing the relations of the sexes. 
 
 "It has always seemed to me," said Mrs. Fletcher, "that 
 everything is made so absurdly difficult in our modern civ- 
 ilization. Instincts are hidden, pretences are exhibited ; 
 we suppress all that is natural, we cultivate all that is 
 
 108 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 spurious; we fetter ourselves with such a preposterous load 
 of conventions that what should be the simplest matter on 
 earth has become the most supremely complicated problem 
 of our existence. If two people — sane adults — of opposite 
 sexes happen to please each other, it is — or it should be — 
 a question that solely concerns themselves. Yet they are 
 not allowed to settle it, to find the normal answer or solu- 
 tion, but all the world wants to meddle in it. . . . Am 
 I shocking you?" t* 
 
 "Indeed, no." 
 
 She was surprisingly outspoken, but with so much bold- 
 ness of thought she permitted herself no license, as to words. 
 There was neither indelicacy nor innuendo. He seemed 
 to recognize the emancipation of intellect — a mind that 
 would not be held in chains. And for him there was great 
 charm in the noble freedom of talk with this brilliantly 
 clever woman, — in the twilight, — in the darkening room. 
 
 "Of course," she continued, "I don't believe in free love. 
 That's all nonsense. And I don't believe in the marriage 
 lease — five years' term, and thence onward year by year, 
 subject to a quarter's notice from either party. No, that's 
 nonsense. The children — and a hundred other reasons! 
 . . . But I do say there's something hopelessly wrong 
 in our modern system. Half of these loveless marriages 
 ought to be avoided. And — and the marriages that fall to 
 pieces, the — the marriages that fail — the — the marriages 
 that aren't marriages at all — ought to be prevented." 
 
 Suddenly he had detected emotion behind the even qual- 
 ity of her voice — strong, unmistakable emotion. 
 
 "Mr. Calcraft, this is only the second time I've ever 
 spoken to you, and now I'm really going to shock you. 
 . . . My marriage was a hideous failure. I never loved 
 my husband." 
 
 The fire had burnt low and the whole room was nearly 
 
 109 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 dark; and ft seemed that the little waves of sound sent 
 by her voice through the darkness changed themselves to 
 pulsations as they reached the listener. 
 
 "Tell me how it all happened." 
 
 "It is too like the first chapter of a penny novelette. 
 I was a nice clean girl — a jolly girl, everybody said, — 
 without a nasty thought, — or a thought to trouble her. 
 Plenty of money. I mean, more than enough of my own 
 to rub along all right by myself. . . . They married 
 me to a rich man. And it was torment, torture, from the 
 very first day. How shall I say it — not in novelese? He 
 could not be the husband that a young girl should expect. 
 His life was over; mine was beginning. His notion of a 
 wife. ... He ought not to have married at all. . . . 
 Well " 
 
 She paused; and Lenny saw dimly that she had turned 
 in her chair and picked up something from a side table. 
 Then she made movements with both hands. Memory 
 assisted him to guess that she had taken some of those 
 violets out of the big bowl, and was smelling them or roll- 
 ing them between her palms. 
 
 "Well, it just meant that my heart was crushed, and 
 torn to pieces, like this." 
 
 Lenny, bending towards her, spoke very gently and 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Poor little girl." 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher spoke coldly and abruptly. 
 
 "Turn on the light, please. . . . You'll find the 
 switch close to the door." 
 
 Lenny obeyed her, and the electric light blazing forth 
 swept all the shadows out of the room. 
 
 "I don't want you to suppose there's anything to be 
 ashamed of, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 As he came back to the hearth-rug, he was blinking fool- 
 
 110 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ishly. But he thought that, on the whole, it was rather 
 fine of her. She wished him to see the look in her eyes; 
 she would show him her face with the full light upon it: 
 he must not imagine that this was a confidence of the dark, 
 
 "No," she said firmly, "it was a stiff course; but I ran 
 straight. I kept my bargain — all that the Church tells 
 one — to the letter." 
 
 She held her head high, and he fancied that the look 
 in her eyes now suggested quite the finest sort of pride. 
 
 "But to generalize" — and she spoke lightly again. "Why 
 aren't these things prevented in our class. They don't 
 happen in the humbler walks of life. Poor girls aren't kept 
 in ignorance. They know all about the pitfalls — their 
 mothers tell them. However they act, they don't act 
 blindfold. But with us — among people who pretend to 
 be educated, cultivated, intelligent — there's a horrible con- 
 spiracy of silence with regard to all that's essential for a 
 girl to know, to understand thoroughly, before she runs 
 the tremendous risks of matrimony. And I mean, in re- 
 gard to the love matches, almost as much as to the mar- 
 riages of convenience. Our girls are as ignorant of what 
 they are trying to obtain as of what they are renouncing. 
 Not one in a thousand is capable of making a rational 
 choice." 
 
 "No, I agree with you there completely." 
 
 "If ever I marry again — and I don't think I ever shall — 
 I shall choose rationally. I shan't shilly-shally — or miss the 
 chance of happiness because of any ridiculous conventions. 
 I shan't even wait for leap year. ... I shall boldly 
 propose to the man, if I think I have found him. I shall 
 say, 'I like you, and you seem to like me. I have so much 
 per annum, and I understand you have so much. Now 
 can't we make a couple for whom there ought to be a fair 
 prospect?' And if the man said No, I shouldn't bear any 
 
 111 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 malice. And if he said Yes, and I discovered that I'd made 
 a mistake, well, I should only have myself to thank for it. 
 I shouldn't feel the added pain of thinking every minute 
 of the day that those who ought to have protected me had 
 betrayed me." She picked up another little cluster of the 
 violets, inhaled their perfume, and laughed softly. "Mr. 
 Calcraft, how do my advanced views strike you?" 
 
 "They strike me as enormously interesting. Please go 
 on. 
 
 But just then there came a dull reverberation as of dis- 
 tant thunder. It was the hotel gong warning inmates to 
 dress for dinner. 
 
 Lenny looked at the Sevres clock. Good gracious! He 
 had been here two hours. He hurriedly prepared to take 
 leave. 
 
 "Good-night, Mr. Calcraft. It was kind of you to 
 come. You'll come again, won't you?" 
 
 She had risen to shake hands. She was looking at him 
 very frankly, and her blue eyes seemed to be searching for 
 some mute answer to a doubt, or instinctive confirmation 
 of a wish. It was the inquiry that he had seen before, but 
 now greatly intensified. 
 
 "I shall love to come again. But really I must apologize 
 for paying you such a lengthy visitation." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" And she laughed and shivered. "Visita- 
 tion ! It is cruelty to words to use that one — it is so tired ; 
 it has been worked to death." 
 
 "Yes, I ought to have thought of something more 
 original;" and, as he took her hand in his, he also was 
 laughing. 
 
 She looked at him more intently still, anxiously. 
 
 "Well, it is of importance in these circumstances — be- 
 cause, with a new acquaintance, a commonplace phrase 
 frightens one. You are a little different from other people, 
 
 112 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 aren't you? . . . You know, I shouldn't have talked 
 to everybody as I talked to you." 
 
 "You have honoured me — and I feel the honour." 
 
 She had allowed her hand to rest in his, and, while 
 speaking now, he exerted the faintest possible pressure or 
 retaining force. She did not withdraw the hand; but in- 
 stantaneously it seemed to become very limp and very small, 
 so that it slid away and he let it go. 
 
 "You came to me, Mr. Calcraft, wearing a mantle that 
 I admired more than I can say. — I mean, I had been lis- 
 tening to the praises of your friends. Miss Workman had 
 given such testimonials — such absolute guarantees that you 
 were one of the elect. . . . Good-night." 
 
 He went away carrying something of her atmosphere 
 with him — an intermittent pulsation, a vaguely disturbing 
 note of interrogation, a faint perfume of those Parma vio- 
 lets, seemed to linger with some persistence. There was a 
 certain charm about her; but it occurred to him that in 
 spite of the healthy plumpness, the delicate cleanness of 
 complexion, and the firm tone of voice, she belonged to the 
 neurotic type of women. And he reflected, moreover, that 
 a considerable egoism was indicated by such a lot of talk 
 about herself. 
 
 He did not see her again at the hotel. She gave a tea- 
 party, but he was not able to attend it. Then some ne- 
 cessity or inclination obliged her to leave Westchurch. 
 Miss Workman told him of the imminent departure. 
 
 "You'll go to the station and see her off, won't you? 
 She'll be touched by it." 
 
 "I will, if I am able." 
 
 And he was able. He went to the station, and brought 
 a pretty bouquet of flowers for her. 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Mrs. Fletcher. 
 
 113 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He had presented his bouquet at the door of the car- 
 riage, where she stood surrounded by her Westchurch 
 friends. The little group broke up — Miss Workman and 
 the others drawing away to let him speak freely to her. 
 
 "Thank you," she repeated. She had given the bouquet 
 to her maid, and again she was looking at him with that 
 searching question in her blue eyes. "But are you really 
 of the elect, or are you after all a little like other people? 
 Look!" And she pointed to bunches or bouquets of flow- 
 ers on the seat of the carriage. "From the hotel proprietor! 
 From the clergyman! From the doctor!" 
 
 She wore an astrachan jacket, and an astrachan toque 
 that made her fair hair seem fairer — golden against the 
 black; and in one of her breast buttonholes there was a 
 small bunch of Parma violets — flowers that she had bought 
 for herself. She asked Lenny to visit her when he next 
 came to London, and he scribbled the address on a leaf of 
 his pocket-book. 
 
 "That's very businesslike! Only it robs you of an ex- 
 cuse. I should be glad to see you again — but will you 
 really come?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall be charmed to do so." 
 
 "Is that a promise, or another stereotyped phrase?" 
 
 "It is a promise that I make to myself, not to you." 
 
 "Oh, that's much prettier;" and she laughed. 
 
 But he did not intend to keep the promise. 
 
XIII 
 
 IT was in the spring of another year, and old Calcraft's 
 tongue, the rough side and the soft side of it, was 
 passive for ever. 
 
 Lenny would not believe it, when they came down to the 
 library and told him that all was over. He rushed up- 
 stairs to his father's room; but one glance at the inani- 
 mate face was sufficient. Dr. Searle drew him out of 
 the room, supported him downstairs, and re-established him 
 in the library. His limbs were shaking, his lips twitched, 
 his teeth chattered — it was as if he had been exposed to 
 insupportably cold air, as if an arctic breath had issued 
 from that frigid mask and frozen him. 
 
 He sank into an armchair, and sat huddled, crouching, 
 gasping, with hands that dangled loosely between his knees. 
 
 "There," said Dr. Searle, "take it as easy as you can. 
 I will attend to everything. I mean, don't give a thought 
 
 to the necessary arrangements 
 
 That's right, Mary. Down with them." 
 
 Already the servants were pulling down blinds in all 
 the rooms. 
 
 It was a bright April morning; the whole sea-front gay 
 and vivid in the sunshine. All could see the signal of woe. 
 As the blinds came down, it was as if the house had closed 
 its eyes and become stiff and blank beside the live houses. 
 
 It seemed to him that the shadow had deepened to a 
 blackness as of night. He felt dazed, crushed, broken, 
 
 115 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 beneath the shock of his calamity; but now and then he 
 was shaken by reflex unthinking spasms of grief. And 
 these exhausted him so completely that he began to doze 
 towards the end of the long silent day. Servants had 
 brought him food from time to time, and he had eaten; but 
 he had not smoked, or even noticed that he was not smok- 
 ing. Then servants came to ask if he wanted anything 
 more, and he said "No." Then they asked if they might 
 go to bed, and he said "Yes." 
 
 The knowledge that he was quite alone now, that all 
 the life of the house had ceased, seemed to rouse him, and 
 to wake him. And now for the first time memories came 
 pouring into his mind. The memory of sounds especially 
 distressed him, and more than all others, the sounds that 
 his father used to make — the cough, the shuffling footstep, 
 the voice itself when the bedroom door was opened by the 
 nurse. Habit had made his ear quick to catch such sounds, 
 however faint. He moved his chair nearer to the fire, and 
 looked round the empty room. It was here in this library 
 that he had sat on so many nights of late, not reading, not 
 even smoking, just waiting. At any moment he might be 
 wanted — to stand by the bedside during a prolonged at- 
 tack of the devastating cough, to telephone to the chemist 
 for another oxygen cylinder, to dash off in a cab and bring 
 Dr. Searle. 
 
 And now there could be no sound to disturb him; there 
 would be nothing but this appalling, freezing silence. 
 
 He turned his head, and for a little while watched the 
 bookcases and wall behind which the staircase led upwards 
 to the landing and the closed door. What if the dead 
 man should appear to him? [The idea came as a hope 
 rather than a fear. He moved his lips and whispered 
 "Father" — and he repeated the word. In imagination he 
 could hear the slow tread on the stairs; could see his 
 
 116 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 father enter the room, and slowly shuffle towards him, look- 
 ing exactly as he had looked during these last months. But 
 then a cold wave of horror broke the image. What if his 
 father should appear to him as he was now — with the ter- 
 rible expressionless mask, the shut eyes, and the sunken 
 mouth ? 
 
 He made up the fire, and presently it blazed and roared, 
 while he sat shivering before it. He could not go upstairs 
 to his own room. He could not face the closed door, and 
 that central zone of silence. 
 
 The housemaid coming to do the library next morning 
 was startled to find the fire alight, and more startled still 
 to see Mr. Leonard asleep on the sofa. He had fetched 
 rugs from the hall, and spent the night there. 
 
 In these sad days between the death and the funeral, 
 all things seemed vague and dreamlike to Lenny. Very 
 little thought was possible; but there were intervals of 
 true feeling and understanding. The extent of his grief 
 submerged him. It burst upon him with hysterical storms, 
 and flowed high above his head. Then it seemed that he 
 came, or was dragged, to the surface; and for a little while 
 he was able to think in some sort of reasoning fashion, 
 instead of emptily brooding, after the manner of a sorrow- 
 ing dog who has lost his master. And the intervals of 
 thought grew longer, and the thought became clearer. Each 
 time that one of them occurred, the sense of reality was re- 
 stored to him in greater completeness. But he could ex- 
 ercise no control over the thoughts themselves; they came 
 and they went. One moment he would be thinking of his 
 father, and the next moment he thought of what was going 
 on outside the darkened house. Then he would cross the 
 room without intending to do so, and peep from behind the 
 blinds. Once he stood for a considerable time, cautiously 
 
 117 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 looking out at the sunlight and the movement. Westchurch 
 was excited to-day. A cruiser was lying at anchor- — little 
 boats were going to and fro. An unusual number of people 
 had gathered on the parade. It was almost like Regatta 
 day. 
 
 Then again, in a moment, he was torn by a swift com- 
 prehensive survey of his loss. Never again would his father 
 see the bright and gaily thronged parade; never share in 
 the sunshine; never feel the air as he slowly rolled in 
 the Bath-chair; never, oh never, free the bear. And the 
 grief was intensely, torturingly real. He thought of all 
 that he had done for his father, and it seemed to him so 
 little, so miserably little. Yet the slight duties had seemed 
 much when he performed them. Now for several moments 
 he was filled with remorse that they had not been more. 
 
 And then inexplicably, illogically, without connecting 
 link, came a vague idea of relief at the freedom from un- 
 ceasing cares. With it there soon mingled a strange sense 
 of importance, and some rapidly forming notions as to how 
 he would use his freedom. The money would make him 
 extraordinarily free — the whole world open to him. Per- 
 haps this was conveyed in mental pictures rather than in 
 definite thoughts. Scenes and places flashed into the sphere 
 of consciousness, now dim, now vivid, vanishing and giving 
 place to more pictures; no sequence; no arrangement be- 
 yond the underlying thread of logic that bound the whole 
 picture gallery together— the possibilities of changing, mov- 
 ing, palpitating life, given to him by his father's death. 
 
 Dr. Searle was doing everything; nevertheless facts de- 
 manding personal attention sometimes forcibly dragged 
 Lenny to the surface. There were letters that only he 
 could answer. Painfully incongruous problems to which no 
 one else held the key! Almost the first letter that Lenny 
 
 118 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 found himself able to read was from a friend of his in 
 London. Years ago this friend had put his name down for 
 a London club; and he now wrote to say that the candidate 
 would almost immediately come up for election, and that 
 he ought to do a little canvassing. Lenny was compelled 
 to reply to this. 
 
 "Your letter," he wrote, "has come when I am in 
 deep trouble. My dear father passed away on Monday 
 night." 
 
 Then he stopped to think. Perhaps it might be wrong 
 to speak of his father to this man who never knew him. 
 But he went on, the pen writing words as if without assist- 
 ance, and he found unexpected comfort in the frank ex- 
 pression of his grief. 
 
 "He and I have been all in all to each other, living alone 
 in this quiet little place since my mother's death thirteen 
 years ago. You will understand that at such a time I can 
 do nothing. My life is all shaken to pieces. In the future 
 there is only one thing certain for me." The pen was 
 writing easily and rapidly. "I shall travel for at least a 
 year or two. There are many countries that I have long 
 determined to visit. They all lie away from the beaten 
 track, remote from civilization; where, as the saying is, the 
 tourist goes with his life in his hand, and is at once reduced 
 to the primitive conditions of hunting for and killing his 
 evening meal. In other words, I have determined to go to 
 Nature for the only consolation that is possible." 
 
 He was surprised, while he wrote, to discover that he 
 had this definite intention, but he immediately recognized 
 it as unquestionably there. 
 
 "I must take my chance at the club, and if elected, shall 
 certainly accept the membership. With many thanks." . . . 
 
 Other facts that one could not escape from were the 
 tailor who made black clothes, the undertaker who required 
 
 119 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to know the probable number of mourners, and the solicitor 
 who came to talk business. 
 
 Lenny had never cared for the solicitor; but this Mr. 
 Newall had long been his father's trusted adviser, and when 
 he craved for an interview, it could not be refused. He 
 was sandy, bearded, spectacled, with a rather dictatorial 
 manner; but reputed clever, and known to be honest and 
 good-hearted. 
 
 "Well, well," said Mr. Newall, in a friendly abrupt 
 style. "Money matters, money matters — one can't get 
 away from them, whatever one's inclination." 
 
 Then he gave Lenny a brief sketch of his late client's 
 financial circumstances. He mentioned at once that Lenny 
 was entitled to a capital sum sufficient to bring him £500 
 a year. "That, as of course you know, comes to you under 
 a settlement. But I see you do know. Well, beyond that, 
 the money that your father could dispose of as he pleased 
 amounts roughly to £30,000. And, of course, the lease of 
 this house, furniture, personal effects. There was, so far 
 as I am aware, no life policy." 
 
 Lenny shuddered. 
 
 "No life policy as far as you are aware, either. Well," 
 said Mr. Newall very kindly, "if you can pull yourself 
 together, it will really be wise, and I think will do you 
 good. What is it that the King in Hamlet says? 'Your 
 father lost a father; and his father too before him lost 
 another father.' That's not quite the quotation. I 
 forget how it runs. . . . But to stick to business. You 
 may rely on me for the correctness of the figures I have 
 given you. The management of things has been in my 
 hands, and I don't think your father ever acted without 
 my advice, although he often disregarded it. He made 
 good investments and bad investments, but you may take 
 it from me that the market value — it's all personalty — 
 
 120 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stocks, shares, and so on — is somewhere very near £30,000 
 — there or thereabouts." 
 
 "I haven't given a thought to it," said Lenny. 
 
 "No, I dare say not. But I have just told you, and 
 you can take that as the position of affairs. And now," 
 said Mr. Newall, firmly and impressively, "I would like 
 to have a few words with you about your father's will." 
 
 "But isn't that rather premature?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so. You know all that rubbish about 
 waiting till the funeral is over, and then reading the will 
 in a semicircle of becraped relatives, with trays of sherry 
 and seed cake handy at their elbows, belongs to the story 
 books, and not to life. In this case there are good reasons 
 for considering matters without unnecessary delay. I par- 
 ticularly wanted to have a quiet chat with you, to sound 
 you — to get at your views before I am tackled by your sis- 
 ters and your brothers-in-law. ... Of course those 
 two gentlemen will come here with their mouths very wide 
 open, gaping to see what is going to drop into them. Well, 
 nothing is going to drop in. They and your sisters are left 
 completely in the cold. You take everything." 
 
 Lenny said the solicitor was under a misapprehension. 
 He knew that his father in his latest will further provided 
 for the sisters. The solicitor must have got hold of a 
 previous will. 
 
 "No, I haven't," said the solicitor curtly. "Your father 
 intended to make such a will, but he never did. He was 
 always putting it off, changing his mind about details. I 
 suppose I have a hundred letters from him in the office, and 
 at least a dozen drafts. But he always stopped short." 
 
 "But," said Lenny, "there was no question as to what 
 he wished. He told me so himself." 
 
 "My dear sir, — what a dead man wishes is not of much 
 account in the live world." 
 
 121 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny drew himself up, and puffed out his cheeks. Then 
 recovering his composure, he spoke with considerable dig- 
 nity. "It is of account to me, Mr. Newall, and I shall 
 consider it a solemn duty to give substance to the 
 wish." 
 
 "You will?" said Mr. Newall, looking at him shrewdly. 
 "Well, it's uncommonly good of you, if you do, and I, 
 for one, shall think that you will be doing a thundering 
 good thing. But I must, don't you know" — and in spite of 
 the solemnity of the occasion, Mr. Newall smiled face- 
 tiously — "I must warn you that what you say now and 
 during the next few days will be used against you. And 
 a further warning I may give — from my own experience, 
 generous intentions such as you have expressed are usually 
 warmer, stronger, altogether bigger than they might be 
 if people waited for a little reflection before they spoke." 
 
 But Lenny was solid as to his intentions. He would 
 carry them out in due course. It should be share and 
 share alike all round. The solicitor, who was nothing if 
 not businesslike, suggested that this was too big a way of 
 doing things. The ladies had received their lumps many 
 years ago, and had enjoyed the annual interest therefrom 
 ever since. Whereas Lenny himself would only get his 
 lump now, with no interest. He thought that if Lenny 
 calculated the amount of interest that had accrued in 
 each case and deducted it from the third part, giving him- 
 self the benefit of these deductions, it would be doing 
 handsomely — no — handsomely was not the word — he would 
 be doing magnificently — more than one man in a million 
 would do. 
 
 Lenny, however, was obdurately firm. What the solici- 
 tor considered extravagant generosity, appeared to him 
 neither more nor less than a pious duty. 
 
 "Very good," said Mr. Newall. "I shall take your in- 
 122 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 structions later on, and whatever you tell me to do, I'll 
 do like a bird." 
 
 Then the interview was at an end, and Mr. Newall 
 withdrew. 
 
 Lenny sighed wearily; but, curiously enough, what the 
 solicitor prognosticated proved correct. This ordeal had 
 done Lenny good. Somehow it had dispersed a little of 
 the crushed sensations. It had filled him with a new no- 
 tion of power. It had swung him out of vague reveries 
 into the realm of prompt actions. 
 
 The two sisters and one of the husbands had arrived; 
 and the other husband would be here directly. This meant 
 that the funeral was very near. These people, together 
 with an old bachelor cousin, had taken rooms at the Es- 
 planade Hotel, but they came in and out at No. I, The 
 Crescent in an aimless and distressing manner. They made 
 too much noise about the hall; they spoke too loudly in 
 the dining-room; they were incongruous, worrying, unwel- 
 come. 
 
 Lenny had a sudden difficulty in recalling the married 
 names of Jane and Sarah. Then when he remembered that 
 one was Mrs. Holway and the other Mrs. Kent, he was 
 temporarily in doubt as to which was which. They both 
 kissed him, and one held his hand and pressed it with a 
 semblance of affection; but, in fact, they seemed to him 
 not real sisters, but two fussy strangers — hard, self -en- 
 grossed, rather vulgar strangers. It was too long since 
 he had last seen them. He could not pick up the thread of 
 old kindness. 
 
 Their deterioration of intellect and their loss of good 
 manners showed itself plainly in all that they said with 
 regard to the suddenness of their bereavement. 
 
 "Of course/' said Mrs. Holway — yes, that was Sarah — 
 9 123 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "we were prepared for it some time or other, but now, 
 quite without warning — I think, Lenny, you might have 
 found time to drop one warning note;" and she explained, 
 or implied, that so far as she was concerned, her father's 
 death could not possibly have occurred at a more unsea- 
 sonable and difficult epoch. It appeared that she was in 
 delicate health, about to be a mother, and obliged to con- 
 sider her condition carefully. This journey, according to 
 her doctor and her husband, was really an act of impru- 
 dence. However, she had felt that she could not stay away. 
 
 Then, again, Mr. Holway was passing through a state 
 of anxiety at his business house. As Lenny knew, he was 
 a manufacturer of plated goods in rather a small way, and 
 Sarah said that labour troubles which larger concerns could 
 easily withstand were sometimes disastrous to lesser enter- 
 prises. Nevertheless, Holway would be here late to-night, 
 or early to-morrow morning. 
 
 "So, you see, Lenny, no conjunction of affairs could 
 well have been more unlucky. And, oh, the food at this 
 hotel of yours! It really is shamefully bad. I don't mind 
 it so much for myself, although I ought, of course, to be 
 getting the fullest nourishment just now; but I really am 
 afraid of it for him. If he turns up this afternoon, couldn't 
 you arrange for him to dine here with you?" 
 
 Lenny said he feared that would be impossible. 
 
 "Why?" asked Sarah. "I should have thought that a 
 little dinner here for you four men — of course you could 
 not ask my husband without having Charles Kent and Mr. 
 Burleigh also — would have been rather nice for you all. 
 It would have cheered you all up a bit." 
 
 Jane Kent, the other sister, had suffered a misfortune 
 which in her mind, apparently, altogether overshadowed 
 the greater but more natural bereavement. She had lost 
 her principal trunk on the journey, and she talked of noth- 
 
 124 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ing else. The lost box contained, besides her blackest 
 dresses, a hundred necessary and desirable objects. She sent 
 her husband to the railway station six times during the day 
 — sent him forth again every time that he reappeared. 
 
 "Go and telegraph to the traffic manager." 
 
 "I have done so," said Charles. 
 
 "Then telegraph to the station master at Woodford Junc- 
 tion." 
 
 "I saw it," she said, as soon as Charles had disappeared. 
 "I saw it myself on the platform at Woodford." And she 
 closed her eyes for a moment. "I saw the three initials 
 distinctly. I could not be mistaken." 
 
 Then after a time Charles returned, and whispered dole- 
 fully. 
 
 "No news." 
 
 "Charles," said Mrs. Kent with great energy, "they 
 must find it. You take it too coolly. Make a row about 
 it. Show them that you will not put up with their non- 
 sense. The thing is monstrous; they must find it. Tell 
 them I saw it on the platform at Woodford," and once 
 more she shut her eyes. "All by itself. Stuck up on end — 
 the three initials absolutely plain." 
 
 It had come to be the day of the funeral. Bright and gay. 
 Another perfect April morning; the last snow on the hills 
 melting, the first flowers in the valley budding. And that 
 new sense of importance was strong upon Lenny — dressed 
 in his faultless black, ushered by the obsequious mutes — 
 as he entered the first of the mourning coaches and slowly 
 moved off behind the car with the masses of white wreaths 
 hiding the coffin. 
 
 Mr. Holway, Sarah's second husband, sat by him; but 
 he was nobody, less than nobody. Lenny had chosen him 
 for companion, thinking that his presence would be more 
 
 125 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 sufferable than that of the box-hunting brother-in-law, 
 Charles Kent — and it seemed almost too lordly and kinglike 
 to ride in a coach quite by himself, though the mutes would 
 have encouraged him to this pomp. And now, as the 
 coach with occasional stoppings and jerkings rolled away 
 from the sunlit steps, Lenny experienced a certain satis- 
 faction in the companionship of Mr. Holway. 
 
 He was a short, heavily built man, of about fifty — grey- 
 haired, reddish-faced, and square of head. He spoke in the 
 Midland accent that Lenny remembered as peculiar to 
 the farmers and yeomen of the country round his old home. 
 The tradespeople of the towns had all dropped the accent, 
 and learnt to clip their words after the cockney fashion. 
 Altogether, Mr. Holway produced the conviction that one 
 had to deal with a perfectly honest, upright, commonplace 
 person, whose businesslike self-reliance was tempered by 
 innate good nature. His hands were broad and rough 
 and stubby, like the hands of a carpenter or mechanic; 
 and Lenny, glancing at them, observed the preposterous 
 discrepancy of size exhibited by the thin, neatly folded black 
 kid gloves. Mr. Holway, as yet, had not attempted to put 
 on the gloves, and Lenny hoped that he would not make 
 the attempt. 
 
 There were crowds of people at the corner of the Cres- 
 cent, and all along the sea-front till the small black proces- 
 sion turned towards the railway bridge. Cabmen on the 
 rank took off their hats; boys with butchers' carts pulled 
 back their ponies, and kept at a respectful distance; and a 
 policeman peremptorily stopped a greengrocer's van, and 
 would not allow it to pass. Eyes staring, and it must be 
 confessed, voices talking much too freely. Lenny heard and 
 did not wish to hear. 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Why, old Mr. Calcraft from No. I." 
 126 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "What! I thought they had called for him more than a 
 
 year ago." "Look at the flowers! Look at the 
 
 flowers. Look at the flowers." ...... "Why 
 
 they've dressed up the old bloke like a Jack in the Green." 
 
 And some talk inside the coach. Mr. Holway asked his 
 question with blunt honesty. "Is there anything coming 
 our way? I suppose not. We neither of us expected it." 
 
 Then Lenny in carefully considered words explained 
 that anything that does come will be through his generosity. 
 His father had wished something to come, but had failed 
 to secure his wish. However, Lenny means to carry out 
 the wish as far as lies in his power. It will certainly be 
 something for each of the sisters — something handsome — 
 something as big as what is coming to himself. 
 
 Mr. Holway had taken off his black hat, and wiped his 
 forehead. "Well, we shall be very much beholden to you." 
 And he drew in his breath, and seemed to swallow. "I'm 
 not the sort that asks favours of other people, and I've 
 stood on my own legs so far, without any outside props; 
 but you know your sister — well, she's j'our sister — a large 
 family, and not got to the end of it yet, so it seems. She'll 
 be grateful — no question about that — and I shall be grate- 
 ful for her sake. But we ought not to be talking like this. 
 I was forgetting the occasion. Your poor father — well, I 
 never had the pleasure of knowing him." 
 
 They had got to the gate of the cemetery, and no more 
 talk was audible inside or outside the coach. 
 
 The last rites had been performed; the mourners had 
 come back to the house. The dining-room and hall seemed 
 full of people. 
 
 Somebody suggested that the blinds might now be pulled 
 up. But Lenny would not allow this. 
 
 Dr. Searle and Mr. Newall were eating cake and drink- 
 
 127 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ing wine. Mary, without instructions, guided by conven- 
 tional impulses, had put out cake-dishes, decanters, and 
 many wine-glasses. It was the terrible assembly of black- 
 garbed relatives and friends that tradition has ordained for 
 these occasions; it was like a well-set scene in a drama 
 of typical middle-class life. Only one thing was wanting 
 to complete the resemblance, and all at once Mrs. Holway 
 asked for what was missing. 
 
 "I suppose now," she said, in a hard and rather hostile 
 tone, "that somebody will have the kindness to read the 
 will to us." 
 
 "No, no," said Lenny, shaking his head sadly. 
 
 But Mrs. Holway was not going to be put ofr with nods 
 and negatives. If there was any mystery, she desired to 
 get to the bottom of it. Coming close to her brother, she 
 whispered excitedly: 
 
 "Does this mean that we are cut out? Yes. I suppose 
 that's it. — Oh, I was quite prepared for it. That's it. You 
 have feathered your nest, Lenny, and taken care that no- 
 body else should be remembered." 
 
 Holway put his stubby hand on Sarah's arm and forcibly 
 drew her away. Then he talked to her in a corner of the 
 room, and caused an immediate change of voice and de- 
 meanour. 
 
 "Lenny, Lenny!" She had come hurrying back, and 
 she kissed her brother with exuberant love. "Lenny! What 
 a wretch I was to say such things. Lenny! How can I 
 thank you? But I might have trusted you. You are my 
 own brother. Blood is thicker than water. But I do say 
 God bless you — and my children's blessings for this noble 
 deed." 
 
 She kissed him again, and for the first time Lenny saw 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 "And you are doing it for Jane too! May I tell her? 
 128 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 May I relieve her mind by the knowledge of your good- 
 ness? Oh, may I tell her without delay?" 
 
 Lenny gave her permission to tell Jane, and in a moment 
 Jane also was thanking him for his munificence. 
 
 "Oh, Lenny, Lenny! How can we ever thank you suf- 
 ficiently?" 
 
 But just then Charles Kent rushed into the room. He 
 had disappeared immediately after the ceremony at the 
 grave-side, and now he came back hot, breathless, and 
 unbecomingly noisy. 
 
 "Jane!" he called loudly, "it's come!" 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "Yes — it arrived directly after we left the hotel." 
 
 "Where is it now?" 
 
 "In the hall of the hotel." 
 
 "Did you see it yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, with my own eyes." 
 
 She hurried off with him, talking volubly. 
 
 "I must find out if it is intact. They may have rifled 
 it. No receipt must be signed until we have ascertained 
 if it is intact and uninjured." 
 
 She left the house without saying good-bye to anybody. 
 Everything seemed to have been driven out of her mind 
 by her excitement and pleasure at the recovery of the lost 
 box. 
 
 Very soon the other mourners also went away, and Lenny 
 was left alone with his household. 
 
 "Now shall I pull up the blinds, sir?" asked Mary. 
 
 "No," said Lenny, "wait till to-morrow morning." 
 
XIV 
 
 THE blinds were up, the windows were open ; air and 
 sunlight poured into the house. The shadow had 
 gone. 
 
 And the grief gone with it? No, assuredly not. But 
 he was astounded by the ease of mind that he was enjoy- 
 ing. He sat at breakfast eating heartily, feeling calmly 
 contented, thinking steadily of the various affairs that called 
 for attention, and stoutly determining to polish off all this 
 new work as rapidly as possible. 
 
 There was plenty to do, plenty to occupy his thoughts; 
 and thus, during long hours, the grief could be forgotten. 
 But he often wondered afterwards at the temporary dis- 
 appearance of the sorrowful mood, and almost regretted 
 as disloyalty the fact that he had let it slip away from him. 
 
 Truly it seemed as though the absence of the outward 
 stimulus destroyed the inward emotion. It was the sight 
 of his father, the sound of the weak voice, the touch of 
 the shaky hand, that had kept the emotions active. After 
 death, there was still the terrible presence lying mute be- 
 hind the closed door — now there was nothing. 
 
 People were being excessively kind to him, and after a 
 little while he found that he could see them without dis- 
 comfort. They all advised him not to give way to grief, 
 to rouse himself, to take his part in life. But no one said 
 all this so forcibly as Dr. Searle. 
 
 "Now look here, Lenny," said the doctor. "You ought 
 to understand that a new chapter is beginning. All that 
 old chapter is over and done with, and it's no good looking 
 
 130 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 back on it. Don't be offended with me, but it's my duty 
 to speak out. The time has come for you to take care 
 of yourself. You have been taking care of someone else 
 for so long that you may not see the necessity. It is im- 
 perative that you should now spare yourself." 
 
 "I have a good deal to do still — and chiefly for others." 
 
 "Well, cut it short, and take it easy as soon as possible, 
 or we shall have you breaking down, and breaking down 
 badly. I know what the strain of all these years has been. 
 Well, you have finished the job, and finished it nobly. Now 
 give yourself a chance." 
 
 "I was never conscious of any strain." 
 
 "No. But / saw it plainly enough. Most people would 
 have broken down under it. It is the sort of thing that 
 drives weaklings into the madhouse. We doctors see too 
 much of it. It ought not to be allowed — young, healthy 
 people subordinating themselves, sacrificing themselves to 
 permanent invalids. Invalids are always tyrants, and as 
 they grow older they grow more merciless." 
 
 Lenny held up his hand, and protested against what 
 seemed a cruel aspersion. 
 
 "Very good, Lenny; I will say no more. And you can 
 take all I have said as reference to patent facts that come 
 under my observation. You are a strong man, and you 
 have been able to support what cripples and destroys many 
 spinster daughters and hard-up nieces who are made to act 
 as unpaid nurses year in and year out. I tell you, their 
 bodily health goes, their mental health goes. I've seen it 
 again and again. They wind up bloodless, nerveless, or 
 idiotic." 
 
 The doctor had spoken very impressively, and Lenny for 
 a little while sat looking at the library carpet. Then he 
 raised his eyes, and made a quite unexpected confession. 
 
 "It's good of you, Searle, to take so much interest in 
 
 131 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 me. Indeed, I know what a friend you are. Well, just 
 now, when I said that I had never felt the strain — that 
 was not quite correct. I did feel it off and on." 
 
 "Of course you did." 
 
 "Once I was a little anxious about myself. I was 
 sleeping badly, and I had dull feelings in the head — not 
 exactly headaches, but a sort of oppression." 
 
 "Of course. Just so. Just what I should have guessed." 
 
 "It didn't amount to anything, but it did make me 
 rather nervous, and I didn't want to bother you — so, 
 one time when I was up in London, I consulted a spe- 
 cialist." 
 
 "What specialist?" asked Searle sharply. "Who?" 
 
 "A man called Ashford in Brook Street. Somebody told 
 me that he was very clever." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he's clever enough. But not the only clever 
 doctor in London, or in the country either." Dr. Searle 
 for a moment or two seemed huffed. "Well? What did 
 the talented Ashford give you in exchange for your two 
 guineas ?" 
 
 "He said there was nothing much the matter with me, 
 but I seemed a little run down." 
 
 "Ha! Well, I hope you felt you'd got your money's 
 worth." Then the slight huffiness passed off, and Dr. 
 Searle resumed his friendly, familiar manner. "All right." 
 
 "It was simply that I didn't want to bother you." 
 
 "But if you'd told me first, I could have sent Ashford 
 the usual preliminary information. Specialists aren't ma- 
 gicians, you know. They are not above taking any assist- 
 ance that the family watch-dog can offer them." 
 
 "I've always had supreme confidence in you, Searle. 
 As I think you know." 
 
 "Thank you, Lenny. Well, now, as I said, the past is 
 all over; and what you have to do is to forget it. You 
 
 132 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ought to get away from here. You want change of air, 
 change of scene. You want to make a new start." 
 
 Then Lenny told the doctor what he had already told 
 the man who wrote to him about the club election. He 
 intended to go away, and to stay away for at least a year. 
 He had quite made up his mind to travel; to seek adven- 
 ture. 
 
 "Yes. Excellent," said Dr. Searle. "A voyage round 
 the world is the very thing indicated." 
 
 Lenny often recalled the gist of this conversation. In- 
 deed, he could not forget the seriousness of Searle's air 
 when describing the dangerous character of the experiences 
 through which he had passed. And the more he thought 
 of the doctor's words, the more he felt their truth. He 
 had mercifully escaped from many dangers. His consti- 
 tution had been severely tested. Perhaps, even now, he 
 had not fully recovered from the effects of the long-main- 
 tained ordeal. To a certain extent, some of Searle's por- 
 tentous words haunted him, made him yearn for personal 
 freedom, for absolute peace. 
 
 The desire for rest naturally increased his resolution to 
 settle all business matters with decisive speed. Newall, 
 the solicitor, told him there were no difficulties. All was 
 plain sailing in regard to his succession. 
 
 This was comforting. But even though the solicitor 
 might do his work promptly and effectively, he could not 
 relieve the client of all business cares. There were so many 
 questions that he could not decide quite alone. He was 
 compelled to ask for instructions, and it sometimes seemed 
 that, in spite of fair promises, Lenny was expected to do a 
 lot of the work himself. 
 
 It would be absurd to keep this large house, which could 
 be of no use to a man wandering about the globe; and, 
 indeed, he could not in any event have afforded to retain 
 
 133 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 it. The lease therefore must be sold — perhaps the fur- 
 niture too. Or the furniture might be stored for future 
 use. But then again, it would be scarcely worth while 
 to store the larger pieces of furniture. There would not 
 be room for them in any house that he would be likely 
 to take later on. His means would never permit him to 
 enjoy even a fairly large house again. Then there were 
 all the servants — what could be done with them? They 
 must be paid off and disbanded. And then there was this 
 tremendous problem of the share-and-share-alike arrange- 
 ment — the realization or transference of the immense 
 amount of property that would be required for the endow- 
 ment of Jane and Sarah. 
 
 The secret of Lenny's magnanimous scheme had leaked 
 out locally. It was known that the sisters had been cut 
 out of the will, and, as the local people said, Lenny had 
 reinstated them. Out of sheer generosity, he was dividing 
 the fortune into three, when he might have taken the 
 lot; and as this was truly Lenny's intention, he could not 
 contradict the rumour. One or two friends had attempted 
 to broach the subject with him, and, although he would 
 not of course talk about it, he was tacitly accepting all the 
 fame and all the praise. 
 
 Who had been indiscreet enough to let out the secret? 
 If it was Mr. Newall, he became silent thence onward. 
 
 Jane and Sarah left Westchurch on the day after the 
 funeral ; so they scarcely had time to publish it. 
 
 But the publication did not matter. Lenny could be 
 neither embarrassed nor annoyed by it, for he himself had 
 put the simple fact on record. 
 
 One letter of condolence, which he valued more than 
 all the mass of correspondence that came pouring in, was 
 from his old friend George Verinder. George wrote with 
 most touching sympathy. He had heard of Mr. Calcraft's 
 
 134 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 death by the merest accident. Happening to meet Gerald 
 Dryden in a train on the underground railway, he had 
 been informed of Lenny's sorrow. In the letter he said 
 charming things, as well as kind things. And he concluded 
 in a way that was peculiarly characteristic of his own 
 lofty and chivalrous temperament. 
 
 "From something your poor father once told me, I under- 
 stand that you will be well off: He said with pride and 
 joy that he would leave you at least £2,000 a year. That 
 is a lot of money — golden keys to open stiff doors. A man 
 can do a lot of good or a lot of harm with £2,000 a year. 
 I am sure you will do as much good as you can." 
 
 Lenny, in replying, explained how he was dealing with 
 his father's fortune. 
 
 "I felt that I could do no less. He had trusted me by 
 telling me his wish, and from that moment it became a 
 sacred trust. . . . That is how things stand. So you 
 see, dear old boy, far from having £2,000 a year, I have 
 reduced myself to £900 per annum at the very outside. 
 Of course this is enough for anybody, and I hope that it 
 will allow scope for doing more good than harm." 
 
 George wrote back enthusiastically, almost one might 
 say rapturously. . . . "It may seem a small thing to 
 you, my dear old Lenny, but it would seem a very big thing 
 to most people. But it is the right thing. That was enough 
 for you to know." Then came more praise. "There was 
 never anybody like you, Lenny." 
 
 In a postscript that George added to this letter, he spoke 
 of Gerald Dryden, and in doing so, paid further compli- 
 ments to Lenny. 
 
 "I was very glad to hear from Gerald Dryden that he 
 had got on so well. He seems to have been lucky, and 
 to have dropped into a really good thing. Already a part- 
 ner in the firm, and making his way fast! You know how 
 
 135 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 I took to him, that time when I was with you at West- 
 church. He then seemed very promising material, and 
 you have 'shaped him.' He struck me as a really fine fel- 
 low, with the soundest ideas on all essentials. I tell you 
 this, because I know it will please you to feel that he is 
 doing you credit." 
 
 Time was gliding by. May, June, and now July; the 
 tourist season had begun; and still Lenny had not yet quite 
 come into his own. 
 
 Although Mr. Newall produced sums of money on ac- 
 count, the bulk of the money was not yet accessible to its 
 owner's control. But these cash payments of £100 or so 
 at a time gave one a foretaste of the larger fulfilment that 
 was approaching. 
 
 Lenny noticed a peculiar quality in the sovereigns that 
 he now carried loose in his pockets: something that, to 
 the touch, made them feel different from exactly similar 
 coins that he had fingered in the past. The old money 
 had been given to him; this new money was his very own. 
 But then with the novel feeling came a hitherto unexpe- 
 rienced care. This fund was not inexhaustible, and he 
 could not replenish it merely by making a request. Now 
 and then he reviewed the extent and limit of his resources 
 with a painstaking exactitude. £500 a year to begin with; 
 then £30,000 capital — a little more, really; for the estate 
 would realize a thousand or two more than Mr. Newall 
 had anticipated. £30,000, capital, should yield £1,200 a 
 year, income. But the £1,200 was to be divided into three. 
 £400 a year for Jane; £400 a year for Sarah — that would 
 leave him with £900 a year for himself, all told. If his 
 father had not changed his mind, if he had carried out his 
 original and firmly established intentions, he would almost 
 have succeeded in doing what he told George Verinder with 
 
 136 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 so much pride he earnestly wished to do — that is to say, 
 he would have left his son something very near £2,000 a 
 year. Yes, £500 and £1,200 a year makes £1,700. Those 
 two odd thousands and the proceeds from lease, furniture, 
 personal effects, etc., would have brought it very nearly 
 to the desired figure. 
 
 What a tremendous difference! Lenny thought of it 
 lengthily and seriously. £2,000 a year would have made 
 him feel quite rich; £900 a year seemed merely to place 
 him in the position that he had always occupied. Yes, 
 in sober truth, what with board, lodging, and everything 
 else found, and practically unlimited pocket-money, he had 
 always been living at the rate of about £900 a year. 
 
 Never mind. The trite old proverb offered itself as im- 
 mediate consolation. It's no good crying over spilt milk; 
 and one ought to make the best of things, not the worst 
 of them. 
 
 He resolved to make the very best of things: to Cut his 
 coat according to his cloth; to keep a wise check on ex- 
 penses; to govern the future by prearranged plans, rather 
 than allow himself to be ruled by the hazard of unfore- 
 seen circumstances. 
 
 But for the time being he purposely allowed himself an 
 unrestricted license. Even though Newall's cash payments 
 should properly be considered as capital rather than in- 
 come, he decided to dissipate them freely. They were so 
 little in amount, anyhow, that he could safely disregard 
 their classification in business terms. Besides, he felt sure 
 of himself. He was not the sort of person who would ever 
 gamble or fritter away the capital on which the security 
 of his whole life depended. Though slightly extravagant 
 for the moment, he felt certain that he could pull up short 
 whenever caution became necessary. 
 
 Thus, during the warm June weather, he enjoyed many 
 
 13T 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of the pleasures that affluence can bring. And the first of 
 these was an almost unthinking generosity. 
 
 He gave large presents to poor people, without troubling 
 himself to ascertain whether they were also worthy people. 
 The pleasure lay in the ready gift and the explosion of 
 grateful thanks. He wanted nothing for himself just now. 
 He could not take any part in social amusements. He did 
 not feel disposed for the company that he could obtain at 
 the club. But he liked to walk about in his black clothes; 
 to talk to humble folk, and to hand out sovereigns which 
 surprised and delighted their recipients. He liked, too, to 
 sit at the big desk in the library, and write cheques — cheque 
 after cheque — five or six before noon. One for the hos- 
 pital, one for the lifeboat, one for the fishermen's shelter — 
 one, two, three more for illiterate correspondents, who had 
 ventured to crave some slight aid. 
 
 Great satisfaction in this beneficence — delightful sense 
 of playing Providence on a small scale! When he had 
 closed the cheque-book, he went off in dreams, thinking 
 of what one might do with vast wealth. If he were a mil* 
 lionaire, he would not build schools, endow institutions, 
 or found universities. There was something cold and 
 cheerless about such systematic and remote charity; there 
 could be little glow or warmth of personal pleasure, when 
 one aimed at such distant benefits — to educate unborn chil- 
 dren, to succour sick people who were as yet young and ro- 
 bust, to reach one's hand through darkness and time to do 
 a doubtful good after one had been consigned to the grave. 
 No, the real pleasure would be reaped by personally inter- 
 vening in people's fate. For instance, supposing that among 
 his acquaintance there were a nice young man and a nice 
 young woman who wished to marry, but who were pre- 
 cluded from doing so by want of means — that would be 
 the sort of case to tackle. "You are really fond of each 
 
 138 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 other? You are longing for each other? But fate has 
 ordained that you are to wait indefinitely. All the fresh- 
 ness and joy of life is to be taken from you before you are 
 able to consummate your natural and very proper hope. 
 Very well, here is £400 a year. I have settled it upon you. 
 You may marry to-morrow." That would be to act Provi- 
 dence, oneself. It would give one the fullest measure of 
 gratification that can be extracted from the exercise of 
 power. And one would have the certainty of the direct good 
 one was doing. 
 
 He had this fascinating notion of personating a kind 
 destiny as he interviewed his servants one after another. 
 He had felt that something substantial must be done for 
 each of them, however much it cost, before he finally 
 closed the house; and he now tackled the matter. 
 
 Miss Ferguson, the nurse, had of course gone back to 
 Sister. But he sent a present after her. The cook and 
 two of the maids could be polished off with a handsome 
 donation; but there remained the two maids who had been 
 longest in his father's service — Mary, the old parlourmaid, 
 and Ethel, the nice attentive housemaid who for many 
 years had acted as Lenny's valet. 
 
 Ethel presented an occasion for exactly the kind of in- 
 terposition of which he had been dreaming. She stood 
 before him blushing while she confessed that it was the 
 desire of her heart to cease sweeping and valeting, and go 
 and keep house for the extremely attractive young man who 
 was waiting to lead her tc the altar. Lenny, seated at the 
 big desk, encouraged Ethel to open all her heart to him, 
 and by gentle questioning elicited most of the facts nec- 
 essary to enable him to form a judgment. Ethel's sweet- 
 heart was a grocer's assistant, and he thought that with a 
 very small capital he would be justified in opening a shop 
 on his own account. He even had a shop in his eye. It 
 10 139 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stood at a corner among all those new workmen's houses 
 on the other side of the railway. 
 
 "And how much capital would be necessary to set him 
 up?" 
 
 "He talks of £150, sir. But I have savings of my own, 
 and I don't see but what we could do it for less than that." 
 
 "Very good, Ethel. I will inquire into the matter, and 
 if I find that he is all that you think him to be — well, I'll 
 provide you with the capital." 
 
 "Oh, sir!" Ethel gasped, and then turned pale. Sur- 
 prise and joy overcame her. 
 
 "There, there!" said Lenny magnificently. "Thank me 
 some other time. You have always been a good girl, Ethel, 
 — a very good nice girl, — and I should be sorry to part 
 with you without first showing that I valued your fidelity." 
 
 Then it was the turn of old Mary. Summoned to the 
 library, she stood before him in a convenient position near 
 the big desk. Mary did not blush; she looked at her mas- 
 ter frankly and affectionately. 
 
 "Mary, we must part. But we shall part good friends, 
 I hope." 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir." 
 
 "You were a faithful servant to my father, and he valued 
 you; but he did not mention you in his will." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir! I'm sure I never expected it." 
 
 "He relied on me, Mary. He knew that it would be 
 my wish to carry out his wish. And although he never said 
 what he did in fact wish to be done, I know that he would 
 wish me to treat you handsomely." 
 
 Then he began to ask his questions. Old Mary had no 
 sweetheart. Oh, no, she had left all that nonsense behind 
 her a long time ago. She said she was one of the regular 
 old maids, and she didn't feel ashamed to say so. "The 
 men, unless you get a good one — and the good ones are 
 
 140 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 mighty rare, sir — aren't worth the trouble of bothering 
 about 'em. That's my opinion," said Mary, stoutly; and 
 without a suspicion of sour grapes in her voice or 
 manner. 
 
 Then he asked her which would she like, some money 
 down, or a small annuity. Mary chose the annuity without 
 a moment's hesitation. She hoped to find another place, 
 and to go on working till she got past work ; but the knowl- 
 edge of certain provision for old age would make her ex- 
 tremely blithe and happy. 
 
 Lenny therefore instructed his solicitor to purchase in 
 due course an annuity of £50 a year for Mary. It would 
 cost a lot of money, but it was one of the things that had 
 to be done. 
 
 These interviews and munificences had given him very 
 great pleasure; but now, all at once, he became tired. The 
 effort of cheque-writing exhausted him. He felt unable 
 to write the shortest letter. Extraordinary fatigue and 
 weariness on certain days rendered him incapable of doing 
 anything except sit in his library, or take an evening stroll 
 along the sea-front. 
 
 The month of July opened with great heat, and he began 
 to suffer from headaches. The tourists seemed to have ar- 
 rived earlier than usual this year; perhaps the heat of Lon- 
 don had prematurely driven them to search for cool air; 
 but they didn't find it at Westchurch. Lenny's headaches 
 bothered him; those words of Dr. Searle's haunted him. 
 He felt nostalgic longings for escape. 
 
 August was cooler, and Lenny took longer walks now — 
 but always alone. His bereavement had broken all the 
 old habits of lounging and talking with Westchurch boys 
 and girls, and he could not take up the habits again. It 
 seemed to him that Westchurch and its whole residential 
 
 141 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 population belonged to that chapter of his life which Dr. 
 Searle said he ought to consider closed for ever. 
 
 Novelty was the tonic medicine which he now urgently 
 required. New acquaintances, and not ancient acquaint- 
 ances, were the material amongst which he must seek and 
 find companionship. 
 
 A letter that announced his election to the London club 
 set him thinking. It was a thoroughly good club, and 
 the fact that he had been elected without taking the least 
 trouble rather gratified him. Apparently, his name, and 
 what his proposer and seconder had been able to say to 
 his advantage, had proved ample guarantee. The club- 
 house was a stately building situated near the bottom of 
 St. James's Street, and in his mind's eye he compared its 
 grand facade with the front verandahs, the red-tiled roof, 
 and the glass doors of the little club here. He remem- 
 bered how, walking up and down St. James's Street, he 
 had caught glimpses of the hall and staircase, and how, 
 knowing that one day he would become a member, he 
 had noticed the sort of men who went in and out. They 
 were an extremely good sort; prosperous, substantial, even 
 distinguished-looking; not very old and not too young, just 
 the sort of fellows one likes to associate with. He knew 
 the man who proposed him, and the man who seconded 
 him, but he doubted if he was personally acquainted with 
 a single other member. So much the better. In his pres- 
 ent state of mind, that was exactly what he wanted — 
 heaps of agreeable strangers with whom to exchange fresh 
 and entertaining ideas. 
 
 The stimulating effect produced by chatting with a com- 
 plete stranger was brought home to him very forcibly one 
 afternoon towards the end of August. 
 
 He had walked round the back of the golf links, and 
 was on his way to the sea again, when he came through a 
 
 142 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 circus encampment in the corner of the common near to 
 the gas-works. This was the traditional spot for such 
 itinerant performers. His path led him close by the huge 
 circus tent, and he paused to study the characteristic scene. 
 Then he wandered among the vans, interested and amused 
 by everything that he saw. The vans were of all sizes — 
 some quite gigantic; and from one or two there issued an 
 oppressive mangy smell of wild beasts in captivity. There 
 were trucks too, already packed with the brightly coloured 
 woodwork that composed the decorated cars used just now 
 in the circus procession. Draught horses dragged their 
 hobbles as they nibbled at the dried grass, and beyond a 
 clump of gorse bushes he could see a couple of picketed 
 elephants. Nearly all the grooms and attendants were en- 
 gaged in the performance, but Lenny noticed two or three 
 decent-looking women, and a man with a little camp fire 
 and an iron pot who was evidently cooking his afternoon 
 meal. 
 
 The sun shone brightly, but it was not too hot out here. 
 In the tent the heat must be unbearable, yet the audience 
 did not seem to mind it. One heard loud garish music, 
 the slow thud of a cantering horse, and every now and then 
 a roar of laughter, and the clapping of hands. 
 
 Three little boys from the cottages by the gas-works 
 had lifted the canvas, and were lying on the turf, spell- 
 bound, fascinated, although in this position they could ob- 
 tain no more substantial delights than the sound of music 
 and laughter, and the smell of earth and dust. 
 
 While Lenny was watching the little boys' backs, the 
 pay-box custodian came round the canvas wall from the 
 entrance, and shouted angrily: 
 
 "Run away, ye young devils! What d'ye mean by it? 
 What d'ye think you can see there? Run away before I 
 fetch a stick and warm you up!" 
 
 143 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny would not allow the boys to be driven off so 
 brutally. He told their enemy that they were to go inside; 
 gave them money for admission, and they darted away to 
 the entrance with a chorus of treble thanks. 
 
 Then the cooking man came and talked to Lenny. He 
 was a queer weather-beaten fellow, with rings in his ears, 
 eyes as bright as a bird's, and an odd way of jerking his 
 head for emphasis. 
 
 "You settled that little difficulty, sir." And the man 
 grinned amicably. "We can't afford to put anybody on 
 the free list nowadays. Times are not what they were in 
 our profession." 
 
 "No, I suppose not." 
 
 "You won't see much more of us, sir. We're a nakran- 
 ism." And the man grinned more broadly. "Know the 
 word, sir?" 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny, smiling. "I think I know the word." 
 
 "Greek, isn't it? That's what the bloke as told me 
 about it said it was." And the man went on to describe a 
 mealy-mouthed visitor, who had come to see the circus at 
 a town on the sea-coast sixty miles away. "He steps out- 
 side during the ongtrack — you know, the take-it-easy — and 
 gets on the jaw, friendty-like, same as you and me are doing 
 now, and says, 'My friend, you mayn't know it, but you're 
 a nakranism.' 'What's that?' I ses. 'Oh, Greek,' he ses, 
 a word sinifying what's past its purpose.' See? Well, I 
 sized it up he meant we were a bit of a nuisance, coming 
 into the town any time of night or morning, and interfering 
 with traffic by our mid-day procesh. But he goes on, 'Other 
 nakranisms are kings and queens.' 'Oh,' I ses, 'leave it at 
 that, ole pal. I don't mind if I'm in sich good company.' 
 
 "But he goes on again about the circus itself. He could 
 get it off the tongue pretty nippy — a scholar, I mean. 
 
 144 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Well, he ses, 'A whole literture 'as grown up about you 
 dwellers in tents, you caravan folk, you gypsies.' 'Gypsies 
 be damned,' I ses. 'Don't you call names, mister.' And 
 I looked him pretty straight up and down. You know, 
 sir. Showin' 'im I meant business if necessary. Lord 'ow 
 'e squirmed — apologisin', askin' me not to be 'asty, but 
 keep my temper and listen. 'Oh, yes,' I ses, 'I'll listen; 
 but don't you make no mistake. Everybody as understands 
 a 'orse, and rides in a cart, isn't a gypsy, any more'n every- 
 body as wears a top 'at and a black coat isn't a gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 "Then the man laughed heartily, screwed up his face, 
 and nodded his head. 
 
 "But there's no two ways about it, sir. We're a dam' 
 nuisance on the road. We got our big trolly with the 
 Brittannia stuff hitched acrost the road for two hours 
 this morning, between 'ere and the harbour." 
 
 Lenny gave the man a cigar. The man pleased him. 
 He seemed so entirely natural, and with such an individual 
 turn of philosophy and humour. He was hard and wiry; 
 inured to toil; a creature of activity, who eats little, sleeps 
 little, and yet is always mentally and physically fit. More- 
 over, Lenny had an intuitive comprehension that although 
 no doubt he would fight and drink and lie, and possibly 
 even steal, he was, nevertheless, fundamentally a real good 
 sort. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the man, as he took the cigar. 
 "I shall put this in my face and smoke your 'ealth on the 
 next erpropriate opportunity." 
 
 Then the man began to tell anecdotes, leading off with 
 a very old story — about a drunkard who involved himself 
 in a nocturnal altercation with an elephant. Confused 
 by the similarity between the two ends of the animal, wor- 
 ried first by the tail and then by the trunk, he had at last 
 
 145 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 hiccoughed out this threat, "You two-tailed blackguard, 
 if I knew which was your head I'd punch it." 
 
 "You have heard that before, sir. Chestnuts, eh?" 
 
 But then the man told tales that were fresher and more 
 diverting — about personal experiences, the young ladies who 
 performed in the arena, the boss and his missus; — arid 
 gradually Lenny was amused. The man's dryness and 
 shrewdness tickled him, and he laughed. Finally something 
 the man had said made Lenny laugh with intense enjoy- 
 ment. Indeed he could not stop laughing; and the man 
 was so naively pleased with his success that he continued 
 to press the point of the jest. Lenny's eyes were full of 
 tears, his chest began to ache; he was almost doubled up 
 by laughter. Really it seemed like an hysterical access, 
 or a long-delayed explosion of emotional energy. At last 
 he pulled himself together, wiped his eyes, and became pre- 
 ternaturally grave. He had suddenly remembered his 
 father's death. The incongruity, the heartlessness, the 
 cruelty of laughing so soon, brought a painful feeling of 
 shame and regret. He took leave of the man at once. 
 
 "Good-day to you," and he spoke now with a rather pom- 
 pous sympathy, "and good luck to you. I am afraid that 
 on the whole yours is a hard life." 
 
 "Well, yes, sir; but after all, it's life. We're on the 
 move. That is the great thing, isn't it, sir, to feel you're 
 free even when you are a slave?" 
 
 Lenny gave the man half a sovereign; slipped it deli- 
 cately into his brown hand. 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't cadging, sir. But I thank you. It's 
 thirsty weather." 
 
 Then presently he ran after Lenny. 
 
 "Sir! This ain't a tanner, it's 'alf a thick 'un. You've 
 made a mistake." 
 
 "No mistake," said Lenny. "Good luck to you." 
 146 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He could not get this chance talk out of his mind. He 
 could not forget the fit of laughter. Next day he had a 
 bad headache, and still he thought of the stranger's idle 
 words. 
 
 To feel free even though you are a slave! But what 
 about being free, and yet feeling yourself a slave? 
 
 He was free, and he must enjoy his freedom; that was 
 imperative. Dr. Searle said so. There was risk, there was 
 danger, in the failure to emancipate himself from care and 
 worry. 
 
 Moved by a sudden impulse he went around to the solici- 
 tor's office, and told Mr. Newall that he was to complete 
 all Calcraft business without further instructions. 
 
 "Finish it," he said peremptorily, and yet querulously. 
 "Finish it as best you can. Get rid of the house, sell the 
 furniture — do the best you can for me. I must be free, 
 I am worn out. I am leaving for London to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Of course there had been great talk in Westchurch as 
 to what he would do. Would Westchurch lose him alto- 
 gether, or might it hope to retain him as something that 
 it could still count on as more or less its own? No doubt, 
 sooner or later, he would tell his old friends what he had 
 decided. But he evaded all leave-taking — he simply could 
 not face it. He was too tired. 
 
 Early promenaders on the front saw that the blinds were 
 down again at No. i, The Crescent. It gave people a 
 shock; but tradesmen's boys were able to say that nothing 
 dreadful had happened. The house was merely shut up. 
 Thus Westchurch learned with consternation that it had 
 lost him. 
 
XV 
 
 HE had been in London five weeks, and still he had 
 settled no arrangements for his tour of adventure. 
 He was staying at one of those great hotels near 
 Charing Cross; and, walking from his hotel to his club, he 
 often stopped outside the windows of the tourist agents, 
 looked at the pictures of ocean liners, read notices about 
 transcontinental trains, and dreamed of far-off and once 
 mysterious lands that have become so easily accessible to 
 modern travellers. He intended soon to go into the agents' 
 office and demand specific information, but he put off doing 
 this from day to day. 
 
 He liked his club — liked it more and more, liked it im- 
 mensely. It was spacious, splendid, reposeful; and excel- 
 lently managed by a vigilant committee and an untiring sec- 
 retary. Everything in it, large or small, pleased him: from 
 the vast silent library with its ingenious book rests and luxu- 
 rious couches to the weighing machine in the hall with its 
 small padded seat and the volume that invited members to 
 enter their weights for future reference. He was picking up 
 acquaintances too. He had done wonderfully well in this 
 respect. 
 
 "Good-morning, Calcraft." 
 
 "Are you for a game of billiards, Calcraft?" 
 
 "Dining here to-night, Calcraft?" 
 
 These recognitions, so promptly secured, were most pleas- 
 ing to the ear. Once as he passed through the long coffee 
 room, nine members at different tables greeted him. All 
 
 148 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the servants knew him already. There was never the 
 slightest trouble about his letters or telegrams. He felt 
 altogether comfortable — so far as the club was concerned. 
 
 But in other respects he still experienced discomfort. 
 There was a perpetual burden on his spirits, and it pre- 
 vented them from rising to the pitch of lightness that one 
 might reasonably have expected ere this. He continued to 
 feel uneasy about the general state of his health. There 
 was nothing the matter with his appetite, and he slept well ; 
 but there had been recurrence of the dull head pains, an ach- 
 ing heaviness that seemed like the physical counterpart of 
 an oppressive idea. 
 
 He told people, if they made polite inquiries, that he felt 
 anything but well. He told Mrs. Fletcher so, when she 
 remarked that he looked thinner. 
 
 She lived in a new red-brick house close to Sloane Street; 
 and after she had twice reminded him of his promise, he 
 fulfilled it by paying a ceremonious call. 
 
 A tall young footman opened the door, and a charmingly 
 dressed maid-servant ushered him up the stairs. His first 
 rapid glances of inspection persuaded Lenny that this was 
 a home of really considerable affluence. The house was 
 much bigger inside than he had anticipated while standing 
 on the front door steps. A nice square hall, oak panelling, 
 blue and white china; half way up the shallow stairs a pic- 
 ture by Tadema ; on the landing a much-engraved and popu- 
 lar Burne-Jones, and a Leighton that he remembered from 
 childhood; at the threshold of the drawing-room he had an 
 impression of varied treasures, as in a bric-a-brac shop — 
 and he understood exactly why there was this queer com- 
 bination of smart footman and female butler. The foot- 
 man was a necessity, to drive out with the carriage; but 
 Mrs. Fletcher, as an unprotected woman living by herself, 
 would not be bothered with the supervision and government 
 
 149 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of men-servants. Obviously she could afford to keep half a 
 dozen men, had she desired to do so. 
 
 That was his thought as she came across the rich and 
 pretty room to welcome him. 
 
 "En fin!" And she looked at him with the interrogative 
 expression that had nearly faded from his memory. "I am 
 doubly fortunate, since you never announced your kind in- 
 tention. I might have been out." 
 
 "Or might have said you were out;" and the visitor 
 smiled gravely. "That is the custom with you fine London 
 ladies, isn't it?" 
 
 "It's not my custom — and I'm not a fine lady. When- 
 ever I'm at home I'm always glad to see any one who comes. 
 But I never ask people to come — unless I want to see them. 
 Sit down, and let us have a talk before anyone disturbs us." 
 
 She had a dress of grey velvet, the bodice cut rather low, 
 with a lace collar; and round her neck, half hiding beneath 
 the lace, there was a single row of large pearls. Her eyes 
 seemed bluer and her lips redder than he remembered; 
 but his memory received a sudden stimulus when he noticed 
 again that faint sweet odour of violets. There were none 
 of the flowers pinned to her breast to-day, and he could not 
 see any of them about the room. 
 
 "You got my letter," she asked — "the one I ventured 
 to send you at Westchurch ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was quite the nicest I received." 
 
 "What can one say at such times?" 
 
 "You said everything possible." 
 
 He did not in fact recall a word of the letter; but he knew 
 that all the words had been neatly turned, well chosen, and 
 full of sympathy. And she was extraordinarily sympathetic 
 now, dropping her voice as she spoke of the bereavement, 
 and softening the outlook of her blue eyes. He felt much 
 more drawn to her than when he spent those two hours 
 
 150 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 at the Esplanade Hotel ; and the notion came to him vaguely 
 that if to-day she indulged in confidences, he would be per- 
 mitted to give any sort of expression to his soothing or con- 
 solatory attempts. There would be no abrupt checkings or 
 withdrawals or proud reticences. 
 
 "I couldn't help writing to you — I was thinking about 
 you. I know what it meant to you. ... It must have 
 been a terrible blow." 
 
 They had seated themselves side by side on a highly dec- 
 orative French sofa; but at this direct reference to his grief 
 he got up, as if automatically, and slowly walked about 
 the room. 
 
 "Yes, terrible;" and he spoke in a low meditative tone. 
 "The blow was most terrible. ... I thought it was 
 more than I could bear. I thought I should never get over 
 it." 
 
 "I understand. I was sorry — very sorry." 
 
 Her voice had dropped to a whisper: it was soft as a 
 caress. The depth of her sympathy delighted Lenny. 
 
 "My whole life seemed to tumble to pieces. There 
 seemed no reason why I should go on living." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that." 
 
 "It was what I felt. But then — then I began " He 
 
 left the sentence unfinished. Moving to and fro, he had 
 found himself in front of a Venetian mirror, and his thought 
 immediately wandered. A large, well-built man, looking 
 sad but dignified; a sun-burnt, well-groomed man, with 
 moustache accurately trimmed, hair perfectly parted, rather 
 high, on right side of head; a well-dressed man, with thin 
 black lines on the peep of shirt below the black tie and the 
 pearl pin — himself! He turned from the glass, and touched 
 his coat and waistcoat explanatorily. "Each time that I see 
 these black clothes, the thought of their significance brings 
 back all my sorrow — as though it were yesterday." 
 
 151 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Don't think of your black clothes," she said, softly and 
 kindly. 
 
 "No, I must try not to;" and he slowly returned to her, 
 and stood by the sofa. 
 
 "Shall I describe how you are dressed?" She had half 
 closed her eyes, and was looking up at him. "You are 
 wearing that mantle, Mr. Calcraft. It is grander than be- 
 fore. Its folds are deeper; it sweeps along the ground, and 
 makes you so majestic that I am almost afraid of you." 
 
 He flushed slightly and stared down at her. What on 
 earth did she mean? Her mystical compliment gratified, 
 but confused him. 
 
 "I told you," she went on, smiling, "that the praise of 
 your friends and your own good deeds had woven a mantle 
 for you — and that I admired it. Well, you have provided 
 further material for the loom, and the mantle is larger — 
 and I admire it still more." 
 
 Then he understood that she was alluding to his munifi- 
 cent endowment of the sisters. Miss Workman no doubt 
 had supplied this information. 
 
 "Oh," he said, with some embarrassment, "you mustn't 
 believe all you hear. One's friends get a trick of exag- 
 gerating, and they talk a lot of nonsense." 
 
 "You have been lucky in your friends, Mr. Calcraft. 
 . . . Please sit down. I want you to tell me what you 
 are doing, what you intend to do. . . . I mean to re- 
 main in London as long as I can — until the fogs drive me 
 away." 
 
 Lenny resumed his place on the sofa; but the arrival of 
 another visitor made him get up directly. 
 
 The newcomer was a fat, placid, sumptuously attired 
 woman of middle age. She seemed to be quite an old 
 friend, or possibly a relative; for she kissed Mrs. Fletcher 
 and called her "my dear Helen." 
 
 U2 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Don't go, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 Lenny, having risen, did not propose to sit down again. 
 He politely lingered for two minutes ; and then, feeling that 
 he had duly honoured his introduction to the fat lady, he 
 judged that he was at liberty to withdraw. 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher came out to the landing, and talked to 
 him at the top of the stairs. 
 
 "It is difficult," said Lenny, affecting the air of an ama- 
 teur, "to pass these lovely pictures without stopping. This 
 is a splendid thing — Leighton at his best." 
 
 "Do you like it?" she said carelessly. "I never cared for 
 the English school. My husband was a collector — but we 
 had no tastes in common." 
 
 "No? But I am sure all the pretty furniture is your 
 taste. I think the whole house is charming. That fine 
 hall is such a feature. I thought at once, it is like a coun- 
 try house in London." 
 
 "Oh, no. It is like a London house and nothing else," 
 and she laughed, and gave her little shiver of pretended 
 alarm. "Why will you say these things?" 
 
 "On my honour, I mean them." 
 
 "No you don't. It would be too dreadful if you did. 
 You know perfectly well you were using the cant phrase. 
 This is the pattern medium-sized house of the last decade; 
 there are thousands exactly like it, and a million people, 
 observing the familiar pattern, have said 'How unusualf 
 Such a nice hall — quite a little country house in the middle 
 of London!' You oughtn't to say what everybody else says. 
 Be firm with yourself, and throw away all your battered 
 old stereos." 
 
 "You are very severe — but I must try to enlarge my 
 vocabulary." 
 
 "No, cut it down. Very few words are enough for what 
 one really thinks. . . . Good-bye, Mr. Lenny — I 
 
 153 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 mean, Mr. Calcraft;" and then she paused to laugh. "Do 
 you know, I thought it was your only name at first. That 
 dear old soul, Miss Workman, spoke of you as Mr. Lenny." 
 
 "Yes, my pals always call me Lenny. I like it." And 
 he added, from force of habit, scarcely aware of what he 
 was saying, "I wish you'd call me Lenny." 
 
 "Oh, but we're not pals;" and she looked at him smil- 
 ingly and frankly. "Perhaps I will, one day — if we ever 
 reach the stage of being pals. But I don't believe in forc- 
 ing the pace at the beginning of a friendship." 
 
 Yet perhaps truly, although he did not recognize the fact, 
 she had forced the pace to a considerable extent already. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Calcraft. But you'll come and see me 
 soon again, won't you?" And it was then that she said 
 he had grown thinner. Her eyebrows were arched, and the 
 blue eyes expressed a close attention. "You mayn't know 
 it, but you're thinner." 
 
 "Am I? I'm anything but well." 
 
 Her last words had gratified him enormously. He de- 
 rived a most flattering pleasure from the idea that she had 
 carried a mental portrait so faithful and accurate as now 
 to be ready at her service for purposes of comparison with 
 the bodily presence. 
 
 "Don't let yourself get ill. London is a very healthy 
 place. By the way, you haven't told me if you intend 
 to be here for long. You haven't said a word of your 
 plans. What are your plans?" 
 
 "They are all in abeyance. I am quite chaotic just now." 
 
 "Well, let me know when you have made order in chaos." 
 
 Then she laughed once more, lightly, pleasantly, and 
 went back to the neglected fat lady. 
 
 Lenny, going down stairs, heard the rustle of her silk 
 petticoat, caught a glimpse of her shoes and ankles, and 
 smelt the perfume of violets. 
 
 1,54 
 
XVI 
 
 AFTER all, what is the good of making plans for the 
 immediate future, while the great problem of one's 
 whole life remains unsolved? 
 The St. James's Street club was peculiarly attractive 
 to Lenny on Saturday afternoons. At the luncheon hour 
 the coffee room had more people in it than at any other 
 period of the week; and as soon as luncheon was over many 
 men went straight to the billiard room and the card-room, 
 and stayed there comfortably and jollily, even when the 
 weather was fine and warm. They told servants to shut out 
 the daylight, and they made their own sunshine — the bright- 
 ness and warmth created by relaxation of mind, congenial 
 companionship, and idle amusement. 
 
 But one Saturday afternoon, when September had nearly 
 run its course and the club was delightfully full, Lenny 
 with reluctance tore himself away from the crowded bil- 
 liard-room, and went forth into the open air. 
 "What! Not going, Calcraft?" 
 "Yes, — but I hope to be back before long." 
 A cab took him northward and westward, further and 
 further from the club, and in every half mile his spirits 
 sank lower. He dismissed the cab outside a block of cheap 
 flats in a desperately uninteresting street near Paddington 
 railway station, and wearily entered the commonplace build- 
 ing. No lift — he slowly climbed the stone staircase, stopped 
 outside a well-remembered door, and rang the electric bell, 
 "Is Miss Reed at home?" 
 11 155 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, sir," said the maid-servant. "She has gone out." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Miss Shipham is in, sir." 
 
 Then he heard Frances Shipham's voice close at hand. 
 "Is that somebody for me?" said Frances shrilly. "Some- 
 body from the Girls' Roundabout? . . . Who is it?" 
 
 He felt compelled to answer, although he would have 
 preferred to hurry down the stone stairs. 
 
 "It is Lenny Calcraft." 
 
 "Oh, come in, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 And he was constrained to accept the invitation and join 
 Miss Shipham in the principal room of the exiguous little 
 flat. 
 
 "How unfortunate!" said Frances. "Alma hadn't a 
 ghost of an idea you were coming. She'll be so dreadfully 
 disappointed. Oh, I wish you'd told her to expect 
 you." 
 
 "I was uncertain if I would be able to come — so I didn't 
 like to make an appointment, for fear of breaking it." 
 
 "If only you could have come a little earlier! Alma 
 hasn't been gone above thirty minutes. I believe she half 
 hoped that she'd get a wire from you — but then she gave 
 it up." 
 
 "I might possibly overtake her. Do you know where 
 she was going?" 
 
 "She didn't say. She very often walks across to the 
 South Kensington Museum. She is fond of Kensington 
 Gardens — sometimes she goes into the old palace." 
 
 "Would she be alone — or was she going to meet any- 
 one?" 
 
 "Oh, no;" and Frances shot a quick penetrating glance 
 at him from behind her pince-nez. "If you find her, you'll 
 find her quite alone." 
 
 "Then I think I'll walk that way — on the chance." 
 
 156 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But he was not allowed to escape without having a little 
 talk with Alma's friend. 
 
 "Stop one minute," said Frances. "I must show you 
 a new photograph of her. / had it done. I wanted a 
 really good one, for myself. There," and she handed him 
 a photograph frame. "I call that a very good one, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes— excellent." 
 
 "Of course it doesn't do her justice." 
 
 "It seems to me an excellent likeness." 
 
 "I'm glad you think so." Miss Shipham took the photo- 
 graph from him again, and, with her head a little on one 
 side, examined it at close range. "It's like, and unlike. 
 It hasn't caught her look. The expression is somehow too 
 determined, too self-reliant. What I miss is that sweet 
 trustful expression — something in dear Alma that always 
 reminds me of a child. But perhaps it wasn't the photog- 
 rapher's fault. Alma perhaps wasn't looking herself." And 
 once more Miss Shipham glanced quickly at Lenny's face. 
 "The fact is, Mr. Calcraft, Alma hasn't been herself of 
 late." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No. I have felt rather anxious about her. ... I 
 don't want to detain you; but won't you sit down for a 
 minute?" 
 
 Frances Shipham was a thin, freckled, sandy young wom- 
 an ; and Lenny thought that at no time of their acquaintance 
 had he seen her so untidy and unprepossessing as now. Her 
 hair, badly parted in the middle and carelessly drawn back 
 into a great blob on the neck, flopped loose over her ears. 
 Two buttons or hooks of her blouse had come undone; one 
 part of her short skirt was much lower than other parts, 
 and a queer hiatus caused by this irregularity showed beneath 
 her leather waist-belt; her shoes, much trodden down at heel, 
 
 157 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 were shockingly old and shabby; her right forefinger was 
 stained with ink — even her pince-nez sat awkwardly and 
 lopsidedly on her thin nose. 
 
 As he knew, she was really a refined, cultivated creature, 
 a lady by birth, accustomed to the ways of good society, 
 and she could smarten herself up surprisingly for a restau- 
 rant dinner or an evening at the play; but the Bohemian 
 influences of the newspaper world had made her neglect her 
 personal appearance in this fearful manner when out of the 
 public eye. Her voice was high-pitched, and her utterance 
 as a rule rapid — she gabbled quite clever thoughts just as 
 she wrote them down on paper, putting them into vivid 
 journalistic style as fast as she could. This afternoon, how- 
 ever, she spoke slowly and jerkily, without any fluency, 
 seeming to seek for phrases, and to hesitate and check her- 
 self frequently, as if apprehensive of saying too much or 
 desirous of enticing questions in regard to her exact 
 meaning. 
 
 "I'm sure you know how intensely I admire — and love 
 — Alma; but perhaps you don't know how much it has 
 been to me to have her here — as the dearest friend and 
 best companion one could possibly have." 
 
 He sat silent on the very uncomfortable three-cornered 
 chair she had offered him, smiled, nodded his head in sign 
 of acquiescence; but gave no aid when she hesitated, and 
 asked no questions when she paused. He had a sudden rec- 
 ollection of a silly juvenile game called the Stool of Re- 
 pentance. You are forced to sit and listen to various im- 
 pertinent remarks — and good play at this game consists in 
 taking everything calmly, and not losing your temper. 
 
 Yet if Frances Shipham was being impertinent now, it 
 was in a very subtle and indirect manner. She merely 
 sang the praises of Alma Reed, as she had always done 
 for many years. 
 
 158 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "She is so versatile, so brilliant — an ideal companion. 
 Of course when two women are cooped up together per- 
 petually, there must be some friction — little jarrings of 
 temperament — an occasional tiff — differences of opinion that 
 lead to absurd wrangles: — that is, ordinarily. But Alma 
 can't sulk — it is an impossibility to her. Her mind is too 
 big." 
 
 He nodded his head and smiled. In truth he scarcely 
 listened. The aspect of the room was carrying him away 
 to hours spent in it long ago. It was very much as it had 
 been when he first saw it. The same writing table — Miss 
 Shipham's laborious corner — with litter of printers' proofs, 
 file copies of the Girls' Roundabout and other feminine 
 journals; the cheap artistic armchairs, cushions, and curtains; 
 the rickety bamboo bookcases, crushed by the weight of 
 massed volumes; the black and white sketches — originals of 
 newspaper illustrations — framed and unframed, against the 
 sage green wall; — and, yes, there were the portfolios and 
 drawing boards that appertained to Miss Shipham's strange 
 hobby of map-making. Nothing changed; but here and 
 there small additions perceptible: trifles that belonged to 
 Alma — presents that he had given to her, — a china bon-bon 
 box, a bronze pin tray, a Swiss eight-day watch in a Japa- 
 nese case. 
 
 The room with its principal contents was indelibly 
 printed on the soft matter of his brain. It would be there 
 — revivable or inaccessible — as long as he lived. While he 
 remembered anything, he would remember it as the setting 
 of a little scene that had been of importance — a crisis or 
 turning point — in the wonderful unfolding mystery of that 
 vast dramatic pageant, the life-experience of Lenny Calcraft. 
 
 "The finest nature I have ever known." Frances went 
 on with the song of praise. "I spoke of quarrels and mis- 
 understandings — but personally I couldn't quarrel with 
 
 159 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Alma. I should be miserable if I thought a misunderstand- 
 ing had arisen. I wouldn't rest one moment till I had 
 cleared it up. I should never forgive myself, Mr. Calcraft, 
 if I ever made Alma suffer." 
 
 "No, no. She has often said how kind you are." 
 
 "I do my best — but — well, one has to be careful with 
 such natures as hers. She is extremely sensitive — extremely 
 proud, of course, too. Honestly, I have done all I could. 
 I have tried not to be selfish — to make her happy. But — 
 but Alma is not very happy." 
 
 "No? She wrote to me — most cheerfully — only two 
 or three days ago." 
 
 "Ah — but there it is. People like Alma are too proud to 
 complain — however one treats them." 
 
 "But, Miss Shipham, I'm sure you treat her with the 
 utmost consideration." 
 
 "Yes — but I am not everybody." 
 
 "No, no — of course not." Lenny moved uneasily on 
 the stool of repentance. "I've always been rather afraid 
 of those people." 
 
 "What people? Oh, the Hygienic Home Association! 
 Between you and me, Mr. Calcraft, I think her work there 
 has been of great value — especially just lately. It is very 
 hard work — she is so clever that they keep her slaving at 
 their new pamphlets — she is responsible for half their 
 pamphlets; — but on the whole I'm glad of the work. It 
 has occupied her thoughts — and has prevented her from 
 brooding on any private causes of sadness. If you ask me 
 why I say that " 
 
 Lenny did not ask her. He had risen from the three- 
 cornered chair; and, holding out his hand, he apologized 
 for being in a hurry. 
 
 "Please tell Alma I called, and was very sorry to miss 
 her." 
 
 160 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Yes, I'll give her any messages. . . . What were 
 you going to add?" 
 
 "You might say, I'll settle something definite for next 
 Saturday." 
 
 "Oh! Won't you be able to take her out anywhere to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "No, I fear — not to-morrow." 
 
 "Of course," said Miss Shipham, staring at him through 
 the tilted pince-nez, "I hope that you'll be lucky and find 
 her now — this afternoon." 
 
 "Yes. Let me see. Where did you say was the most 
 likely place? Kensington Gardens?" 
 
 "Yes — or in the palace. They don't shut the palace till 
 five o'clock. Failing the palace — I should try the museum, 
 if I were you." 
 
 As he walked along the raised pavement by Paddington 
 Station, he thought Frances Shipham had permitted herself 
 to be impertinent, troublesome, and interfering. Then, at 
 sight of a prowling hansom, he thought of something else. 
 
 Promptly hailing the cab, he drove straight back to the 
 St. James's Street club. 
 
XVII 
 
 THE burden on his spirits was Alma. Nothing else. 
 During those long empty years she had been of in- 
 estimable value — a solace, a support, the unfailing 
 source from which he derived strength to endure the fatigue 
 and vapidity of life; but now she was simply useless to him. 
 He was fond of her, but he did not want her. That 
 summed it up. It was a weariness to meet her. He dreaded 
 each meeting. 
 
 One morning in the club library he thought, with a seri- 
 ous analytical effort, of all these things. He had just 
 fetched La Vie Parisienne from the table of foreign journals, 
 and was about to look at it, when the oppressive recollection 
 of Alma suddenly spoiled his quiet enjoyment. He took 
 a chair by one of the windows, let the paper slip from his 
 hand, and looked down into the street. There was the 
 world, rolling by — the wide world open to him; and yet 
 here was he, sitting motionless, and suffering the old 
 prison-sensations; not free, far from it; chained — behind 
 bars — confined in narrow space; still feeling like the eagle 
 on a perch, or the lion in a cage. 
 
 Gradually the animated view of St. James's Street grew 
 dull, grew blank, and vanished. His gaze had become in- 
 trospective. And before he moved again, he saw in vividly 
 clear pictures the whole past history of his relations with 
 Alma Reed. 
 
 An empty road and horses galloping towards him, — 
 the runaway phaeton,-t-the heroic deed! That was the 
 
 162 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 beginning of everything. She wrote to thank him for pre- 
 serving her life, and old Reed wrote to ask him to dinner. 
 
 He found pleasure in looking at her, in talking to her, 
 in hearing her voice. All that he could see of her, all that 
 he could guess about her, gave him delight — her tallness 
 and her slenderness, her white skin and her dark hair; 
 her cleverness, her kindness, her romantic enthusiasms; her 
 quick intelligence and her slim waist; her gracious smile 
 and her long legs; her way of walking, of laughing, even 
 her way of eating dinner. Merely to sit by her side at 
 the Reed banquet was the cause of such satisfaction that 
 he could patiently listen to her idiotic father while he ex- 
 plained at interminable length a new theory of the golf 
 swing. So long as Alma would go on smiling, fingering 
 breadcrumbs, or trifling with a dessert fork, Mr. Reed 
 might go on chattering his otherwise intolerable nonsense. 
 
 Thus he had started the pleasant little flirtation. On 
 Sundays he used to wait for her outside the Catholic 
 church. He could see it all now, bright and strong, and 
 full of detail — the whitewashed wall with a patch of loose 
 plaster, the three broad steps before the entrance, the doors 
 with frayed black leather, and the gold cross high in the 
 sunlight. As he stood on the steps, he smelt the incense, 
 heard the Latin song and the strange music — felt, as so 
 many good Protestants feel, the charm of an alien faith, the 
 seductive splendour of Rome, the insidious fascination of 
 something glorious but incomprehensible. And then, among 
 the throng of meaningless faces and ungainly figures, pretty, 
 graceful Alma came out to him. She had been steeped in 
 the mystery; the glamour lay upon her; so that she re- 
 mained grave and silent, with slow regular breath, and 
 eyes not yet shining. And they walked away together, feel- 
 ing quite alone, though the common Sunday crowd brushed 
 their elbows. 
 
 163 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Then theie was the dance at the Esplanade Hotel. He 
 could see her now — dressed in white, looking very young 
 and slender. She had a pretty chaplet across her brow, 
 some arrangement of silver leaves and bands that made her 
 hair seem darker; silver beads and veilings about the white 
 shoulders; nothing of ornament on the white neck and 
 bosom — but her eyes shining like immense liquid gems. 
 When they left the hot and noisy ball-room and went down 
 the quiet corridor, they passed a glass door through which 
 one caught a glimpse of the sea. It was calm and unruffled, 
 with moonbeams making a silver path across its depths — 
 and he told her that she herself was like moonlight on a 
 dark sea. He remembered just how he said it — a happy 
 thought finding ready utterance. Tawdry decorations, 
 Chinese lanterns, palms — and, at the end of the corridor, 
 the screened sitting-out place that he sought. 
 
 Freshness, pureness, youth, trustfully and momentarily 
 yielding to his wish and his will — that was the import of 
 all the brain messages as he took her in his arms and kissed 
 her. It was the lightest and most unsensual embrace; and 
 after it they stood smiling at one another, happily and in- 
 nocently. He was like a man who has abandoned his habit 
 of strong drink, and found himself refreshed and inspirited 
 by a draught of sparkling water. 
 
 "Alma," he said, "you must call me Lenny now. It 
 would be silly not to." 
 
 She laughed before she answered. 
 
 "You take a great deal for granted — Lenny." 
 
 And then they went back to the ball-room, and danced, 
 and danced, and danced. 
 
 That first kiss was like the delicate seal upon a pre- 
 liminary treaty of mutual confidence and affection. Nobody 
 inquired what his further intentions might be. Nobody 
 interfered with either of them. On Sundays the family 
 
 164 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 worshipped at the Parish Church; on week-days old Reed 
 played golf and Mrs. Reed educated her children. It was 
 easy to get hold of Alma by herself whenever one wanted 
 to. 
 
 Then the thing broadened, deepened, and became diffi- 
 cult. 
 
 Haven Lodge had once been a solitary farmhouse stand- 
 ing in the midst of open fields that stretched from the 
 town to the river. Now it was surrounded by roads and 
 buildings, almost the poorest part of Westchurch ; but some 
 attributes of its peaceful agricultural past lingered about 
 the old house. An orchard and a paddock still remained 
 to it; there were clipped yew trees on either side of the 
 iron gate; and fine red-brick walls of an ancient kitchen 
 garden secured it from the observation of passers-by in 
 River Lane. The lane was Lenny's meeting-ground. Alma 
 used to come through the orchard to join him; and, turning 
 their backs on the fashionable sea- front, they would stroll 
 down unfrequented paths to the river. 
 
 He remembered his last stroll with her as well as if 
 it had occurred yesterday instead of seven years ago. A 
 May morning, and a faint white haze on land and water, 
 with the promise of sunshine quivering here and there. 
 The orchard was full of pink blossoms ; and, while he waited 
 for her, a branch of lilac kept slowly swaying its beauty 
 and gently flinging its fragrance above the top of the gar- 
 den wall. There was nobody in the lane to watch them, 
 and they strolled along hand in hand, turning their heads 
 and laughing because she said they had lost their shadows. 
 
 They sat upon a baulk of timber in a little sandy hollow 
 by the river, still hand in hand, and talking easily and 
 happily. Then the sun began to shine on them, and the 
 whole scene became astoundingly pretty. The broad river 
 and the wooded hills, the white sand, the green grass, were 
 
 165 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 all of a pearl-grey tint; next moment there came sparkles 
 and flashes across the water, and the land glowed warmly; 
 in another moment the true colours showed themselves, and 
 numberless unseen things burst upon the eye — barges and 
 a tug at anchor, little toy houses on the further shore, 
 and a diminutive hurrying train. But even then the tints, 
 though bright, were transparently pure — it was all like 
 the most delicate water-colour drawing. And for a little 
 while the atmosphere played tricks with this charming pic- 
 ture, bringing back the greyness and indistinctness, turning 
 bright tints white again, making outlines quiver tremulously 
 beneath the impeded sunshine. 
 
 Alma's face was very pale, and her lips trembled. "Oh, 
 Lenny, look. Oh, Lenny!" Her voice came in a whisper 
 of joy. 
 
 They sat talking; and all at once he recognized that 
 the flirtation had gone down a wrong turning. It was 
 she, and not he, who was taking things for granted. Speak- 
 ing of the view, she said something which plainly implied 
 a conviction that there was no reason why both of them 
 might not sit side by side, just like this, and look at the 
 view together, twenty years hence. 
 
 Childishly, very childishly, she had taken it for granted 
 that he was a marrying sort of man, and that he had al- 
 ready selected her for his mate. Her childishness had 
 landed him in unexpected difficulty. It made him very 
 uncomfortable- — but he was compelled to explain matters 
 there and then. 
 
 She gasped with surprise, she stared at him stupidly, 
 she would not believe it. 
 
 "Lenny! What do you mean? Aren't you really fond 
 of me? Don't you want me to be with you always?" 
 
 Oh, yes, he was very fond of her; and he wanted her 
 perpetual society; — but, alas, in this life, one cannot have 
 
 166 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 all that one wants. And he explained how for him marriage 
 was an impossibility. It would break old Calcraft's heart. 
 
 "Have you asked him?" Even now she could not be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 "No, I know it. He relies on me — it would be a breach 
 of trust for me to do it." 
 
 They got up and they stood face to face — she very 
 pale, and he rather red. And she continued to stare at 
 him in stupid wonder. Then her face became redder than 
 his, and she scrambled up the sandy bank and walked fast, 
 almost ran towards her home. He overtook her, held her 
 arm, and gently restraining her, walked by her side. 
 
 "Alma, I didn't understand — I never guessed — that you 
 were looking so far ahead. Why must we bother about 
 the remote future, if we are so happy together now?" 
 
 "Don't speak to me, please," said Alma, trying to shake 
 off his hand, trying to break away from him. "Of course," 
 she gasped, nearly sobbed, "I oughtn't to have met you in 
 this way. I oughtn't — oughtn't to have let you kiss me. 
 Now of course I can never see you again." 
 
 "Oh, why not?" 
 
 He did not see her for three days. Then they met by 
 chance on the sea-front and he was shocked by the altera- 
 tion in her appearance. She looked as though she had 
 been recovering from a long illness. They stood talking 
 for a few minutes, and she told him that she was about to 
 leave Westchurch. Her friend Miss Shipham had invited 
 her to come and live in London. 
 
 "Oh," he said lamely, "this is quite a new idea, isn't it?" 
 
 She did not answer, and there was an awkward pause. 
 Then she said something that gave him acute discomfort. 
 She was looking at him intently, and she spoke quietly 
 and seriously, as if uttering the most natural question in 
 the world. 
 
 167 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny, why have you done this to me?" 
 
 "Done what?" 
 
 "Made me so fond of you — when you didn't mean any- 
 thing, but just to amuse yourself." 
 
 He felt extremely uncomfortable — much as he used to 
 feel when he shot a pheasant and failed to kill it. The 
 poor fluttering maimed bird, unable to fly, unable to die, is 
 a horrible evidence of your clumsiness so long as it remains 
 in sight. 
 
 He talked heavily of the enigmas of one's life. One 
 is not free; one is at the mercy of surrounding circum- 
 stances; one tries to do one's best, and yet now and then 
 one blunders. Presently he asked if she thought she would 
 like London better than Westchurch ; and she told him that 
 it had become impossible for her to stay here any longer, 
 and that no doubt London would suit her very well. 
 
 "I understand. . . . But what are you going to do 
 up there?" 
 
 She would find work, she said, to occupy all her time. 
 
 "But what kind of work? Have you decided what 
 the work is to be?" 
 
 She looked at him before she answered. 
 
 "The work! Why, to try and forget you, Lenny. That's 
 what I must do — even if the work takes me the rest of 
 my life." 
 
 Gone — and a very faint sense of relief. No other way 
 out of it. He could not be sorry that she had gone. 
 
 Then came regret, slight at first, but steadily growing 
 stronger. He missed her — more and more. The hot sum- 
 mer was enervating. As he walked along the esplanade, 
 he felt an excessive weariness — in all the town there was 
 not a single girl worth looking at. And always he was 
 seeing her ghost. A graceful figure at a distance, an Alma 
 
 168 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Reed hat, long legs approaching rapidly — he felt his heart 
 begin to beat. Could she have unexpectedly returned? Oh, 
 no. The gracious ghost, drawing near, disintegrated — the 
 odious living reality, as it passed, nearly turned him sick. 
 
 He did not write to her. But he obtained Frances 
 Shipham's address from Lady Garbett, and went up to Lon- 
 don for a week-end. 
 
 A stifling July afternoon — so hot outside in the street 
 that the empty hall struck cold. He paused to wipe his 
 forehead, hesitated, and then slowly climbed the stone stairs 
 to Miss Shipham's flat. 
 
 Frances was out, the maid-servant was out, Alma opened 
 the door to him. 
 
 "Lenny!" It was a little cry of surprise, reproach, al- 
 most of fear. "Oh, Lenny, why have you come?" 
 
 In Miss Shipham's poor little room she looked different 
 again — an Alma with new attributes, both of strength and 
 weakness; more of a woman, less of a child; someone 
 whose mind had developed and whose body had suffered 
 during great pain. Her , hair was done differently, and 
 it was the first time that he observed the faint blue circles 
 about her eyes. Standing by the table and resting her hands 
 on a large portfolio, she seemed to droop as if very tired, 
 or exhausted by the hot weather. 
 
 "Yes, this is my new home." She spoke in staccato 
 tones; and he noticed the movement of her bosom beneath 
 the black blouse, as of a person who is breathless. "Lenny, 
 you oughtn't to have come." She kept repeating this. 
 "Lenny, I don't think you ought to have come." 
 
 He said he would go away if she told him to do so; 
 but he pleaded for permission to stay just for a little while. 
 . Then, nervously, she showed him Miss Shipham's ab- 
 surd maps, opening the portfolio and turning the big sheets 
 in both hands. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Aren't they wonderful? Social economics, you know. 
 Every line, every shade of colour has a meaning — textile 
 manufactories, iron, coal mines. That's the poverty line — 
 the whole district inside the line — desperately poor! You 
 can see it at a glance — if — if — you — have the key — if you 
 have the key." 
 
 She was stooping over the table, with the back of her 
 neck exposed, and he had gently touched her hair. Then he 
 put his hand on her neck; and she did not move. 
 
 "Alma!" His hand softly pressed upon her neck and 
 held it, and she did not move. 
 
 That was the thrill of his life — the never-to-be-forgotten 
 ecstasy — when beneath his hand she remained quite mo- 
 tionless, except for the shiver or wave of fear that seemed 
 to run along her spine. 
 
 "Lenny — don't. You oughtn't to do it." 
 
 He had taken her from the table, and was holding her 
 in his arms by the wall while greedily he kissed her face 
 and lips. 
 
 "Yes — and you must kiss me too. Kiss me, Alma." 
 
 Very soon she obeyed him. 
 
 "Is it wicked of me? Lenny, will you hate me now?" 
 And for a moment she clung to him. "I tried to get on 
 without you. But I felt as if I should go mad or die." 
 
 She seemed to become limp in his arms, and suddenly 
 he understood that she was giving herself to him absolutely 
 — no terms, no conditions, surrender. 
 
 He remembered every one of his thoughts, as gaily, joy- 
 ously, he walked away from the ugly pile of flats. 
 
 He realized the full extent of his good fortune. He 
 had obtained, almost without an effort, that which most 
 men in vain crave for, sigh for, faint for, from adolescence 
 to senile decay — the perfect mistress. Already he had 
 
 170 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 sickened against the travesty of love that is a matter of 
 bargain and sale. A necessity perhaps, if you can get noth- 
 ing else; but fatiguing, stupefying, enervating; dust and 
 ashes for which you pay the most extravagant price. 
 
 But he determined to taste his raptures cautiously. 
 Everything should be considered; rashness ought to be 
 avoided; certain rules must be laid down. They were 
 desirable for her sake as well as for his own. And he 
 would be always kind and gentle with her; always grateful 
 to her. And some day, in the dim future, he would as- 
 suredly put everything right, by But even then, during 
 
 the first glow of his delight, he shied away from the future. 
 
 When he got back to Westchurch, he found the whole 
 place transfigured, radiant, smiling. The heat no longer 
 oppressed him; he marched up and down the parade lightly 
 and untiringly. Everybody seemed amusing and jolly. It 
 was the glorious secret, that henceforth he carried with him, 
 making the world appear harmonious, entrancing, magical. 
 Alma was waiting for him in London. He might go to 
 her whenever he pleased. She was counting the days to 
 his return. 
 
 And so, year after year, she made him happy and con- 
 tented: his life could not be dull or meaningless while it 
 held the hidden treasure of her love. 
 
 Whatever he might think of the gross traffic of sensual 
 joys, he knew, or fancied he knew, that he was a man who 
 could not safely deprive himself of some sort of association 
 with women. When he had not the reality, longings for 
 imagined delights bothered him. But a little of reality 
 satisfied him. Thus he had swung always between the 
 weariness of fact and the torment of fancy, until with Alma 
 he found the just equipoise and was at peace. 
 
 He adhered to what he called their rules — extracting 
 all the bliss that may be enjoyed without danger of diffi- 
 
 n m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 culty, complications, embroglios, or an expansion of the 
 secret leading to discovery. Perhaps he refused to weigh 
 the possibility that there was something very mean in cau- 
 tion so one-sided. Perhaps he purposely shut his eyes 
 to the knowledge that she suffered under his prearranged 
 limitations, his moderated transports, and his abrupt reti- 
 cences. But certainly he never for an instant admitted 
 the idea that he was taking everything and giving nothing 
 in exchange. 
 
XVIII 
 
 HE moved in his chair, looked down at St. James's 
 Street, watched people on the opposite pavement. 
 Then once more external objects faded, and he re- 
 sumed his train of anxious thought. 
 
 Alma's trick of taking things for granted! Yes, that 
 lay at the bottom of all his trouble. At first there had 
 been no bargaining, no promises of any kind whatever. 
 But again Alma was taking things too much for granted. 
 Her desire was to be with him — that was her recurrent 
 phrase, — to be with him, whenever possible or convenient 
 now; to be with him always, later on. And to this he 
 agreed. He had felt — for a long time — that he could 
 never exist without her. 
 
 At first she did not talk about the future; she was 
 entirely contented in the present. Hers was a character 
 very difficult to understand. It was firmer and stronger 
 than he would have guessed. He had anticipated that there 
 might be remorseful doubts, occasional repinings, frequent 
 reminders about the conventions and proprieties which she 
 had consented to ignore. But no, to his surprise, she be- 
 trayed no disquiet, no self-consciousness. As far as he 
 could penetrate the workings of her mind, she was proud 
 of herself — prouder, a great deal, than in the early days 
 of their acquaintance. She had adopted the doctrine that 
 he was fond of quoting to her. Great love justifies every- 
 thing. She admired him for his filial devotion, even when 
 it grievously upset her first childish hope. Well then, she 
 
 173 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 seemed to think that she had joined now in Lenny's sacri- 
 fice, as well as aiding him to continue it. She too had 
 sacrificed herself to the old gentleman in the Bath- 
 chair. 
 
 But when the Bath-chair should become empty? Why, 
 then of course the sacrifice would terminate for both of 
 them. All impediment to their union would naturally be 
 removed. 
 
 During the early stages this was never said in words. 
 Certainly the word marriage was not uttered by either 
 of them. Probably to her mind it went without saying. 
 The greater included the less. Why not? The compan- 
 ionship was to be rendered permanent; and, if only for con- 
 venience, they would legalize the bond in the usual man- 
 ner. As he understood most thoroughly, her mind was de- 
 void of schemingness or artful stratagem when she thus be- 
 gan to imply the existence of a promise which he had never 
 made. And, as he knew well, he had accepted the implica- 
 tion. His silence was itself a pledge. 
 
 He was frowning now, very gently biting his upper 
 lip, and thinking most strenuously. The outside world had 
 altogether ceased to exist. 
 
 Yes, he was pledged to marry her. Not a doubt of it. 
 But supposing, for the sake of argument, that he wished 
 to get out of it for good and all, he could almost say there 
 had never been an explicit promise. Tacit admissions, if 
 you like, but never the word itself. 
 
 Then he remembered how the word had been used. Not 
 only vague talk of where they might live some day, what 
 kind of pretty house they would occupy, what species of 
 friends they would select for their social circle, but also 
 specific, unchallenged, compromising scraps of sentimental 
 chatter. 
 
 "Lenny, when I am an old married woman, I shall ask 
 
 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 you to bring me to dine at this restaurant. As a birthday 
 treat perhaps! We won't dress — we'll come just as we 
 are now, and sit at this very table. And our past will spring 
 to life, and we shall feel as if it w T as all happening again. 
 You will look round the room, and make sure that there 
 is no one here who knows you; and I shall tremble a little, 
 in fear that anybody will recognize me; for a moment we 
 shall forget that there's no need to hide ourselves, that the 
 universe is welcome to see us and envy our happiness. When 
 we think of that, we shall laugh ; and I shall slide my hand 
 beneath the table cloth and touch your knee — like this, 
 Lenny." 
 
 And he had not checked her. He had allowed her to 
 talk in this style many more times than once. 
 
 Then he remembered what perhaps he had often sub- 
 consciously tried to forget. That morning at his rooms 
 in Albert Street, when he was hurrying home to the dear 
 invalid and she came and made a scene, he had himself 
 used the word. A mistake ! But his emotional stability had 
 been upset; he was full of joy; the reconciliation with his 
 father had shaken him by its promptness; — and then when 
 she made such a fuss, he said anything she wished, to pacify 
 her. He endeavoured to recall his exact sentences. No, it 
 was not worth attempting to do so. He knew that on that 
 occasion, so far as vows and pledges were concerned, he 
 had compromised himself. 
 
 He frowned more deeply, and bit his lip a very little 
 harder. 
 
 He was arguing the case on both sides — merely exhaust- 
 ing suppositions. Suppose, to continue the argument, he 
 were to back out completely, with what terms would she 
 be fairly entitled to reproach him? A complete withdrawal 
 would be a terrible disappointment to her. Poor Alma! 
 His heart ached when he thought of her enduring all the 
 
 175 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pain of so colossal a disappointment. She was immensely 
 fond of her old Lenny. 
 
 And it seemed to him that he was as fond of her as he 
 had ever been. If not quite so fond, at any rate very 
 nearly. Only, he no longer wanted her. Why? 
 
 Difficult, almost impossible to answer. Roughly — logic 
 of facts, — because she had sustained him under his severe 
 trial; and now the trial was over, he required no sustenta- 
 tion. His one desire now was for repose; and the form 
 that this idea of repose was slowly assuming appeared 
 to him as escape from all claims of other people, all care 
 for others, all anxiety that did not strictly relate to himself. 
 In the way of altruistic solicitude, he had so to speak shot 
 his bolt. He felt literally incapable of beginning again — 
 even on the smallest scale. The marvellous, long-continued 
 achievement of protecting and tending the dead man had 
 drained him of energy. There was not an ounce of it left 
 to meet fresh demands. 
 
 As to the solace of love, and the advantages, if not the 
 necessity, of female companionship — well, perhaps he was 
 entering a new phase. The old life had exhausted him, 
 the new life must restore him; and he imagined, felt that 
 an element, even a main factor, in the restorative process 
 would be the charm of novelty. Yes, novelty — strange 
 scenes, untried pleasures, unfamiliar faces. On his travels 
 he would meet many women — all of them strangers, of 
 different race, of alien habits, of unusual seductiveness. 
 Some love might come before he got home again. With- 
 out emulating the sailor's ambition and finding a wife at 
 every port, a man going round the world with money in 
 his pockets cannot fail to meet eyes that will languish and 
 hands that are willing to interlace. 
 
 He thought about marriage generally. Of course, if 
 Alma had substantial means of her own, were even fairly 
 
 176 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 well off — Can anything be gained by blinking a fact that 
 every man of the world readily, unhesitatingly admits? 
 The foundation of happiness in the marriage state nowa- 
 days is an ample income. Life is so horribly expensive; 
 and when want comes in at the door, love flies out of the 
 window. A cynical proverb — but the dreadful truth of it 
 confirmed by the most casual observation of one's friends' 
 experience. 
 
 Supposing that he persisted in the quixotic plan to de- 
 nude himself for the benefit of two ungrateful sisters, he 
 would then have only a bachelor's income left. How can 
 one marry on nine hundred a year? Swiftly he was con- 
 fronted with the uninviting pictures of a dual household 
 conducted on such narrow funds. A horrid little flat — 
 scarcely tetter than Frances Shipham's; ill-cooked food, 
 unbrushed clothes; perpetual economy, never-ending cal- 
 culation; impossibility to afford cab fares, theatre tickets, 
 restaurant meals. Half a dozen times in the year he might 
 dine at his club — the coffee room three-shilling dinner — 
 and feel that he was indulging in reckless extravagance. For 
 months they would be forced to scrape and save, if they 
 wished to lay by enough for a summer holiday. And then 
 one of them would fall ill, and the doctor's bill would blow 
 their seaside trip to blazes. They would sit gasping through 
 the August heat, creep out at night for a penny ride on 
 an omnibus, grow paler and more nervous and irritable every 
 day. . . . And then perhaps would come to them 
 the blessing of children. The blessing — in such circum- 
 stances! That would finally sink them beneath the merci- 
 less pressure of poverty. Moves to cheaper quarters; resig- 
 nation of club; shabby garments, bursting boots, broken 
 hearts; — two fools who once refused to be guided by com- 
 mon sense, and are now what you see before you: a slat- 
 ternly, fretful, middle-aged woman and a ragged, unkempt, 
 
 177 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 hollow-cheeked, despairing, elderly man. Oh, what a hor- 
 rible picture! 
 
 If Alma were rich instead of being poor—*- But what is 
 the use of conjectural fancies, when hard facts stare one 
 in the face? 
 
 Gradually the resolution had formed itself. This mar- 
 riage must be postponed. For more than a year — for con- 
 siderably longer than would suffice for the foreign tour. 
 The doubt concerning his health was a valid excuse. What 
 did Dr. Searle say? These headaches! Vital need of cau- 
 tion. 
 
 As the determination strengthened, all seemed to be- 
 come lighter, clearer. The oppressive sensations were 
 swiftly passing away from him. He had knocked half the 
 weight out of his burden, and with one firm effort he could 
 throw it off entirely. He would explain to Alma that on 
 the score of health he must delay. 
 
 He looked down into St. James's Street. It was bright 
 and gay, full of well-dressed people bustling joyously. The 
 marriage must be postponed — indefinitely. 
 
XIX 
 
 YET he postponed announcing the postponement. For 
 five or six days he continued to think of it, and his 
 resolve was always growing stronger. He merely 
 shirked an ordeal. But then Alma precipitated matters. 
 
 She wrote to him ; and portions of her letter were so 
 prettily expressed that they brought moisture to his eyes. 
 He was touched by her candid sincerity, as well as by her 
 unselfish affection. 
 
 "My own sweetheart," — As he read it he could hear 
 her voice — "You are making me most miserable. Why 
 don't you come to me, why don't you summon me, why 
 am I left quite alone? What should naturally have brought 
 us together seems to be pushing us apart. I know how 
 deeply you still mourn your father's death; but why may 
 not I, who grieve for you, grieve with you? Why are you 
 holding me outside your sorrow? 
 
 "Or is it something else, some other trouble that you 
 keep back from me? Yes, I think it is something more 
 than your grief. You have some trouble, and you won't 
 trust me to share it. Last time we met I saw it, I felt 
 it — a shadow on your dear face. And you went away 
 with it, as if from a stranger who might not read your 
 thoughts, or as if from a friend in whom you had lost 
 confidence. 
 
 "But, my darling, when have I ever failed you? Why 
 should you leave off trusting me ? Do come to me. Do 
 trust me. Tell everything to your poor sad little Alma." 
 
 He was in for it now. He made an appointment with 
 
 179 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 her for the afternoon of the following Saturday. She was 
 to come to his hotel at half-past three. 
 
 He received her in a private sitting-room j and while 
 he walked about it and nervously awaited her arrival, he 
 thought it was the most odious room that he had as yet 
 been compelled to make use of. Its luxuries and orna- 
 ments were so purely of the hotel type, so little homelike. 
 
 "Ah! . . . Come in, Alma. Here I am." 
 
 At sight of her he felt himself wavering. She was all 
 in black. She wore mourning for his sake. She looked 
 so pale and unhappy, and she came to him with such a 
 pretty, graceful haste. 
 
 But he must pull himself together, and attack the busi- 
 ness in hand. 
 
 "Lenny. My Lenny." She had raised her veil to kiss 
 him — with the gestures that he had seen a thousand times, 
 — and now she was pointing to the door that obviously 
 communicated with adjacent apartments. "May I leave 
 my hat in there?" 
 
 "That is not my bedroom. They couldn't give me two 
 rooms together. I am sleeping on the third floor." 
 
 She looked at him, flushed, and became pale again. 
 
 "Alma dear, let us sit over here;" and he indicated 
 a hideous sofa covered with bronze stamped velvet. "You 
 asked me to tell you everything — and I'll do so. But I 
 fear what I have to say will distress you." 
 
 They sat side by side on the sofa. Automatically he had 
 taken her hands in his, and he noticed that they were 
 trembling. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. "Tell me, dear. You — you 
 frighten me by your seriousness." 
 
 Then he began about his health — describing in vague 
 terms its very unsatisfactory condition. 
 
 180 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "I endeavoured to make light of it. I didn't speak 
 of it to anyone — not even to Doctor Searta — until a little 
 while ago. Then I mentioned what a specialist had said, 
 and how I struggled not to take a gloomy view, myself; 
 but " 
 
 He could not go on. Her face had become ashen grey, 
 her eyes were distended by fear, she trembled convulsively. 
 
 "Oh, my darling," she whispered, "what is it? What 
 do they say is the matter with you?" 
 
 "Well, the doctors don't seem to know;" and he 
 coughed, to clear his throat. "But they advise me to be 
 very careful — to avoid nervous excitement — to spare myself 
 as much as possible." 
 
 "Yes, yes — no doubt that's wise. But, Lenny — heart 
 of my heart — do they hint at specific danger ? Do — do they 
 seem to apprehend some disease that they don't yet name?" 
 
 "No." And the words were forced from his lips by 
 pity. "Alma dear, I mustn't alarm you unnecessarily. I 
 don't myself think that it is anything really dangerous." 
 
 He was observing her closely. Her fear was entirely 
 unselfish. It was fear for him. As yet she had not a single 
 thought for herself. 
 
 "No, no," she said rapidly. "Of course nothing really 
 dangerous. Dear heart, how could it be — when you are 
 so big, so grand, so strong? And, Lenny, — I'm not fright- 
 ened now — and we shouldn't let doctors frighten us. They 
 can't always be relied on — their judgments, I mean. But 
 tell me exactly the sort of things they said." 
 
 With a great effort she was regaining calm ; and the effort 
 was for his sake. She was still full of alarm; but she 
 bravely strove to conceal it. She wished to put courage 
 into him. He could read her thought quite easily, while 
 she asked him breathlessly eager questions. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she said frequently, with assumed cheerful- 
 
 181 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ness. "Oh, I won't believe — I don't believe there's any- 
 thing whatever the matter with you. Why should there 
 be? No, no — my darling is just feeling the effects of his 
 sorrow; but it will pass off, Lenny. Time the healer! 
 Time heals all wounds. But, Lenny, we'll go to other 
 doctors — we'll get high and mighty opinions;" and she 
 smiled, slid her arm round his neck, and gently sought to 
 draw him to her. 
 
 "Oh, I have confidence in Searle. And doctors at the 
 top of the tree aren't always the best — Searle said so 
 himself." 
 
 "Yes, but my Lenny is so precious." Her arm was 
 about his neck — supple and warm and slender. Her voice 
 had a new note — something full and deep, suggestive of 
 the motherly protective tone. "My Lenny is like a king — 
 if he is ill or thinks that he is ill, all the doctors in the 
 land must consider his case, must sharpen their wits, and 
 drag out their finest stores of learning to cure him." 
 
 And his resolution wavered again. Her unselfish care 
 for him was profoundly touching. Other friends he might 
 find — temporary friends in every port, — but where and 
 when would he find such a friend as this? 
 
 Nevertheless he once more pulled himself together. He 
 had prepared himself for difficulty; and it would be sheer 
 weakness to renounce the attempt, just because a tone of 
 her voice seemed to vibrate along brain-paths that had been 
 worn smooth by habitual use. He summoned all his 
 strength; and the determination, reinforcing itself, reached 
 a further point than anything he had hitherto acknowledged 
 as its ultimate aim. He must be done with the whole 
 thing. Now that he had begun, he must finish the work. 
 
 "My dear Alma, I want no more doctors. I am abso- 
 lutely sure that I ought to act on the advice that has been 
 given to me." 
 
 182 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Yes — of course. What do they advise?" 
 
 "First of all, I am to go away. Searle thinks it is quite 
 necessary — to get complete change." 
 
 "Yes." Her arm tightened. She brought her face nearer 
 to his; and now he saw the birth of a fear for herself. 
 "Yes, yes," she repeated. "But for how long?" 
 
 "Oh, a longish time — quite a long time." 
 
 "Am I to go with you?" 
 
 "No, dear. That is out of the question." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, you see, the fact is — as I understand my state 
 of health" — He again cleared his throat, and paused. "I 
 am not well enough to look after anybody else. The advice 
 is, to take things easily, to rest, and recuperate." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Oh, right away — probably all round the world." 
 
 She had raised her other arm, and she locked her hands 
 behind his neck. 
 
 "Lenny, take me with you. Think what it would mean 
 to me if you left me here to wait for your return." She 
 spoke fast, and with breathless anxiety. "I should be in 
 unceasing dread. You say a long time. It would be a year, 
 I suppose. And in every minute of it I should be thinking 
 of you. Is my darling better? Is he worse? Letters 
 would come so slowly. There would be months when I 
 should have no news of you. I couldn't, I couldn't live 
 through such a year." 
 
 "I fear there is no help for it. I honestly feel that I 
 ought to go." 
 
 "Yes, but not without me. Think! It is just when 
 you are needing me most, that you suggest our being sep- 
 arated. You may fall ill — really ill — far away, among 
 strangers. Oh, I couldn't bear it. You must take your 
 Alma to nurse you, to watch over you, to guard you," 
 
 183 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "My dearest girl, how can you possibly go with me — 
 unless you go as my wife?" 
 
 "Then take me as your wife. Why not? No one on 
 earth would think there was any disrespect to your father's 
 memory in our marrying so soon — we have waited for 
 years — what can a few months matter now? Besides, no 
 one need know of our marriage. We can keep it secret 
 till we come back." 
 
 "Alma," he said, heavily and sadly, "you don't under- 
 stand the position." 
 
 "Then let me understand." 
 
 She said the words slowly, in a changed voice. She was 
 watching his face intently; her fingers seemed to become 
 loose upon his neck, and she drew her hands away. 
 
 "Well, I fear — in fact it is unavoidable — that this jour- 
 ney — voyage — upsets all old plans — and wishes. It — and 
 my health too, of course — necessitates delay, postponement. 
 It puts off our marriage. — I should be mad to marry at 
 the present time. . . . Dearest girl, I can't pretend 
 that what I have to say won't distress you — as it does me. 
 . . . But with regard to the future — Well, I doubt if 
 I can ever marry. I doubt if I should ever be really justi- 
 fied in marrying." 
 
 While he spoke, her face drooped lower and lower, till 
 she raised her hands and hid it. 
 
 "Lenny!" 
 
 Her voice came as a wail of pain. 
 
 He had explained things at length; and now she was 
 lying on the sofa silently weeping, with her arms stretched 
 out over the cushioned end of the sofa, her face still hid- 
 den. The pretty Alma Reed hat lay on the floor, trailing 
 its black feathers in the dust. 
 
 He looked at the back of her head — the masses of dark 
 
 184 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 hair so gracefully bound and coiled. He was dreadfully 
 sorry for her; but it seemed better that she should have 
 her cry out undisturbed. And what consolation could he 
 offer, since his determination remained unshaken? 
 
 He himself was sitting near the fire, which he had just 
 replenished with coals. Watching the tongues of flame 
 that darted forth and then retreated, he thought of how 
 firelight had associated itself in the memory of many im- 
 portant hours of his life. So often when he had been 
 undergoing a stress of emotion, firelight flickered on a 
 wall, a ceiling, or somebody's face. 
 
 He stared vacantly and wearily about the room. Every- 
 thing appeared to him abominably ugly — this thick carpet 
 that smelt of dust; the dingy brocade and the grubby mus- 
 lin of the curtains at the window; the rickety round table 
 that concealed its uneven legs beneath a sage-green cloth; 
 the imitation Sheraton sideboard, displaying spurious china 
 vases, a sham fern, and a painfully real wine list. All so 
 ugly! And the ugliness of the room seemed to harmonize 
 with and increase the ugliness of his task. 
 
 It was a long business. Presently he went over to the 
 sofa, and began to stroke her hair. 
 
 "Alma dear!" 
 
 She made an inarticulate moan. 
 
 "Alma, don't cry. Stop crying — and let us talk quietly." 
 
 He was very tired; but he thought that the worst of 
 it was over. Then, to his surprise, she suddenly sprang 
 up from the sofa. 
 
 "I can't bear it. I won't bear it." 
 
 She was pacing to and fro, now wringing her hands, 
 now waving her arms — looking haggard, dishevelled, half 
 insane; and the next moment it seemed to him that he 
 was back at the very starting-point, and that the thing 
 must be begun all over again. 
 
 185 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Alma, do calm yourself." 
 
 As she turned to him, the violence of her pain translated 
 itself into violent gestures. Her face was distorted by 
 twitchings, she gasped and struggled for breath, and then 
 there came a rush of words poured out in passionate revolt 
 against his decision. 
 
 "I won't submit to it. You are not ill. That's just 
 an excuse — a cruel trick, a senseless invention. You are 
 tired of me — and you snatch at any pretence. Oh, yes — 
 it's too shamelessly transparent. Very likely there's some- 
 body else — Yes, that would be a reason. And I count for 
 nothing, if you can make me submit — but I won't sub- 
 mit." 
 
 "My dear girl — how can you say such things?" 
 
 He would not have recognized her. She raged and wept 
 at the same time; she pleaded and stormed, mingling pite- 
 ous prayers with wild accusations. The accusations were 
 most painful. 
 
 "Alma," he murmured, "I respected you. At least give 
 me credit for that. No one can say there was anything 
 really wrong between us." 
 
 Her tear-stained face twitched and quivered; and she 
 laughed, as it seemed to him, hysterically. 
 
 "You respected me — but, my God, at what a cost to 
 me!" 
 
 He sat limply on the sofa, his hands loose between his 
 knees, his eyes staring at the dusty carpet. He felt dazed 
 by her energy, and shocked by something of the virago per- 
 ceptible in these passionate recriminations. 
 
 "And it isn't true, Lenny. Respect! You dragged me 
 down to an infamous obliteration of self — vou made me 
 do vile things." 
 
 "Alma!" 
 
 "You have unsexed me almost, — forced me to stamp 
 
 186 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 out every natural instinct, — broken me in to a low slavery, 
 instead of opening my life to wide joys and noble hopes." 
 
 "I — I simply don't understand you." 
 
 "You have held me on the threshold of marriage — of 
 Nature's union — for seven cruel years, while all that was 
 best in me was fading, dying — and now you are tired of 
 the plaything you've destroyed." 
 
 "No. Alma, I swear " 
 
 "Nothing wrong! Lenny, if you throw me over, I shall 
 hold myself lower and cheaper than the women of the 
 streets. They would never have been so subservient." 
 
 "You knew my circumstances — not a free agent. You 
 knew I was fond of you." 
 
 "Fond of me! And love was to justify everything. 
 We both said it — our love — to last for ever. You are 
 mine — nobody else's: just as I am yours. And I won't 
 give you up. You can't make me." 
 
 She looked tragic and terrible; and he pitied her.* But 
 this thing must end — he was more determined every minute. 
 His head had begun to throb and ache — the drain upon 
 nerve currents was unbearable. These symptoms prevented 
 the possibility of further wavering. A dim instinct of self- 
 preservation seeemed to drive him and sustain him. Soon 
 he would be through the crisis. Such an outburst from a 
 naturally gentle and docile creature could not last long. 
 But he understood clearly that so long as it continued, 
 there would be a plain contest between them. One will 
 must triumph; one must yield. 
 
 "Alma dear — if only we could talk quietly, if you would 
 listen to reason." 
 
 "Lenny, have mercy." 
 
 There — in another moment the end of the storm had 
 come. The violent gestures ceased; her features were com- 
 posed again almost to the old symmetry; tears streamed 
 13 187 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 down her cheeks; and the words had no other sound than 
 that of a prayer. 
 
 "Oh, Lenny, don't do it. Be true to me. It's too wicked 
 — too monstrously wicked." 
 
 But the task was not over yet. Now she lay on the 
 sofa again, writhing, twisting about, sobbing convulsively, 
 making a dreadful noise. Her grief was like the howling 
 and wailing of a beaten child — her sobs were as loud as 
 screams. 
 
 "Alma, for Heaven's sake, stop. Control yourself. Peo- 
 ple will hear you, if you go on in this way." 
 
 Indeed he felt a very real anxiety lest this should happen, 
 and he implored her to check her lamentations. It was 
 just about tea-time; at this hour ladies would be returning 
 from afternoon calls, and taking off their wraps ; they would 
 be going in and out of the rooms all along the corridor. 
 One of them would hear the noise, trace its source, and 
 then go racing down to the bureau, and tell the clerks that 
 a man was maltreating a woman in Number Forty-two. 
 
 "Alma, I beg of you. Please " 
 
 He could not silence her, and when there came a tapping 
 at the door he sprang towards it full of consternation. 
 
 "Alma, jump up. Go and stand by the window. . . . 
 Turn your back. . . . Don't let anyone see your face ;'* 
 and he opened the door just sufficiently to let himself out 
 into the corridor, and immediately shut the door behind 
 him. 
 
 But it was only the floor-waiter, inquiring if he should 
 serve tea in the sitting-room, or if the lady and gentleman 
 proposed to drink tea and enjoy the music downstairs in the 
 lounge. The waiter did not appear to have heard any- 
 thing unusual; his manner betrayed no signs of wonder; 
 but Lenny was so confused that, instead of promptly get- 
 
 188 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ting rid of him, he told him to bring tea and cakes for 
 two. 
 
 Then there was a long silent pause, a truce to the pitiful 
 conflict, while Alma sat on a chair by the window, with her 
 back turned to the room. 
 
 The waiter brought tea-things, fetched a white cloth 
 from the ugly chiffonier, very slowly laid the table; and 
 after what seemed an immense time brought the tea. 
 
 She would not drink her tea; she refused to eat her cake. 
 The meal remained untouched. Lenny could not feed 
 alone — he smoked a couple of cigarettes, and went without 
 the nourishment and stimulant that he undoubtedly re- 
 quired. 
 
 It was nearly dark now. For a long time he had been 
 sitting in an armchair by the fire, with Alma on his lap. 
 She had wound her arms round him; and her wet face 
 pressed against his, so that he was bathed with her tears. 
 
 "Lenny," she whispered, "I shouldn't survive it. Truly 
 I believe it would kill me — or I should kill myself." 
 
 "No, no. One should never say such things, even though 
 one doesn't really mean them." 
 
 "But I do mean them." 
 
 She withdrew her face, laid her hands on his shoulders, 
 and made her last appeal. 
 
 "Are you angry with me? If so, forget — forgive. One 
 doesn't think what one says, when one is fighting for one's 
 life. That's what I'm doing, Lenny. I must fight for 
 life — for more than life. But in all else I'm the same — 
 your little Alma, your servant, your slave." 
 
 There was just sufficient light to see her face — the white 
 oval that narrowed so quickly to the soft chin, the delicate 
 nose, the pretty, sensitive mouth with the pathetic droop 
 at the corners of the quivering lips. How well, how long 
 
 189 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 he had known its changing expressions that passed swiftly as 
 sunshine and shadows beneath the dark cloud of hair. 
 
 "Alma, I shall be grateful to you as long as I live." 
 
 "Yes, but let me live too." 
 
 She was tragic still; but it was a tragic sweetness. The 
 other, the tragic violence, he had been able to withstand; 
 but this melted his heart completely, lacerated his tender- 
 est feelings. Her voice seemed to vibrate deep inside him, 
 and she was caressing him all the time that she pleaded 
 so despairingly. 
 
 "If you don't want to marry me, let us go on as we 
 are." 
 
 "No, that wouldn't be fair to you." 
 
 "Yes, it is what I ask. I'll never complain." 
 
 "Oh, no — It would spoil all your chances of happiness. 
 I have to think of you as well as of myself. I am not 
 everybody." 
 
 "You are. You are." 
 
 He was torn with pity. And as she went on, in the same 
 sweet tragic tone, he felt astonished by her power of lan- 
 guage. It seemed as though anguish gave her a strange 
 eloquence. But nothing could really shake him. An ob- 
 stinate deep-seated instinct of self-protection was steadily 
 controlling him. Even now he felt those cerebral sensa- 
 tions of immense fatigue — a fullness, a closeness, — a heavy, 
 throbbing discomfort throughout his head. He must be 
 done with it. 
 
 "Lenny, my love, my life, don't leave me without hope." 
 
 She slid from his lap to her knees, knelt between his 
 legs in her characteristic attitude, and raised her hands to 
 his breast. The flicker of firelight played about her hair; 
 and his pity for her became burningly, torturingly intense. 
 
 "I'll be brave, Lenny. I won't worry you. I have 
 
 190 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 waited. I will go on waiting. . . . But I want to 
 know that we shall be together towards the end of our 
 lives. Perhaps not married even then; but together, under 
 one roof, when the shadows begin to close in on us. Then 
 when the darkness parts us, if it is I who go first, I'll wait 
 very near — always near you — till we can pass together into 
 another existence." 
 
 "My sweet Alma!" 
 
 "You and I have found each other in this maze of life. 
 It is fate — our joint destiny — and we shouldn't try to 
 break its thread. We have comforted each other. Two 
 little sparks that were drawn together, to make a tiny 
 flame in the eternal night! Don't let us be false now to 
 what the vast unseen powers have decreed. ... I don't 
 believe in God as I used to do — Lenny, you don't believe. 
 You took my faith from me. You were my religion. 
 . . . But there it something — some guiding force — some 
 ruling law that we cannot safely defy. . . ." 
 
 "Alma, you are making it so horribly difficult." 
 
 Kneeling, she seemed such a fragile thing — the thing 
 that loved him. Her fingers pulled and pressed, seemed to 
 drag at his heart-strings. 
 
 "Alma dear, what more can I say? I have lain awake 
 night after night, trying to see any other way out of it. 
 But I couldn't." 
 
 "Lenny — my sweetheart, my own one." 
 
 His head throbbed dolorously, his whole brain was hot 
 and full, his thoughts flashed erratically. The task had 
 become insupportable. It was like beating off a dog that 
 swam behind a boat. Such things happen — merciless bru- 
 tality! How are they possible? But self-protection? 
 Safety? Men are forced to abandon their dogs sometimes, 
 in order tojsave their own lives. 
 
 191 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Alma!" His voice was hoarse and strained. "There's 
 no help for it — none whatever. We can't go on. It must 
 be good-bye." 
 
 Finished at last. He had just put her into a cab, and 
 was coming back through the crowded hall. He felt dazed 
 and confused in the midst of the noise and animation that 
 surrounded him; and he sank wearily upon a divan behind 
 a pile of luggage, to rest himself. 
 
 A gay scene. He watched it stupidly — porters bringing 
 in more and more luggage; a stream of visitors from the 
 continental train; Americans, Frenchmen, Germans, send- 
 ing telegrams, shouting names, clamouring for the bureau; 
 the huge golden gates of the lift opening and shutting, dis- 
 gorging established residents, swallowing exhausted travel- 
 lers; young girls, already dressed for dinner, waiting with 
 obese mammas near the door of the vast coffee room ; young 
 men hurrying towards them, carrying white fluffy cloaks, 
 laughing, offering nosegays, chattering of theatre tickets; 
 the string band striking up with a soft crash, and gliding 
 smoothly in a valse tune; music, laughter, bright light, the 
 pulse of life beating strong. 
 
 He got up, and, moving heavily, joined the rapid stream 
 of people that still flowed towards the lift. 
 
 He was done — dead beat. He gave up all thought of 
 going to the club; dined, very simply, in the hotel grill- 
 room; and went to bed immediately after his coffee and 
 liqueur. 
 
XX 
 
 IT was over. But all next day, Sunday, he was thinking 
 of her, in imagination seeing her. Would she go out? 
 Would she lie on her bed, face downward, weeping? 
 Would Frances Shipham sit by her side and pat her hand, 
 and vainly try \o console her, by saying that her loss was 
 no real loss; that she was lucky to escape from someone 
 who had never been worthy of her; that it was a blessing 
 in disguise? Of course she would tell everything to Fran- 
 ces Shipham, and Frances would be tremendously indignant. 
 
 He quite expected interference from Frances; would not 
 have been surprised had Frances come down to call upon 
 him at the club. But no one came to the club; no one at- 
 tempted to trouble him any further. 
 
 He felt almost sure that Alma would write to him — a 
 last letter of farewell, — a long sad letter that would cause 
 pain in the reading. Very likely she was writing it now, 
 blotting it with her tears; or perhaps already it was in 
 the hands of the postman. She would send it to the 
 hotel, or possibly here to the club. 
 
 He had finished the task for ever — that was his first 
 thought, when he woke on Monday morning. Everything 
 over and done with. But, somehow, he did not yet feel 
 quite easy in his mind. The burden gone, yet some discom- 
 fort remaining — perhaps only the memory of past weariness. 
 
 No letter from Alma came to the hotel, and there was 
 no letter waiting for him at the club. He read the news- 
 papers, lounged about the library, strolled from one room 
 
 193 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to another, but did not care to go out of doors. He talked 
 to one or two members, but found that his mind wandered; 
 he could not pin his attention. When a man told him an 
 amusing anecdote, he failed to laugh at the right place; 
 he stared with a fixed smile on his lips, but no intelligence 
 in his eyes. "You don't see the point, eh? It was his 
 mother-in-law — the person he met, don't you know, when 
 he opened the door, was his mother-in-law." And the 
 story-teller himself laughed heartily. "It struck me as 
 devilish good." Then Lenny laughed too, confessed he 
 had been slow to see the point, but said that the anecdote 
 was undoubtedly devilish good. 
 
 Some vague unformulated idea — something sinister and 
 ugly seemed to be lying in the background, dulling the edge 
 of all his perceptions. Going downstairs for the purpose of 
 weighing himself in the hall, he thought of her. Poor girl! 
 She would be at the office now, working — working hard; 
 and he seized at the notion suggested by Frances Shipham. 
 The work would occupy her; she would not suffer while 
 at work. . . . But perhaps she had not gone to work. 
 
 He forgot his intention of weighing himself. He passed 
 the machine without looking at it; went into the morning- 
 room, and roamed from table to table, picking up the 
 leather-covered journals, and putting them down again, 
 mechanically. Had Alma gone to work? He wished that 
 he could know for certain. 
 
 It was after lunch, and he stood by one of the tele- 
 graphic tape instruments, watching the long paper ribbon 
 as it clicked out and fell like an endless snake upon the 
 tessellated pavement. Soon a servant would come and 
 make the snake all straight and tidy, cut it into regular 
 lengths, and pin them on one of the news boards. Lenny 
 picked up the ribbon, let it slide through his hand, and 
 
 194 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 idly glanced at the printed words. General news, not 
 Racing or Stock Exchange! This would go on the centre 
 board. 
 
 Suddenly a word on the tape seemed to glow like fire. 
 Suicide ! 
 
 Lenny felt as if he had received a paralytic stroke, as if 
 his head was bursting open, as if that dark thought that he 
 had been harbouring all day had exploded into an over- 
 whelming conflagration. Was it chance or fate? 
 
 He lifted the tape with shaking hands, and read the 
 whole of the message. "Suicide and gallant attempted 
 rescue. 11.45. Well-dressed young woman threw herself 
 over London Bridge. Fireman G. F. Smith, of tug River 
 Queen t dived overboard, and brought body to shore, but life 
 was already extinct. Body now lying at Tower Steps 
 Mortuary; not yet identified." 
 
 His hands, jerking spasmodically, had torn the tape. For 
 a moment he leaned against the wall, and with difficulty 
 prevented himself from falling upon the instrument. All 
 strength had gone out of his legs, every drop of blood 
 seemed to be drawn away from his heart. He thought 
 that he was going to faint, or to have a fit. 
 
 Presently, however, he was safely seated on a couch in 
 the morning-room, wiping his forehead with a silk handker- 
 chief, and trying to think sanely and quietly about the 
 unknown woman who had jumped from London Bridge. 
 
 Impossible! Utterly impossible. Not for a moment 
 longer would he entertain this abominable nerve-shattering 
 fear. She never could or would do such a thing — never, 
 never. Then the fear shook him again. Why had he 
 been so uneasy yesterday and to-day? It was the possibility 
 of some such appalling catastrophe that had lurked for 
 thirty-six hours in the dark background of his mind. And 
 the clammy horror made him break into another cold per- 
 
 195 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 spiration, as he remembered her own words — "Don't leave 
 me without hope. ... It would kill me — or I should 
 kill myself." But she did not mean what she said. Women 
 say these things, but they never mean them; never, never. 
 Then he distinctly felt his heart stop beating, and he was 
 almost certain that this time he really would faint. He 
 had remembered her answer to that consoling idea. "But 
 I do mean it." 
 
 The minutes seemed as long as hours, but gradually 
 he was recovering possession of his faculties. He 
 was succeeding in his effort to rid himself of baseless 
 fears. 
 
 A diabolical coincidence — one of those tricks of chance 
 by which facts appear suddenly to blend with fancies. 
 When one is in a morbidly anxious state, the mind loses 
 all power of rejecting improbabilities. It will accept as 
 the truth any circumstance, however unlikely, provided 
 that the circumstance bears the colour or matches with 
 the drif;: of one's previous thoughts. Why London Bridge? 
 Miles away from her place of business — out of the line of 
 any direction that she could possibly have taken when going 
 from her home. What should she want in the city? If 
 any bridge, it would have been Westminster Bridge. Then 
 he remembered the words of description on the tape. "Well- 
 dressed young woman." That, of course, meant some poor 
 soul just decently clad, but belonging to the humbler 
 classes — a shop girl — a work girl — a waitress. If it had 
 been she, they would unquestionably have described her as 
 a lady. They would have made a fuss about it, instead of 
 recording it as a distressing but quite usual occurrence. 
 Poor young women — they are going over bridges almost 
 every day. 
 
 Soon he was able to get up from the settee, to walk 
 quite steadily into the hall, and to look at the tape again. 
 
 19a 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Yes — "Body not yet identified." Never to be identified, 
 perhaps. Tower Steps Mortuary! Of course one could 
 go there and see for oneself — but that thought struck cold, 
 and made his legs feel very weak again. 
 
 The fear had altogether gone. He was upstairs in the 
 billiard-room; and he stood with his back to the fire, warm- 
 ing himself. There were half a dozen people in the room. 
 A member had craved permission to finish a game that he 
 was playing with the marker. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Lenny, "of course. I don't want to 
 play myself, and I always enjoy watching a good game. 
 How many points is he giving you?" 
 
 "Fifty in the hundred. ... By Jove — he has missed 
 it!" 
 
 The marker had broken down at a long losing hazard, 
 and Lenny asked him the amount of his break. 
 
 "Thirty-seven, sir." 
 
 "Well done." 
 
 The fear had completely gone. He was ashamed of 
 himself for being so readily upset. It was his anxiety for 
 her ultimate welfare that had rendered him so morbid and 
 sensitive. Nothing could better prove how great his fond- 
 ness had been than the rapidity with which he had been, 
 upset by an idea of danger befalling her. But it was an 
 insult to her to suppose, even for a moment, that she would 
 commit so enormous a sin. She might threaten it, but 
 the natural loftiness and balanced strength of her mind 
 would infallibly prevent her from carrying the threat into 
 execution. While he had been shaking with unfounded 
 horror, no doubt she was quietly working at the office of 
 the Association — perhaps so absorbed in her labours that 
 every thought of him, every thought of her life outside 
 the office, was completely shut out. At this moment she 
 
 197 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 was there — really only a mile away from him — quietly, com- 
 fortably working. 
 
 He had gone downstairs again, and he was now in the 
 secluded lobby behind the hall, where members did their 
 telephoning. There were two or three instruments, each 
 contained in a small glass room, so that you could shut 
 yourself up in a neatly-contrived silence, while you talked 
 about private matters to distant friends. It was all very 
 simple and easy. But Lenny had provided himself with 
 one of the servants — a clever page-boy — to assist him. The 
 boy was in the box working the instrument, and Lenny 
 stood at his elbow, instructing him as to what he should 
 say now that he had obtained the correct number. 
 
 "Is that the Hygienic Home Association? . . . Yes, 
 sir/' said the boy, "it's them." 
 
 Then Lenny prompted him, and the boy did all the talk- 
 ing. 
 
 "We want to inquire about the new pamphlet. The 
 Garden City pamphlet. Is it published yet? Can we 
 speak to the secretary who attends to the pamphlets. . . . 
 Is Miss Reed there? Can we speak to Miss Reed?" 
 
 The boy turned round. "He says hold the line. Miss 
 Reed is somewhere in the building. They are fetching 
 her." And he offered the receiver to Lenny. 
 
 Lenny refused it. "Wait," he said, "till they say Miss 
 Reed is there, then I will take it." 
 
 There was a long pause. Lenny had brought out his 
 silk handkerchief, and he was drying the palms of his hands. 
 He continued to roll the handkerchief, and rub with it, 
 until the boy turned to him again. 
 
 "Here you are, sir; she's at the wire now." 
 
 Then Lenny took the receiver, put it to his ear, and 
 heard her voice. 
 
 198 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "I am Miss Reed speaking. Who is it? . . . Who 
 is it? . . . Who is it?" 
 
 Her voice! No one else's. He would have recognized 
 it among millions of voices. He pushed the receiver back 
 into the boy's hand, and whispered the next prompting. 
 
 "Say: 'It doesn't matter. We want the new pamphlet, 
 but we'll call for it.' . . . That's all. Hang it up. 
 Cut it off. That's all. . . . Thank you. I'm much 
 obliged. Many thanks." 
 
 Lenny put the handkerchief in his pocket, and went up- 
 stairs again — to the library this time. 
 
 ■ The sound of her voice had affected him strangely — so 
 distinct, yet so remote. Something mysterious and won- 
 derful in this communication with a familiar but invisible 
 person — almost what one might conceive as characteristic 
 of a ghost's voice. Had she been really dead, he might have 
 imagined hearing her thus speak to him — a few words — 
 quite unmistakably her voice, and then silence. 
 
 He chose a writing-table in a corner, and began to. 
 write to her. It was a difficult letter. He knew what 
 he wanted to say, but the difficulty was to find exact ex- 
 pression — not to say too much or too little. He intended 
 that the gist of the letter should be an answer to one of 
 her most poignant entreaties — "Don't leave me without 
 hope." His recent fear, although fundamentally absurd, 
 pointed to the wisdom of doing all that he could to guard 
 against its possible recurrence. He had perhaps been im- 
 prudent, even unkind, in so firmly closing the door upon 
 the future. 
 
 He made several false starts. Indeed, a lot of the nice 
 club notepaper lay in the waste-paper basket before he 
 got fairly going. Then emotion gained on him, and he be- 
 gan to write faster. . . . "My reason for insisting that 
 
 199 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 we should take our parting as absolutely final was con- 
 sideration for your future happiness. Since I could not as- 
 sure it myself, I wished to leave it quite untrammelled; it 
 seemed to me that it would be very wrong if I held out 
 hopes which I probably would never be able to fulfil. Of 
 course, later on, in a few years, if my health ceased to 
 trouble me, we might meet again and renew the compan- 
 ionship which has been so sweet in the past. But how 
 can I ask you to wait for what would be a vague chance? 
 To accept such abnegation on your part would be the 
 height of selfishness on mine, because the indefinite link 
 with me would preclude you from making fresh ties. I 
 know such an idea is far from your mind now. But re- 
 member what you said yourself. Time is the great healer. 
 Time heals all wounds." 
 
 The pen seemed to be driven for a little way now by 
 a most generous impulse. 
 
 "And do not doubt that I am, and shall ever be, grate- 
 ful to you. I feel — bitterly enough — that without intend- 
 ing to treat you badly, I have been an unlucky influence 
 in your life. But, Alma dear, we are all such puppets of 
 fate. My own fate has been hard in many respects, be- 
 cause it has always seemed to me that I was deprived of 
 the power to govern events, however trivial, and I have 
 drifted inexorably on currents that I did not select, and 
 could not escape." 
 
 He paused, and blew his nose. That last sentence, 
 though long and slightly involved, struck him as fine. 
 
 "Since Saturday I have thought of you very often, and 
 with hesitation I now suggest that if you really wish to 
 build on the frail chance that fate may once more bring 
 us together, I do not feel strong enough to persist in asking 
 you not to do so. You are stronger than I am — I have 
 always known it, — less susceptible to ups and downs of 
 
 200 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 temperament and changes that are induced by the fluctuat- 
 ing hazard of circumstance." 
 
 He paused again. That sentence could not be improved. 
 
 "So, dear Alma, I must leave it to you after all. You 
 must choose whether there shall be this small hope left, 
 or no hope at all. I will endorse your choice, whichever 
 it may be. Send me a line then soon, to say if it is au 
 revoir, or good-bye." 
 
 Nothing from her next day. Nothing on the day after 
 — till late in the afternoon. Then, returning to the hotel 
 about tea-time, he found her letter waiting for him. He 
 took it with the bedroom key from the clerk at the bureau, 
 and, instead of going upstairs, walked hurriedly into the 
 lounge. 
 
 The band was playing its lively dance music, the whole 
 place was noisy and crowded. Lenny carried his letter 
 from the lounge to an empty drawing-room, and sat down 
 all by himself to read what Alma had to say to him. But 
 he did not immediately open the envelope. He held it in 
 his hand, turned it about, studying the well-known hand- 
 writing, thinking of the hundreds, the thousands of letters 
 that had been written to him in the same hand. 
 
 So many — so very many of them! They used to lie on 
 the table in the hall at Westchurch. Whenever he came 
 in from a walk, he looked at the table to see if there was 
 one there. He liked them best when they came in the 
 morning; when the servants brought them to him with 
 his tea and bread and butter. Of course the whole house- 
 hold must have recognized the fact that he had a regular 
 correspondent up in London. Perhaps some of them had 
 tried to guess who this assiduous letter-writer might be. 
 Certainly his father must have noticed the letters, and 
 drawn his own conclusions. None of them knew the hand- 
 
 201 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 writing. None of them ever pierced the little mystery. 
 
 And he remembered how one day, after luncheon, he 
 had told Mary that if any letters came for him, they were 
 to be sent upstairs to his bedroom, and not left lying about 
 in the hall. That had been a wise foresight — guarding 
 against an accident. There was to be a drawing-room meet- 
 ing; Mrs. Reed and her daughters were expected. One 
 could not be too careful. Had the stepmother happened 
 to catch a glimpse of one of Alma's letters, it might have 
 set her conjecturing; suspicion might have been roused; 
 two and two might have been put together — the fat might 
 have been in the fire. 
 
 At last he opened the envelope, unfolded the paper, and 
 read her answer. Two words only, in the middle of the 
 page. He sat staring at them, and thinking about them* 
 for a long time. 
 
 "Good-bye. Alma." 
 
XXI 
 
 REALLY and truly over and done with now. 
 On these bright autumn mornings the whole world 
 seemed again to smile at him— that cheerful smile 
 of autumn, like the pleasant, casual greeting of a jolly 
 companion, nothing passionate or oppressive or languorous 
 in it. The air was crisp and light — just warm enough to 
 make it agreeable, just cold enough to make it stimulating. 
 His footsteps were firm and strong, with more springiness 
 than Tie had felt for ages. 
 
 Between his early breakfast at the hotel and his proper 
 breakfast at the club, he used to take a stroll — up the Hay- 
 market, through Piccadilly Circus, then a peep of Regent 
 Street, across behind Burlington House, and then south- 
 wards, — not a long ramble, merely sufficient exercise to 
 sharpen the edge of one's appetite. The flower girls at the 
 Circus with great baskets of chrysanthemums made a little 
 market that one would had been glad to patronize; pretty 
 students with portfolios under their arms trotted along 
 Burlington Gardens, and one felt inclined to pat them on 
 the shoulder, and praise them for being good girls, and 
 hurrying to their lessons so nicely. Bond Street, as he 
 turned into it, seemed fresh and clean as the seaside, re- 
 minding him of his old Westchurch — and to complete the 
 memory, a fishmonger who was squirting water over the 
 marble slabs of the shop, saluted him. "Fine morning, 
 sir." 
 
 Yes, thought Lenny, it was good to be alive on such a 
 morning. 
 
 14 203 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He stepped out briskly down the slope of St. James's 
 Street, and the gentle incline made walking so pleasant 
 that he went past the club-house. The old palace had 
 such a mellowed splendour, with the sunlight flashing, and 
 brown leaves flying over the wall of Marlborough House. 
 There were soldiers in the cloister, and many more in the 
 quadrangle. Then came the inspiriting beat of a drum, 
 and then full music, the sonorous brass that he used to 
 hear when he was a soldier himself for a month or two 
 in every year. These martial strains tempted him a few 
 yards further away from his destination. 
 
 He stood on the pavement of Pall Mall, looking through 
 the gates to the open sunshine in St. James's Park. Cabs 
 with luggage passed by — going to Victoria, to catch the 
 boat train very likely. The cabs and trunks set his mind 
 working, brought him a series of vivid mental pictures. 
 Down there was the road that led to the wide world — Como 
 . . . Venice . . . Naples . . . The East . . , 
 Japan. All these places practically belonged to him; a 
 man may go almost anywhere nowadays. The wide world 
 had become his possession because he was free. 
 
 He enjoyed breakfast at the club. Nowhere else had he 
 ever met with such a blending of grandeur and comfort. 
 As a rule there were not more than six breakfasters dotted 
 here and there through the quiet expanse of the magni- 
 ficent room. In spite of its great size, it was always warm. 
 Fires blazed in basket grates; sunbeams fell genially from 
 high windows, and struck rainbow tints out of the rich 
 carpet; servants moved with silent alacrity, and one seemed 
 to feel bigger, robuster, more important, as one sat in nearly 
 solitary state and glanced with condescension on all the 
 surrounding pomp. Gilded columns, crimson walls, silver 
 plate, enormous dumb-waiters — wherever one turned one's 
 eyes, something noble and impressive. And the way the 
 
 204 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 servants laid the dishes on one's table, with such a sense 
 of the importance of their work, with so much tender care 
 for the well-being of their masters. Toast snatched from 
 the toasting machine piping hot, muffins with boiling water 
 under them to prevent them from cooling, and an odorous 
 fizzle issuing from the principal dish. A superior servant 
 brought one the Times; it bore the club stamp in faint 
 blue on the front page; it was bound like a book with a 
 bow of green cord, — seeming as if it were a special edition 
 printed for oneself, — recalling the satin programmes sup- 
 plied at theatres for kings and princes. 
 
 Very few members in the club after breakfast: one 
 had the quiet empty rooms to wander about at will. Out- 
 side the plate-glass windows London wooed one, and all 
 day long London now seemed to Lenny so sufficingly pleas- 
 ant. He walked and he drove ; and, walking or driving, he 
 thought that he had never till now really appreciated the 
 charm of this vast town. He had liked it always, but he 
 had never regularly lived in it. He had been a visitor ; now 
 he was tasting some of the fascination that is reserved for 
 habitual residents. At twilight he came back to the club 
 again. External air cold now, but the club was warm and 
 bright — full of members till dinner time. He drank his 
 tea in the library, basked in the luxury of silence after so 
 much jolly chat, finally stretched himself on one of the 
 couches, sank into snug repose, passed through oblivion to 
 elysium. 
 
 Lenny had broken his prison. Without effort he was 
 travelling — round the world. But no sense of fatigue in 
 such dream wanderings. He woke after an hour with a 
 delicious sense of restored energy. Upstairs in billiard-rooms 
 and card-rooms, the friendly hail-fellow-well-met comrades 
 were still assembled, talking, laughing, playing, but at 
 about 7.30 the happy palace began to empty itself: married 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 men were going home to dinner; bachelors were off to 
 their attics to put on their dress clothes. 
 
 "Hullo, Calcraft, you look fairly bobbish." 
 
 "Thank you, Beckford, I'm as jolly as a sandboy." 
 
 He was pleased by the welcome that had been accorded 
 to him in the billiard-room. Presently someone asked 
 a question of somebody else. 
 
 "Are you dinin' here to-night, Wilmington?" 
 
 "Yes, I am," said Sir John. 
 
 "I think I'll join you," said Mr. Enfield. 
 
 Then Sir John asked Lenny if he proposed to stay. 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "We might share a table?" 
 
 "Delighted." 
 
 Mr. Enfield had rung the bell, and was asking the 
 waiter for a telegraph form. "I must send a word home 
 to tell 'em not to expect me." 
 
 Then two other members asked for telegraph forms. 
 Two other wives were to learn at the last moment that 
 they would dine to-night without their lords. 
 
 The waiter offered Lenny the case of telegraph forms; 
 but he declined it with a smile. Not necessary. Excuses 
 not required. Only himself to please. No, he is a free 
 man. 
 
 Sometimes, when passing the windows of the tourists' 
 agency in Cockspur Street he wondered why he had never 
 made those inquiries about through fares, sleeping berths, 
 and luggage registration. He was himself surprised to 
 find that he had not gone away. The month of December 
 had begun, and yet here he was still. 
 
 But of late he had been deeply involved in business — 
 business of a distressing nature. On Sunday night, in the 
 hotel smoking-room, he made the acquaintance of a very 
 
 206 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 interesting man — or rather of an interesting group of men. 
 This Mr. McAndrew was a Scotsman who had Ameri- 
 canized himself by twenty years of industry and adven- 
 ture in the United States. He had made and lost for- 
 tunes, but now, as he described it, he was "on top of the 
 wave; going strong and big in copper." The other men 
 were hangers-on of the chieftain, but solid respectable 
 people — a banker from Manchester, a well-known Member 
 of Parliament, a newspaper editor, and a manufacturer of 
 wire. Lenny saw them from time to time, listened to their 
 stories, and was amused by their vigorous hard-headed talk 
 about politics and finance. Mr. McAndrew, the chieftain, 
 seemed to take to Lenny, enjoyed his society, asked him 
 to a large dinner, at which Lenny was impressed by the 
 substantial character of the guests. There were several 
 Members of Parliament, a young man from the American 
 Embassy, and a popular actor. Obviously then, Mr. Mc- 
 Andrew was all right. A person of real weight, not a 
 blown-out impostor. And his all-rightness was further 
 confirmed by what one of the city members of the club 
 told Lenny of his reputation on the far side of Ludgate 
 Hill. 
 
 Finally McAndrew offered a tip, or bit of friendly ad- 
 vice, on which Lenny promptly acted. 
 
 The advice came at an opportune moment. Lenny was 
 now in possession of all his property, but he had not quite 
 completed that scheme of personal denudation. In fact 
 he had not yet got very far with it. Up to now he had 
 transferred the large sum of £5,000 to his sisters, or in 
 other words a hundred a year for each of them. They 
 ought to be able to get four per cent, safely. £5,000 gone 
 —a very large sum, but small in comparison with his orig- 
 inal intentions, which ran to the enormous figure of £20,000. 
 
 But already the sisters were growing impatient. They 
 
 207 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wrote most churlishly and ungratefully to Mr. Newall, 
 the Westchurch solicitor, urging him to hurry up, to 
 fulfil promises, to give them their money without delay. 
 Lenny was wounded and annoyed by the tone of these 
 letters. His sisters, after their first hasty acknowledg- 
 ment of his munificence, were taking the whole thing as 
 their right. Really, they spoke now as though the money 
 belonged to them. It disgusted him; but, nevertheless, 
 he had determined to make another payment in their 
 favour. He would give them still another £1,000 apiece. 
 And after that he really must have time to consider matters, 
 carefully. He would make this payment in cash, and the 
 money now lay at the bank. It was just at this point 
 that McAndrew offered him the chance of a wonderful 
 speculation. He suggested that Lenny should buy 2,000 
 or 3,000 £1 shares in the Nemorna Bay Amalgamated 
 Copper Mines, which now stood at about ten shillings each. 
 He was genuinely to buy them and to hold them, and 
 eventually they would go racing up to £2 or £3 each. 
 Lenny jumped at the chance. It was as though a fairy 
 had brought the thing to him. By this means his gener- 
 osity would cost him nothing — indeed, he would be a 
 richer man at the end of the whole transaction than he 
 was at the beginning. He sold out stock, and used the 
 proceeds, together with the cash at his bank, for the 
 purchase of 5,000 Nemorna shares, and wrote to Mr. New- 
 all, informing him that for the moment the other matter 
 must wait. After all, it was not pressing. 
 
 Then came some anxiously dreaming days. He thought 
 of all the possibilities of his adventure. Dividends of 
 twenty, fifty, a hundred per cent.; a boom; the shares at 
 £5 or £10 each — a little fortune! McAndrew and his 
 friends had told him that he was really to hold the shares, 
 and even to be prepared for them temporarily to go down 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 — down to nothing. They explained that the price of 
 eleven shillings at which they could now be procured was 
 a chancey sort of quotation, and bore no true ratio to their 
 value. Adverse criticism, a bad report from touring busy- 
 bodies as to the industry generally, or some pompous 
 warning against rash speculation in a paper like the Times, 
 would be sufficient to knock down the price to zero; but 
 it would soon bound up again when the real facts were 
 known, and Lenny was not to be in a hurry even then. 
 He was to hang on and make his golden harvest with 
 his friends. They urged this strongly, and he gathered 
 that they would consider it a dirty trick, if he failed to 
 hold on. They further pointed out that, as a man of means, 
 he could not go wrong. At the worst it would be a lock-up 
 investment. 
 
 But one morning Lenny woke to a nerve test that 
 proved too much for him. He had somehow omitted to 
 look at the over-night newspaper, and thus had not learnt 
 what most people knew yesterday. The day's paper 
 gave him disastrous tidings. "Sensational slump in 
 copper. . . . something like a panic. Heavy fall in 
 well-known securities!" Amalgamated Nemorna had gone 
 head over heels into the abyss. His eyes almost started 
 out of his head as he read the quotations — eight and six 
 pence, five and nine pence, three and eleven pence. 
 
 Lenny was panic-stricken. He simply could not stand 
 it. He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and 
 rushed downstairs to telephone to his stockbrokers. 
 When purchasing, he had employed McAndrew's brokers; 
 but his own people must sell for him. To his horror 
 he discovered that neither the Stock Exchange nor the 
 office of his brokers was as yet open; he had to wait, suf- 
 fering agonies. But at last he got into communication 
 with the office, and a most agitating conversation ensued. 
 
 209 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Nemorna Bay Amalgamated! Nemorna Bay! Ne- 
 morna!" Lenny was bellowing the name of the cop- 
 per mine, and the stockbroker's clerk was saying he could 
 not hear it. When the clerk had got the name, he said, 
 "Well, which is it you wish us to do — to sell the things 
 or to buy some for you? I can't quite hear." 
 
 "To sell! To sell!" yelled Lenny. "Sell the lot as 
 fast as you can." 
 
 "We'll do what we can, sir; but it is very probable 
 there may be no buyers. Anyhow, we have your order 
 now. We quite understand." 
 
 "I'll come down to the office," roared Lenny. 
 
 And immediately after his breakfast in the hotel res- 
 taurant he hastened to the city to inquire if the brokers 
 had succeeded in unloading for him. 
 
 One of the partners suggested that perhaps Lenny need 
 not be in such a hurry. 
 
 "From what I hear there is nothing against your prop- 
 erty, and I should strongly advise you to stick to it a bit. 
 You are selling now at the very bottom of the market, 
 and I really think you ought to give it a chance." 
 
 "I want to cut short my losses," said Lenny. "I can't 
 stand the anxiety. I ought never to have touched the 
 thing. The fact is, I am not a gambler by nature." 
 
 "No. Quite right," said the partner. "But really, 
 some of these copper things are doing so well that they 
 very soon will be classed as investments and not specu- 
 lations." 
 
 But Lenny insisted on unloading; and it was after 
 this, when taking stock of his affairs, and facing the loss 
 he had incurred, that he saw plainly how impossible it 
 would be to carry out his intention with regard to the 
 sisters. All the money of the instalment that he had 
 
 210 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 proposed to give them now, and a great deal more of his 
 own, had been blown to the four winds by these copper 
 idiots. However, it might be a lesson to him if he rigidly 
 abstained from such folly in the future. 
 
 McAndrew and the middle-class bounders who toadied 
 their chieftain and made a little court at the hotel, would 
 possibly resent what they might be pleased to consider 
 as a shabby trick. In fact, Lenny felt sure that they 
 would be angry if they discovered that he was no longer 
 hanging on. But he avoided them — he never wished to 
 see their faces again. 
 
 It became the duty of Mr. Newall of Westchurch to 
 explain to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Holway that they had 
 better rest content with what they had already obtained, 
 and not count on anything further. Mr. Newall, when 
 writing, made no comments on the instructions he had 
 received. Perhaps he thought that Lenny had done enough. 
 Perhaps he never expected him to do so much. At any 
 rate, he never expected him to do any more. Although 
 not by any means a cynic, Mr. Newall often boasted that 
 he knew human nature. 
 
 London in December was as pleasant as, if not pleasanter 
 than London in November. Lenny could not tear him- 
 self away from it. He just enjoyed himself, without 
 doing anything important. Such tasks as getting his 
 hair cut, buying winter boots, and ordering new clothes 
 at his tailor's occupied him sufficiently. He had noticed 
 that the best sort of people in London did not wear 
 mourning for long. After some consideration he selected 
 the patterns for three pairs of grey trousers, and on the 
 delivery of these goods he was well contented with the 
 result of his labour. 
 
 In the afternoon of the first day on which he wore a 
 
 211 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pair of the new trousers, he was slowly and meditatively 
 strolling up St. James's Street. He could not make up 
 his mind whether to do something, or not to do it. Mrs. 
 Fletcher had written to him several times, reproaching him 
 for his neglect of her. Should he go and look her up 
 this afternoon? He thought of the red-brick square and 
 the beautifully appointed house with the countrified hall 
 and shallow stairs. Instinct seemed to be telling him not 
 to go, but presently he hailed a cab and went there. 
 "How well you are looking, Mr. Calcraft!" 
 "I am very well. Never felt fitter in my life." 
 "Then why have you treated me so badly?" 
 She looked very nice, and she appeared to be very pleased 
 to see him. 
 
XXII 
 
 A PLEASANT intimacy had arisen between Lenny 
 and Helen Fletcher. In the course of three or 
 four weeks they had become almost pals. During 
 this jolly time just before Christmas they were together 
 quite a lot. 
 
 It amused him to carry her parcels when she was 
 shopping, to drink tea with her in dimly-lit Bond Street 
 tea-rooms, to drive about with her in the darkness of her 
 tiny brougham. They spent evenings of great elegance — 
 dinner at a smart restaurant, stalls at a new play — "en 
 camarade," as she described it. She insisted on paying 
 her share of the expenses — would do so. One cannot 
 contest such a point with a woman, especially a rich 
 woman. She was really rich — she dressed so splendidly, by 
 day and by night. No one need feel ashamed of being 
 seen with her. 
 
 Lenny also dined often at her house, where he enjoyed 
 the lulling spell of a refined atmosphere. Wealth and 
 cultivation! She lived in the midst of all the things that 
 money and taste can procure for one. There were never 
 more or less than eight people at her dinner-parties: four 
 charming well-bred interesting women, three entirely un- 
 interesting men — and himself. 
 
 He was beginning to know many of her friends, and 
 he liked them well enough ; but he was not much taken 
 with her relatives. She had an uncle and several male 
 cousins who were constant visitors, and who, it seemed 
 
 213 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to Lenny, exhibited objectionable traits. They belonged 
 to a class that he had always disliked — the suavely pre- 
 tentious, quietly swaggering people who possess neither 
 rank, wealth, nor the distinction won by useful careers, 
 and who nevertheless insidiously convey their belief that 
 they are in all respects suitable companions for kings and 
 emperors. They are gentlemen by birth, and therefore 
 the equals of all above them; whereas all below them — 
 the vast majority of the human race, in fact — must be 
 treated with sublime contempt. Helen Fletcher herself 
 was absolutely devoid of pretension. Though so clever, 
 she did not even betray a snobbishness of intellect; she 
 merely disregarded everything and everybody that failed 
 to amuse or interest her; she went through life straight 
 ahead, her own way. But this uncle Granville Yates, a 
 pompous elderly civil servant, and cousin Pritchard, a 
 briefless barrister, were, in Lenny's opinion, innate snobs 
 — snobs to the backbone; sycophants and hangers-on 
 too — liking Mrs. Fletcher for the presents and good dinners 
 that she freely gave them, — hoping perhaps for still greater 
 benefits, and jealously watching her and endeavouring to 
 keep her all to themselves if possible. 
 
 Moreover, Lenny perceived their hostility to him — a 
 hostility shared by all her male visitors, whether family 
 connections or simply friends. Doubtless they observed 
 that the hostess treated him with particular deference 
 and attention; probably most of them were would-be cour- 
 tiers of the rich and attractive young widow, and they 
 dreaded a rival in every good-looking stranger who came 
 to the house. 
 
 During dinner, while Helen was present, they asked 
 him questions artfully designed to belittle his importance. 
 If he spoke of his past experiences in the hunting-field, 
 they inquired where he was keeping his hunters this year 
 
 214, 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 — and affected a surprise when he said that he had no 
 horses just now. If the subject was shooting, they wished 
 to know if he had ever shot any big game — and so on, the 
 endeavour being to detract from his importance. 
 
 When left alone with them after dinner, he felt the hos- 
 tile intention very strongly. They talked in a familiar, 
 free masonic manner of things that he did not know about, 
 of people with whom he was unacquainted; then turning 
 and apologizing, they ostentatiously assumed the duty of 
 hosts to the newcomer who had been left out of the con- 
 versation. 
 
 "I was forgetting," said Granville Yates, "that this 
 would be all gibberish to you — er — Mr. Calcraft;" and 
 he hesitated, in order to show that as yet the name did 
 not slip off his tongue easily. "But of course you haven't 
 known my cousin long, have you?" 
 
 "No," said Lenny, "I have not had that privilege 
 for long." 
 
 "No — so I understood. And it is a privilege — though 
 perhaps, as her uncle, I shouldn't agree with you so readily. 
 One oughtn't to praise one's own folk;" and Mr. Yates 
 pretended to be genial and expansive. "Don't move. 
 I'll come and sit by you. Fill your glass. This port is 
 some that poor Fletcher bought years ago on my recom- 
 mendation, so I can vouch for it. . . . You never knew 
 Fletcher, did you? But of course not. You just told 
 me " 
 
 Whenever he was there, Mr. Yates played the part of 
 host after the ladies had gone from the dining-room; but 
 there was also a cousin Donald who affected great airs of 
 proprietorship. 
 
 "Have a cigar, Calcraft?" he said condescendingly. "I'll 
 get them out," and he went over to the sideboard. "Have 
 a big 'un, or a little 'un?" 
 
 215 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Neither, thank you," said Lenny, producing his ciga- 
 rette-case, and carefully inserting one of his own cigarettes 
 in a paper holder. 
 
 "Give me a small cigar, Donald," said old Yates. "I 
 mustn't let you fellows sit here too long, you know — or 
 the fair Helen will be sending for us. She relies on me 
 to bring you upstairs in half an hour at the outside." 
 
 Helen treated Donald — Lenny never learned his sur- 
 name — as a most innocent kind of tame cat, telling him 
 to ring the bell, put coals on the fire, fetch the cards for 
 bridge, and sending him about the house on messages. 
 He w r as a pallid clean-shaven young man, with lank dark 
 hair plastered back from his low forehead — not an ill- 
 looking person by any means; but his charms, such as 
 they were, left Helen altogether cold. Lenny felt quite 
 sure that Donald was desperately enamoured of his pretty 
 cousin, and he felt equally sure that she for her part was 
 rather amused by this old-standing devotion, and rather 
 sorry for the unfortunate young man who entertained 
 such hopeless ambitions. Donald himself in all proba- 
 bility understood that his case was hopeless. But he could 
 not keep away from the house; he watched jealously; it 
 would be poisonous pain, almost death to Donald, if he 
 saw somebody else win the glorious prize. 
 
 One evening Donald distinctly attempted — in the homely 
 phrase — "to put off" the intruder; although he began by 
 telling Lenny that Mrs. Fletcher's income was over six 
 thousand a year. Think of it — and Lenny did think of 
 it. Something like an income! But so much money — as 
 Donald explained — placed her in a somewhat distressing 
 situation. On the one hand she was exposed to flatterers; 
 and on the other hand she was rendered suspicious of the 
 integrity and genuineness of all mankind. 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny. "I suppose every pretty woman 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 must have flatterers; but I fancy Mrs. Fletcher is aware 
 that some at least of the adulation she receives is alto- 
 gether natural and real." 
 
 "No, she can't believe it," said Donald earnestly. "She 
 has become thoroughly suspicious. It's a pity." 
 
 Lenny puffed his cigarette in silence. 
 
 "I often tell her so," Donald went on. "A great 
 pity — to get these warped ideas. But she has been un- 
 fortunate in the people she takes up with — she's so en- 
 thusiastic. At first all her geese are swans. It's a family 
 joke with us. Who is Helen's new favourite? Don't 
 you know, sometimes it's a singer, a poet, a piano-player — 
 sometimes just an ordinary social acquaintance; but at 
 first they are perfection, and we are all told to bow down 
 to them and worship them — until all at once she gets sick 
 of 'em, finds they aren't the demigods she expected, 
 and drops 'em like a hot potato. Then they go away 
 and say she's fickle. That's what people do say about 
 her — because they see how she takes people up and drops 
 'em. But it isn't fickleness. It is the warp that her situa- 
 tion has given to her character. The one thing she values 
 now is getting her own way, whatever the whim of the 
 moment may be — she has a horror of ennui, can't brook 
 the idea of being led, or even guided. That's why she 
 hasn't married again — and why we all say she never will 
 marry." 
 
 And then old Granville Yates, sliding his chair nearer, 
 joined in this transparent putting-off game. 
 
 "No," and Mr. Yates nodded his head significantly. "You 
 are right there, Donald. Rem acu tetigisti — as we used 
 to say at school. And between you and me — no disloyalty 
 implied, mind you — I'm not sure that I would envy Helen's 
 second husband. You didn't know poor Fletcher, did you, 
 Mr. Calcraft?" 
 
 217 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, I had not the pleasure." 
 
 "Of course not. I remember you told me so. A queer 
 fish! Not a happy marriage- — I betray no secrets in say- 
 ing as much as that. But since then our young friend has 
 made up for lost time. She has enjoyed her freedom. It 
 has become the breath of her nostrils. , . . Helen is 
 a magnificent creature." 
 
 "Magnificent," echoed Donald, in a tone of gloomy en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "But Helen," continued Yates, "has her faults. 
 Number One — that is the number that Helen is disposed 
 to begin and end with. In the last three years she has 
 been spoilt — by the world, and by herself. And she is 
 now in many respects like your typical spoilt child;" and 
 he laughed tolerantly and good-humouredly. "No, at the 
 present time — and I say it again, without a disloyal thought 
 — Helen might prove a difficult person to run in double 
 harness with." 
 
 Then Mr. Yates resumed the manner of a deputy host. 
 
 "Any more wine, Mr. Calcraf t ? . . . Then put away 
 the cigars, Donald — and let us go upstairs." 
 
 But an evening soon came when officious cigar-distrib- 
 utors and self-elected deputy hosts suffered a severe snub. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher guessed that her honoured visitor, 
 although he uttered no complaints, was treated with in- 
 sufficient courtesy during her absence. Anyhow, she made 
 a demonstration in his favour which caused Lenny to swell 
 proudly and contentedly. 
 
 She was looking her very best that evening. Before 
 dinner Donald had drawn Lenny's attention to the fact. 
 She wore a dress of red velvet — a stately, glowing, queen- 
 like robe, in which she looked taller than usual; the red 
 colour, as Lenny observed, made her neck and shoulders 
 seem dazzlingly white, enhanced the delicate porcelain 
 
 218 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 tones of her complexion, but, curiously enough, did not 
 clash with her blue eyes; and for final touch of splendour 
 there was a broad network or coif of diamonds bound across' 
 her fair hair. Truly she seemed quite a startlingly pretty 
 woman. 
 
 "Isn't she magnificent?" whispered Donald. "She ought 
 to be painted in that dress. I begged her to be painted 
 by Sargent — but she wouldn't. She doesn't care for mod- 
 ern art." 
 
 Lenny took her down to dinner; and after dinner, when 
 she and the other ladies were going out of the room, she 
 stood on the threshold and looked back at him, smiling. 
 
 "Mr. Calcraft, I leave you in charge. Don't let Uncle 
 Granville sit all night drinking his horrid port, because 
 it isn't good for him. And don't let Donald fill the house 
 with cigar smoke. Bring them up soon. You may all 
 smoke cigarettes — but not cigars — upstairs." 
 
 That — in the words that suggested themselves to Lenny 
 as descriptive of the phenomenon — fairly put an extinguish- 
 ing cap on Uncle Yates and Cousin Donald. 
 
 Donald glowered at him, Mr. Yates shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, and then both of them drank feverishly of the half- 
 forbidden port. 
 
 Lenny knew that they were suffering, but their dis- 
 comfiture amused him. Why the deuce should he care for 
 them or their feelings? They had shown no tenderness 
 for him. If a fascinating, beautiful, clever creature chose 
 in her own house to single him out for especial honour, 
 and they didn't happen to like it — well, they could do the 
 other thing. If they were pleased to imagine that he was 
 a successful suitor, whose success would presently be pro- 
 claimed to the world — well, he would certainly not trouble 
 to undeceive them. 
 
 He sat firmly and squarely on his chair, and talked to 
 15 219 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the fourth man with a new and solid confidence. He felt 
 thoroughly at home, delightfully comfortable. It gratified 
 him to know that he was so big and sleek and nicely 
 brushed; that his clothes were so well-cut, and that his 
 white waistcoat and stiff pique shirt remained so entirely 
 uncrumpled. 
 
 And inwardly he had a sensation of immensely increased 
 size, and continually growing importance. A notable fact 
 — no getting away from it — that, without trying, he con- 
 trived to make an impression now and then, not often, but 
 occasionally, on members of the other sex. It is a wonder- 
 ful power this, when you manage to retain it all through 
 your youth and on into what most people call middle life. 
 
XXIII 
 
 LENNY, take me to the Tate Gallery." 
 She called him Lenny now. One day she told 
 him that she might thus comply with an ancient 
 request of his, because she believed they had reached the 
 real pal-stage. He was of course delighted. 
 
 "And I suppose," she said, smiling and arching her 
 eyebrows, "the corollary is, I ought to be Helen. But I 
 don't think that would do, would it?" 
 
 "Wouldn't it? No. I suppose the two cases aren't 
 on all fours;" and he wished he could have said something 
 neater. 
 
 Then, after a little reflection, she said that he might 
 call her Helen when they were alone, but not before other 
 people. 
 
 He had not particularly wanted to call her Helen. What 
 he liked was being called Lenny. He was accustomed to 
 it, and the sound of the pet name always had a pleasant 
 individualistic music to his ear. 
 
 "Lenny, take me to the Tate Gallery." 
 
 "The Tate Gallery? There's nothing new there** 
 
 They were walking along Piccadilly, after luncheon at 
 a restaurant, and he was enjoying the gentle exercise. It 
 had been wet all the morning. 
 
 "Those big things by Watts — they have come into my 
 mind, and I feel that I must see them again. Let's go at 
 once — before the light fails. Perhaps Watts couldn't 
 draw, perhaps he couldn't paint; but he made poems eight 
 feet long and six feet wide, and used splendid colours in- 
 
 221 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stead of mere words to express his noble thoughts. Do 
 be quick, Lenny, and get a cab." 
 
 While they drove to the remote goal, he thought with 
 faint irritation that she was not a reposeful companion; 
 and suddenly he remembered what that young man Donald 
 had said of her. She obeyed the whim of the moment, 
 and enforced the obedience of others. Evidently a certain 
 amount of truth in that! Then his thought drifted to the 
 past, and he recalled walks about the London streets with 
 Alma. It had been enough happiness for Alma to walk 
 by his side — the shop windows, the buildings, the passing 
 traffic, provided all the entertainment she asked for. She 
 did not abruptly shout for cabs, and insist upon dashing 
 half across London to look at a lot of stupid pictures. 
 
 But he felt proud of Helen when at last they reached 
 the gallery. She knew so much — so much more than the 
 attendants or the compiler of the catalogue; she expounded 
 the poetry of Watts with such a technically instructed 
 rapture. And she looked so nice. In one of the rooms 
 he admired her from a little distance, and saw that other 
 people were admiring her too. A middle-class party — 
 two men and three women — ceased gazing at the pictures 
 in order to gaze at her. One of the men gaped with open 
 mouth, and the women nudged each other — they were over- 
 whelmed by the prettiness and grandeur of the strange lady. 
 
 And Lenny felt that he also was looking nice. Just 
 now he had caught a glimpse of himself in a large mirror — 
 his new frock overcoat with the grey velvet collar and 
 the wide skirts was beautifully shaped to the waist, and 
 it became him; the impressive dignity of his new silk hat 
 confirmed his wisdom in demanding an unusually curly 
 brim; the black satin scarf and turquoise pin, the soft 
 gloves, the cloth-topped boots were all perfect. The glass 
 had shown him nothing that he could wish to alter. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Helen, come here. This is exquisite/' 
 
 She came to him at once, and he pointed to a small land- 
 scape — wild flowers in foreground, snow mountains in back- 
 ground, blue summer sky. 
 
 "Yes?" And she looked up at him, wonderingly, 
 eagerly. "What is it that appeals to you in that, Lenny? 
 Tell me exactly why you like it." 
 
 But he was only thinking what a fine couple they made — 
 so lordly and commanding, so sumptuously attired, so full 
 of attraction to commonplace sight-seers. He had sum- 
 moned her to his side because he wished those nudging 
 women and that poor gaping man to know that she be- 
 longed to him. 
 
 "Tell me, Lenny, so that I may see it as you see it." 
 
 "The light! The colour!" And he stretched out his 
 open hand and slowly closed it. 
 
 "Ah! You are able to pull it all together. I can't. 
 To me it is all detail — no harmony or completeness. Where 
 are we supposed to be, to see field flowers that size? They 
 must be close to our eyes — our heads on the ground. To 
 me it is just a studio composition — sketch of hills, study 
 of flowers — notes from my sketch-book, selected in leisure 
 hours after my holiday abroad;" and she laughed gaily 
 but contemptuously. "I dare say you are right, Lenny. 
 And it's only my prejudice — my old quarrel with the Eng- 
 lish school." 
 
 The worst thing that one could possibly say against her 
 as a companion was this — she lacked repose. 
 
 An excursion with her was very different from a quiet 
 promenade with Alma. There was a certain amount of 
 underlying strain. Helen's conversation always stimulated, 
 but sometimes it slightly fatigued one. With Helen he 
 was always intellectually stretched — trying more or less to 
 
 823 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 shine, to give a fresh turn to stale thoughts, not to betray 
 ignorance in matters of art, literature, modern science. 
 
 With Alma it had been so easy. Poor girl, at the very 
 beginning she had placed him on a pedestal. Those 
 maddened runaway horses did the trick; he was exalted 
 once and for all: the hero, the superhuman being whose 
 lightest words must contain some echo of a divine voice. 
 To a lesser extent Helen Fletcher had done something of 
 the sort. She paid him compliments — spoke of him in a 
 symbolic metaphorical manner that was gratifying. She 
 continued to talk of his mantle; — but he was always afraid 
 of making a rent in it. 
 
 One morning when he came to luncheon at her house, 
 he found her seated in a low chair with an immense volume 
 on her lap. She scarcely raised her eyes when he entered 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 "Lenny, look at my trouvaille. Stand behind me and 
 look — but don't disturb me — don't wake me out of won- 
 derful dreams." 
 
 He went behind her chair, and looked at the illustra- 
 tions in the book as she slowly turned the pages. Egyptian 
 monuments — sphinxes, statues of kings and queens; — pho- 
 tographs, reproductions of water-colour drawings — all beau- 
 tifully printed: obviously a very expensive affair! 
 
 "Where did you get it, Helen?" 
 
 "A shop in Regent Street. I brought it straight home — 
 to gloat over." 
 
 Then after turning another page she drew in her breath 
 with a long sigh, and pointed at a photograph of two co- 
 lossal statues. 
 
 "They amaze me — and they fascinate me." She spoke 
 in an awe-struck whisper, as if to herself rather than to 
 him. But stooping over the back of the chair, he just 
 caught her words. "Think of how these things were 
 
 224, 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 made! The blocks torn from the live rock. Dragged by 
 slaves across the desert — straining like beasts — cracking, 
 bursting, dying — and the merciless lash falling night and 
 day on naked backs. . . . Granite! Yes, granite to 
 carry the fashioned marble! Every plinth cemented with 
 human blood!" Then she spoke directly to him. 
 "Lenny, look. Look at this marble man and woman! 
 Born in such horror, and yet wearing such eternal calm 
 on their cruel stone faces!" 
 
 He could not obtain any further attention from her until 
 she had regretfully turned the last page. Then she got 
 up, and, still holding the book, spoke eagerly and excitedly. 
 
 "Lenny, take me to the British Museum, and let me 
 see some of the real things." 
 
 "I thought we were going to the skating rink." 
 
 "No, no — not to-day. Take me to the British Museum 
 the moment we have had our lunch. Ring the bell. I'll 
 tell them we want lunch at once." 
 
 Instead of being a delightful leisurely repast, their 
 luncheon was like a meal snatched at a railway station, 
 when you know that the express will start in less than 
 twenty minutes. She made him bolt his food; and by rea- 
 son of the insensate hurry it had not been properly cooked. 
 No time to assist digestion by quietly sipping a cup of black 
 coffee — he was hustled from the table before he had even 
 smoked a cigarette. No time to order her snug little 
 brougham — frantic whistling to fetch a draughty old four- 
 wheeler. 
 
 He was not too well pleased. He could not but re- 
 member what Uncle Yates had said. Spoilt by the world, 
 and spoiling herself: altogether too like a typical spoilt 
 child. And there was something he did not understand, 
 something with which he would never be able to sympa- 
 thize, in this wild ecstasy about the art of a semi-barbarous 
 
 225 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Civilization that had passed away thousands of years ago. 
 It struck a jarring note. He did not like it, although he 
 could not with precision have explained why. 
 
 The museum wearied him, enervated him; but it seemed 
 that she could not tear herself away from the stupendous 
 evidences of human labour and human pain. "They 
 fascinate me," she said again and again; and he was com- 
 pelled to hang about among the tombs, temple friezes, and 
 gigantic winged beasts, till his feet began to burn and ache 
 in a new pair of patent leather boots. One circumstance 
 only sustained him. He saw once more how greatly every- 
 body admired her — the attendants, the policemen, the vis- 
 itors, the students, all turned their heads and with or with- 
 out discretion stared at her. 
 
 She had been in too much haste to dress herself care- 
 fully. She had just thrown on her clothes, the first that 
 came handy to the maid, and yet she looked charming. 
 Again he watched her from a little distance — she wore a 
 long coat and a short skirt of purple cloth, ermine round 
 her neck, and a black floppy sort of hat without a veil; 
 but in this very ordinary costume she appeared like an 
 advertisement or show figure of the best Parisian dress- 
 maker; really the quintessence of mundane elegance. 
 And she carried herself so well — the head, with upturned 
 eyes, so beautifully poised; a hand upon a hip, in an atti- 
 tude used by quite common people, yet now seeming appro- 
 priate and seductive. Automatically he drew nearer to 
 her — he wanted to see the expression of her eyes, the deli- 
 cate tints of her complexion, the gleam of white teeth be- 
 tween the red lips. 
 
 She took his arm, and leaned upon it while she stood in 
 front of a vast Assyrian bull; and he watched her face 
 until she consented to move on. 
 
 "There! Monstrous, but splendid! Lenny," — and he 
 226 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 felt an increasing weight upon his arm — "it fascinates me. 
 The close-knit symmetry of great strength!" 
 
 "Yes. Shall we be off now?" 
 
 "Let me feel the Greek idea first. Show me the sculp- 
 ture of Greece — and of Rome too." 
 
 Then arm in arm they tramped through more and 
 still more galleries, long avenues of stone and plaster — 
 gods and goddesses, nymphs and satyrs, wrestlers, water- 
 carriers, sling-throwers, and what not else that one had 
 seen a hundred times and never wished to see again. His 
 only amusement was watching her face. But her scrutiny 
 of the nude antique men vaguely troubled him. It set 
 him thinking of incongruous matters; his mind wandered, 
 and he started when he heard her voice at his elbow. 
 
 "Strength and grace," she was murmuring. "Can you 
 ever have real grace without strength behind it? . . . 
 I think that's what fascinates me in bulls." 
 
 He watched her face. It bore the connoisseurs expres- 
 sion — eyes half closed, head very slightly on one side. 
 
 "Oh, Lenny, what a nuisance!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "They are turning on the artificial light. I hate arti- 
 ficial light. I should like to be here when it was so dark 
 that one could only just make out the form and size of 
 things. I would like to be here at night — in total dark- 
 ness — shut in, all alone, with the work of the mighty 
 dead. . . . What dreams, what wonderful dreams one 
 ought to have — lying at the feet of the gods, quite alone 
 in this cemetery of Olympus!" 
 
 At last he plainly requested her to come away. 
 
 "Helen, it is getting late — past tea-time. Where shall 
 I take you for tea?" 
 
 "Let's have tea here. Ask the way to the refreshment 
 room." 
 
 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Oh, they would give us a horrible tea." 
 
 "No, it would be all right. And after tea, let us see 
 the Cretan frescoes. There are urns and vases too — heaps 
 of things dug up the other day in Crete." 
 
 "Good-bye, British Museum," he said to himself, when 
 passing through the forecourt. "Catch me again if you 
 can. Once bit, twice shy." 
 
 No, he was not well pleased with Helen that afternoon. 
 
 But he was much pleased with her, very proud of her, 
 three nights later when she called for him in her little 
 brougham, took him out for dinner at an hotel, and thence 
 to a theatre. 
 
 She was quite at her best to-night. She had the dia- 
 mond coif to decorate her pretty hair; and when she re- 
 moved a magnificent sable cloak, he saw that she was wear- 
 ing the red velvet dress. Manifestations of admiring sur- 
 prise were plainly perceptible. Diners at other tables could 
 not repress their curiosity. Lenny felt that he and his lady 
 were all to nothing the smartest couple in the whole of 
 the smart hotel. 
 
 And it was the same thing at the playhouse. Every- 
 body who saw them seemed to exhibit uncontrollable 
 admiration. They sat in the stalls, with their elbows 
 touching, their breaths mingling as they whispered to each 
 other, their hearts beating to a sympathetic rhythm while 
 they listened to the talented actors and actresses. It was 
 a charmingly clever play — it satisfied the intellect, it stirred 
 the emotions; it made you laugh, and it made you cry. 
 After the poignantly sad third act, there were lumps in 
 their throats and tears in their eyes. 
 
 "You are like me," Helen whispered. "You yield to 
 the illusion, though you know it is an illusion." 
 
 "Yes — quite pathetic! Almost too sad." 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But, as Lenny had prophesied, the fourth act made every- 
 thing all right. No more tears, no more laughter — some 
 tender smiles, and a delightful consciousness that all was 
 ending, had ended, happily. When the curtain de- 
 scended Helen's face was glowing and her eyes were very 
 bright. 
 
 "Lenny, take me somewhere to supper." 
 
 "Rather. Where shall we go?" 
 
 She held his arm, as slowly they made their way out 
 of the theatre, and whispered in so low a tone that nobody 
 else could possibly hear her. 
 
 "Take me somewhere wrong — to a place where I 
 oughtn't to go — where the naughty people go." 
 
 "My dear girl, they go everywhere nowadays." 
 
 She laughed, pressed his arm, and went on whispering. 
 
 "Show me the brazen abandoned women who have such 
 power over you weak men — the shameless creatures who 
 stick at nothing." 
 
 "Helen, you are shocking me." 
 
 "Yes, I'm doing it purposely. I'm trying to shock you. 
 It is the play — the play has excited me. I would like 
 to keep up the excitement, and not drop down at once to 
 the flat dull level of everyday life." 
 
 He took her to another fashionable restaurant — a most 
 sumptuous and sagely conducted place of entertainment. 
 The other idea was not quite good enough. But he deter- 
 mined to humour her whim by pointing out reputable mem- 
 bers of society, giving them fictitious names, and declaring 
 them to be steeped in the most terrible naughtiness. 
 
 However, by the time they were established at their 
 supper-table, her mood had changed. She had become 
 silent and sentimental; she scarcely glanced at the sur- 
 rounding company, but looked at Lenny with softened eyes. 
 
 By his directions, the waiter had moved their chairs so 
 
 229 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 that they sat elbow to elbow again, instead of facing each 
 other across the little round table. 
 
 More champagne, more cutlets, more music — Lenny felt 
 blissfully contented. Here, as at the theatre, many people 
 were admiring his companion. But she had eyes only for 
 him. 
 
 "Lenny! I have a communication to make." 
 
 He stopped in the act of helping himself to a second 
 cutlet. His ear had caught the note of real emotion. 
 
 "Don't look at me. Go on eating — and then no one 
 will guess that we aren't talking of quite ordinary things." 
 
 The band played, people chattered loudly, knives, forks, 
 and plates clashed and clinked; and amidst all this noisy 
 confusion she continued speaking to him in a low and rather 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 "I don't suppose you remember it, but I told you once 
 what I should do if I found the man — the man that per- 
 haps I was seeking for. . . . Lenny, I think I have 
 found the man." 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "No, don't look at me." 
 
 But naturally he disobeyed her. Her eyes were glowing 
 very softly; her red lips had parted in a smile; her whole 
 face was full of light — like a pretty painted lantern with 
 the concealed lamp shining through the delicate paper case. 
 
 "Yes, I am almost sure. But he is slow to make me 
 quite sure. He is dreadfully slow to take hints — he hangs 
 back — he won't answer to the spur. So I am obliged to 
 ask him a direct question. . . . Lenny, do you like me — 
 a little?" 
 
 "No. I like you a great deal." 
 
 "How much? I want to know — because I like you 
 enormously." 
 
 Her horses were cold after so much standing, and they 
 230 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pranced home at a spanking pace. In the snug darkness 
 of the little brougham she had opened her fur cloak to 
 enable him to get his arm round her waist comfortably; 
 and all the way home from the Embankment to Sloane 
 Street, except when garish light momentarily invaded their 
 dark shelter, he was kissing and fondling her. 
 
 An hour later in the bedroom of his hotel, he noticed 
 that a perfume of violets still clung to his clothes. 
 
XXIV 
 
 HE lay late in bed next day, thinking of these re- 
 markable occurrences. 
 
 Helen Fletcher had proposed marriage, and he 
 had accepted the proposal. When he first woke, he scarcely 
 believed it. How could such a thing have happened? Was 
 it possible that after telling Alma he would never marry, 
 he had already engaged himself to another woman? He 
 was filled with wonder — really could not understand it. 
 
 From Alma's point of view, the unexpected event 
 might seem to indicate treachery, falsehood, meanness. 
 He could not bear the idea of Alma's hearing about it. 
 But of course all the circumstances were so entirely differ- 
 ent. This was a rational affair, the union of two worldly 
 well-to-do people, the marriage of convenience. 
 
 Then for a little while he thought of the material 
 advantages offered by the marriage. Six thousand a year, 
 with about fifteen hundred of his very own — it would mean 
 a life of consummate ease, ■ spent in that atmosphere of 
 refinement which he had thought so charming. He would 
 be master of that well-appointed house, host at innumerable 
 dinner-parties, a person of real importance. If he wished, 
 he could hunt again, shoot again; he could be a yachting 
 man, or a racing man; he could patronize literature and 
 the drama; he could undoubtedly afford to enter Par- 
 liament. 
 
 And then he wandered off into philosophic meditations. 
 How marvellously complex is this mysterious blending 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of what seems so like free will and what is palpably pre- 
 destined! Marvellous — when one honestly tries to shape 
 one's life, and thinks one is doing so, it is all the time being 
 shaped for one. That was what he had always maintained 
 — we are puppets. He had said so to Alma; and all 
 that had happened last night, all that was to happen this 
 morning, bore out his theory. Soon he would dress, 
 and by one o'clock find himself on the steps of that red- 
 brick house; and in the pocket of his coat there would 
 be a little case, which he would have procured at the 
 Army & Navy Stores; and in the case there would be an 
 expensive jewelled engagement-ring — for his affianced 
 bride. By no possibility could he have guessed yesterday 
 what to-morrow's task might be; and by no possibility, 
 now that to-morrow had become to-day, could he evade 
 the task. Destiny! A big word, but no smaller one big 
 enough for the phenomenon. He had never plotted to 
 marry Helen — never. But would poor Alma understand 
 how unavoidably he had drifted into this arrangement? 
 
 Before he got out of bed he had determined that it 
 should be a very quiet wedding, without guests or recep- 
 tion, without even any announcements in the newspapers. 
 Alma's knowledge of the curious and surprising fact should 
 be delayed as long as possible. 
 
 Wonder became a component now in most of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Helen was very, very fond of him; and he had not been 
 prepared for so exuberant a demonstration of her fondness. 
 
 She told him that the first time she saw him, she had 
 felt something — not anything powerful or distressful, per- 
 haps only the awakening of a faint sensation or the birth 
 of a vague idea; but, whatever it was, it proved sufficient 
 to make her wish to see him again. 
 
 233 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "And that, Lenny, is neither more nor less than the way 
 nine women out of ten begin to fall in love." 
 
 The word startled him. It set him wondering. As 
 he had understood the character of her mind, and the 
 whole intention of her life, he assumed that love was 
 scarcely an appropriate word — at any rate, so early. It 
 was a word that might be used after marriage — but surely 
 not so soon as all this. Convenience, suitability, the 
 licensed friendship of two sensible people who had decided 
 to join forces — as he understood, these were the principal 
 considerations that had influenced both contracting per- 
 sonages. No matter! 
 
 Then, she explained, she had heard the legend of his 
 devotion to his father; and it was this that had really 
 won her. She had thought, "What a husband such a son 
 would make!" And she had felt that she would be safe 
 in thinking about him — and she had liked thinking about 
 him. 
 
 "Then when you came to me in your black clothes, look- 
 ing so sad and seeming so august, I felt quite sure I was 
 right." She laughed gaily and happily. "I had found 
 the man — and I meant to get him, if I anyhow could." 
 
 A compliment — a prodigious compliment! Who would 
 not be gratified by such an avowal? But it occurred to 
 him — fleetingly — that if at this period he had guessed the 
 exact nature of her thought, he might perhaps have been 
 a little more wary. No — not wary, but circumspect; per- 
 haps he might have examined his own thoughts more closely 
 — might have taken time to look round the subject in all 
 directions. 
 
 With wonder he noticed extraordinary changes in her. 
 Sometimes it almost seemed that she was another woman. 
 During her sentimentally affectionate moods, she showed 
 
 234 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 no trace of the old restlessness. She spoke slowly and 
 purringly, instead of eagerly or abruptly; she did not 
 want to dash about London, was content to sit quite still; 
 she was meek, docile, delightedly submitting to his wishes. 
 
 Engagement to be kept secret, wedding to be quiet, with- 
 out fuss or publicity — yes, his word was her law. She 
 would take pleasure in whatever pleased him. 
 
 When giving expression to this submissive frame of mind, 
 she used little phrases that he never should have believed 
 would fall from those red lips. 
 
 "Lenny, I want to ask your permission to do something. 
 . . . When we are married, will you ever allow me to 
 go about by myself? . . . Will you forbid my smoking 
 cigarettes?" 
 
 It charmed and soothed him when she talked in this 
 manner. It seemed to augur so well for the future, to 
 promise just the tranquil joys that he desired. 
 
 While in one of the compliant moods, she insisted on 
 telling him all about her money. Donald had not exag- 
 gerated. It was six thousand per annum. 
 
 But it soon appeared that some of this really ample 
 income was already disposed of — not available for them- 
 selves. A number of her husband's poor relations were de- 
 pendent on her bounty; she made annual allowances to 
 many indigent hangers-on. 
 
 "In a small way," she said, "I did what you did on 
 such a large scale. . . . No, don't attempt to deny it. 
 I know. Miss Workman told me — and, Lenny, I loved 
 you for doing it." 
 
 And as well as relatives there were old servants. 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny. "That's a claim one can't escape 
 from. I had to provide for my poor father's staff." 
 
 She spoke of doing things in a small way; but when she 
 16 235 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 went on to particularize, it seemed that she had mort- 
 gaged her resources in a preposterously large way. There 
 was no end to her allowances and pensions. 
 
 "I feel, Lenny, that I could never stop them. But of 
 course all these people are old. They will die, and then 
 the money will be free again. It is a lot of money to be 
 going out every year to people you have never seen — but I 
 don't think you'll mind. You won't mind?" 
 
 "Mind?" 
 
 Certainly he did not mind — but, as a mere matter of 
 arithmetic, she had with a few words reduced that noble 
 income of six thousand to little more than four thousand. 
 
 "Sure, Lenny?" She was looking at him deprecatingly. 
 
 "My dear Helen, can you suppose that I should have 
 the effrontery to dictate to you how you are to deal with 
 your money?" 
 
 "No, but it isn't my money any longer. It is our money. 
 That's why I am bothering you with all these details;" 
 and she spoke very eagerly. "Now that I have a lord and 
 master, I am not even a half partner in the firm. I shall 
 never draw on our funds without first asking leave." 
 
 He was touched by her eagerness to arrive at this clear 
 understanding. It struck him as unselfish, chivalrous, really 
 fine; and he immediately showed his appreciation by re- 
 warding her with some slight endearments. 
 
 He stroked her fair hair, exactly as he used to stroke 
 Alma's dark hair — with a gentle cautious touch that could 
 not disarrange it. 
 
 Then, after a minute, he put his hand round to the 
 back of her neck, as he had done so often with Alma — 
 perhaps wishing for one of the old thrills, or proposing to 
 analyse the effects of a new sensation. But the caress 
 produced such an effect in Helen that he could not go 
 on quietly thinking about himself. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 She shut her eyes, threw back her head, and gasped 
 ecstatically. 
 
 "Yes, do that, Lenny. Oh, I like that. Hold me as 
 if 30U would never let go of me. Be rough, and fierce, 
 and dreadful to me. . . . Say it, Lenny, — 'I have got 
 you.' X 
 
 "Yes, I have got you." 
 
 "Oh, but much more fiercely than that. Say this — as 
 fiercely as you can. ... 'I have got you, Helen, you 
 little wretch ; and you shan't get away from me.' " 
 
 He had let his hand drop from her neck; but she made 
 him put it back again, and to satisfy her he was obliged 
 to repeat the idiotic words that she had invented for him. 
 
 He considered all this very silly and childish — and, if 
 the truth must be confessed, not altogether nice. He was 
 quite glad when the parlour-maid came into the room and 
 rendered any further endearments impossible. 
 
 Wonderful — after all, he was going on that tour of 
 adventure, and with a companion. He had talked so 
 much of his intention to penetrate far-off countries, that 
 Helen knew all about it. She embodied it in her own plans. 
 The tour — lengthened, rather than shortened — should be 
 their honeymoon. 
 
 She said it would be the most entrancingly original 
 honeymoon; indeed, the glory of the idea threw her 
 always into a mood that seemed the antithesis of the docile, 
 soothing mood which he so much preferred. When she 
 talked of their travels she became excited, fantastic, and 
 fatiguingly romantic. She could not sit still. She sprang 
 up and down, jumped all round the room, and came jump- 
 ing back to deluge him with her enthusiasms. 
 
 "I am longing for it. I pine for adventures — with you, 
 Lenny. . . . We'll go far, far, far — won't we, Lenny? 
 
 237 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Shall I tell you some of my dreams? . . . I see us 
 sleeping in the desert — beyond beyond. People warned us 
 that we ought not to go so far — it would not be safe. And 
 now our caravan has broken down — the drivers have de- 
 serted us — the camels are dying of thirst. In the moon- 
 light you show me your bottle of water. 'Only half a 
 pint, Helen, between us and what is happening to the 
 camels. But don't worry, old girl, we'll sleep sound to- 
 night — even if it is to be our last night on earth.' And 
 I shan't worry, Lenny; we'll sleep as sound as two tired 
 babies in their cots." 
 
 "I wonder!" 
 
 They were the only words that occurred to Lenny, — 
 and he eked them out with a feeble titter. 
 
 "Another dream. . . . It is night, and we are in a 
 Chinese junk. There is a whisper of pirates; and you 
 have just told me that you are not sure of the fidelity 
 of our own crew. In the silence I hear you cock your 
 revolver; and we snuggle so close together that we can 
 hear our hearts beating. The boat glides through the 
 darkness; and we wait — for the cast of the great dice-box, 
 for the chance that was decided by the stars millions of 
 years ago, for destruction or escape. Red death is in the 
 air; monstrous impalpable shapes are flitting all round us; 
 the forces of this world and the next are at war for our 
 sakes. And I shall love it. Do you understand? I prom- 
 ise. I won't disgrace you." 
 
 "I doubt if we can get as far as China," he said slowly, 
 but with an affectation of lightness. 
 
 "Very well. China, or somewhere else — what does it 
 matter? Somewhere we'll act what dull souls here in Eng- 
 land can only dream." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said slowly, but smilingly, "well have 
 all sorts of larks." 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "That's what I mean. We'll drink deep of life — won't 
 we? — before we settle down as Darby and Joan?" 
 
 His wonder appeared to be intensified each time that 
 he thought of the mysterious workings of destiny. He re- 
 membered what Alma had said about the unseen powers. 
 Were there any unseen powers? If so, it really seemed 
 as though they had put their heads together, and in their 
 inscrutable wisdom pondered over the problem of Lenny 
 Calcraft. 
 
 They had certainly taken him in charge. But could he 
 absolutely bank on the wisdom of their scheme? Could 
 he be quite sure that they were doing the best thing for 
 him by pushing him into Helen's arms? 
 
 Wonder was beginning to change to doubt. 
 
XXV 
 
 FEBRUARY had come; and they were to be married 
 in March. 
 
 It annoyed him when he learned that their en- 
 gagement was no longer a secret. Helen said that her 
 inquisitive women friends had guessed it. Anyhow, the 
 cat was now out of the bag. 
 
 What her friends knew, of course her relations must 
 also know; and so Cousin Donald and the rest of them 
 had all been informed of the fact that the prize was irre- 
 vocably gone. Lenny never saw Donald again; probably 
 the heart-broken young man had not fortitude enough to 
 stand by and watch the felicity of his hated rival. But 
 old Granville Yates, making the best of a bad job, en- 
 deavoured to cover his mortification with a firm face. 
 
 "Calcraft, I congratulate you;" and Mr. Yates shook 
 hands effusively. "You're a lucky fellow — a very lucky 
 fellow. But it didn't altogether astonish me. No, I was 
 one of the first to see which way the wind was blowing;" 
 and he tried to laugh jovially. But that he could not do. 
 The laugh was little more than a grimace; and he looked 
 at Lenny rather piteously, seeming to say without spoken 
 words — "Now be a sportsman. Let bygones be bygones. 
 You have won, and you can afford to be generous. Don't 
 grudge an old chap a good dinner now and then; and, 
 above all, don't run your pen through his name on the 
 Christmas Pension list." 
 
 "Many thanks," said Lenny, shaking hands, and show- 
 240 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ing himself magnanimous as a conqueror should be. In- 
 deed, neither to Mr. Yates nor to anybody else did he 
 exhibit any vulgar elation in his triumph. 
 
 It annoyed him exceedingly when Helen explained that, 
 in spite of her desire to please him, the wedding could not 
 be as quiet as he wished. 
 
 "Lenny," she said, "I'm afraid we can't get off quite so 
 cheaply." 
 
 And she told him that all her friends advised her of 
 the impropriety, the practical impossibility, of avoiding some 
 little fussiflcation. Friends would be wounded if they 
 were not allowed to attend the ceremony at the church; 
 and a few of them at least — her really old friends — must 
 be asked to the house. 
 
 "Just to say good-bye, and wish us luck, Lenny." 
 
 "Oh, hang them and their wishes," said Lenny, with 
 petulance, even with rudeness. He was inwardly fuming, 
 and could not hide his annoyance. "Tell them to 
 send their wishes by post — or keep them till I ask for 
 them." 
 
 " Lenny 1" She looked at him in surprise, but, although 
 protesting, spoke meekly. "Why are you so cross with 
 me? Don't be unkind." 
 
 "I'm not cross with you — I'm cross with all these gap- 
 ing jackasses who want to shove their noses into our private 
 affairs." 
 
 "Lenny! It is so natural. Why do you object to let- 
 ting people see us hand in hand? Are you ashamed of 
 your wife? Lenny, it isn't kind — when I am so proud 
 of you that I would like the whole world to see us getting 
 married." 
 
 He thought she was about to burst into tears, and he 
 was compelled to stifle his irritation and to speak in a 
 gentler tone. 
 
 241 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "My dear Helen, don't be absurd. If I seem upset, 
 it is because I dislike having my arrangements interfered 
 with by outside pressure. And I thought you and I were 
 of one mind: we were to decide for ourselves; we were 
 not to be trammelled by mere conventions. Besides, if 
 it comes to conventions, I have the best of all reasons — 
 I am in mourning. My poor father has not been dead a 
 year. But there are other reasons — beyond that — and just 
 as good." 
 
 "Very well, Lenny. Only I wish you'd tell me the 
 other reasons." 
 
 Of course he could not tell her the real reason — Alma. 
 He wished to spare Alma unnecessary pain. She was not 
 to hear of the marriage. It would be the bridegroom's duty 
 to send advertisements to the newspapers after the ceremony 
 had taken place; but he had decided to omit the perform- 
 ance of this duty. 
 
 Yet he knew now that he would be beaten. Helen would 
 somehow get round all his objections to publicity. She 
 and her friends would finally have their own way. 
 
 No elation. He went about his work dully and heavily. 
 He was buying his trousseau; but he had little pleasure 
 in what should have been so interesting and amusing. It 
 was a large trousseau. Naturally he required an immense 
 amount of clothes, since he had to fit himself out for all 
 countries and all climates. 
 
 Sometimes when sitting at a hosier's counter or standing 
 before a tailor's cheval glass, his mind wandered. 
 
 "A shade fuller in the back, sir?" 
 
 He did not answer the tailor. 
 
 "These are quite impervious to cold, sir. . . . How 
 many pairs, sir?" 
 
 He had not heard the hosier's words. His mind was 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 occupied with things more portentous than lounge jackets or 
 silk under-garments. 
 
 Sometimes, too, when selecting small articles, such as 
 neckties, pocket handkerchiefs, or socks, he had a sensa- 
 tion of total powerlessness. 
 
 "Which one, sir? . . . You chose the dark green, 
 didn't you, sir?" 
 
 He did not know what colour he had chosen, and he 
 could not choose again. It was as though he had been 
 suddenly deprived of all freedom of choice, and he stood 
 face to face with the inevitable. It was a question for 
 destiny, and not for him. Fate, which was doing every- 
 thing else for him, must do this also. He was in the hands 
 of fate: an impotent puppet until the unseen powers pulled 
 his strings. 
 
 "Thank you, sir. . . . Yes, I thought you said the 
 green." 
 
 He had said nothing. Fate had decided for him. The 
 green or the blue? — he accepted the tie, just as he was 
 about to accept the wife that had been given him. 
 
 But such fancies had a quality of volume and massive- 
 ness that almost inspired awe. The surrender of volition 
 and the yielding to extraneous duress caused dolorous 
 qualms. He felt as a child might feel, after paddling 
 within reach of nurse, when it is swept off its feet and finds 
 itself in deep water. 
 
 This marriage — the most tremendous event of his life — 
 was being accomplished mechanically. 
 
 Lacking in repose! He could not disguise from him- 
 self that, the better he knew her, the more positively wa9 
 he assured of the fact. Temperament, training, habit, 
 had each had its part, no doubt, in producing her now 
 characteristic excitability. She was one Helen to-day; 
 
 243 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to-morrow she would be another Helen. When you rang 
 the bell and went upstairs, you could never correctly guess 
 which Helen you were going to find — the meek one, the 
 dashing one, or the fantastically romantic one. 
 
 Plainly she was a creature of violent ups and downs, 
 with far too many moods, without any permanent attri- 
 bute except instability. And intellectually she let herself 
 go much too freely — almost every idea to her became for 
 a time an engrossing idea. He thought of that impetuous 
 rush to the Tate Gallery, of the irksome afternoon at the 
 British Museum, and of her wild ravings about African 
 deserts and Chinese junks. Whatever the whim of the 
 moment, it was strong enough to run away with her. 
 
 And there were things that vaguely distressed him. 
 Some of her ideas occasioned disturbance — as though they 
 were beating at the doors of his mind, trying to force their 
 way into the sanctuary, and meaning to turn everything 
 upside down when they got inside. If she had an undrilled 
 army of vagrant thoughts, she ought at least to keep them 
 within the limits of her own dominions, and not allow them 
 to go raiding across her neighbour's frontier. 
 
 He had never been able to understand her queer notions 
 concerning Egyptian and Grecian sculpture; — and perhaps 
 there was something lurking there which he would not 
 wish to understand, even if he could. 
 
 But she was very fond of him — almost pathetically 
 fond of him. Yes, but the trick of asking for kisses, in- 
 stead of waiting for them! There was vague discomfort 
 about that: it was paralysing rather than stimulating. He 
 did not like that sharp application of the spur in love-mak- 
 ing, as though he had been a sluggish horse not galloping 
 at his fences fast enough. 
 
 She could not assume the existence of latent emotion ; she 
 244 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 demanded outward manifestations; and she sought to con- 
 trol where she should merely submit. 
 
 Here it was again — the demand for what should have 
 been left to his impulse, a reversal of customary procedure, 
 too much activity in the traditionally passive agent. 
 
 He knew it was coming, directly the visitor began to 
 take leave. They were in the drawing-room; and that 
 same fat lady, encountered by Lenny when he paid his first 
 ceremonious call, archly and laughingly withdrew; saying 
 she would be a wretch if she stayed longer, she knew that 
 two were company and three were none — or other equally 
 silly words to the same effect. Helen escorted her to the 
 staircase; and Lenny remembered how she had escorted 
 him and left the fat lady behind. He fidgeted nervously 
 while listening to Helen's voice outside on the landing. 
 
 Ah ! She was returning. She shut the door, came slowly 
 across the room to him, and looked at him with half-closed 
 eyes. 
 
 "Lenny — we are alone at last." 
 
 He put his arms round her, and kissed her. Then he 
 began to stroke her hair. 
 
 "Is that all?" Her eyelids drooped still more, and she 
 continued to smile. "Lenny, you don't know how to make 
 love — not a little bit." 
 
 "Don't I?" His voice sounded flat and toneless. Her 
 smile enervated him. It seemed to have in it something 
 if not mocking, distinctly bothering. 
 
 "You don't realize my dreams. You are not the impas- 
 sioned prince of the fairy books, and you are not the bully- 
 ing overpowering lover of modern problem plays; — but 
 you are very sweet, dear Lenny — the only lover I want. 
 . . . But, Lenny, we'll keep our youth — our emotional 
 
 245 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 life — for a little while, won't we? We won't be too ra- 
 tional? We won't let old fogeyism overtake us — directly?" 
 It enervated him. 
 
 For the second time, and in the same place, a wonderful 
 coincidence! Lenny was in the hall of the club; and once 
 more the stream of his thoughts and the sequence of exter- 
 nal facts seemed to run together, and for a time to flow as 
 one. 
 
 He had been talking to two jolly members near the news- 
 boards, and they turned their heads to greet a man who 
 was coming down the stairs. 
 
 "Hullo, Kindersley! How goes it?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm better — I'm picking up again;" and the man 
 paused to rest. 
 
 Then he slowly and painfully came down the last few 
 steps into the hall. Lenny did not know the man, had 
 never seen the man before; and he watched him, as with 
 many pauses he dragged himself across the hall towards 
 the morning-room corridor. A cripple — livid face, sunken 
 eyes, bald head, contorted limbs; a poor wretch of middle 
 age, but decrepit as a dotard, leaning on his stick, shaking, 
 gasping for breath! 
 
 "Poor old Kindersley!" Lenny's two friends talked to 
 each other about the crippled man. "Always thinks he's 
 better — but he never will be." 
 
 "No. I swear you'd scarcely recognize him. I never 
 saw such a frightful wreck." 
 
 "And so rapid — all in a few years. D'you remember 
 the way he used to race up those stairs — two steps at a 
 time?" 
 
 "Three steps at a time — like a boy just let out of school." 
 
 "What," asked Lenny, "is the matter with him?" 
 
 "Rheumatism, neuritis, nervous exhaustion — done for!" 
 24,6 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Er — was it an accident?" 
 
 Lenny asked for information, simply because he could 
 not help doing so. It seemed to him that he knew already 
 what his friends were going to say, that he had dreamed 
 this conversation many years ago, and had vaguely remem- 
 bered it ever since. 
 
 "An accident?" And one of his friends smiled at the 
 other. "Well, that's a question. The doctors tell him it 
 is constitutional. But in my opinion, it was an accident — 
 an accident that he ought to have avoided." 
 
 "Er — how do you mean?" 
 
 Again Lenny was compelled to inquire, although seem- 
 ing to know well — too well — all that could be said about 
 Kindersley's sad case. 
 
 "I mean, he put off marrying until he should have put 
 it off altogether." 
 
 "Yes," said the other man, "and chose the wrong sort 
 of wife." 
 
 They went on talking; and Lenny felt a curious prickly 
 inward heat, and then a cutaneous coldness. 
 
 It appeared that the wife chosen by Kindersley proved 
 to be a merciless little beast — a pleasure-loving young 
 woman, who required unceasing attention, who kept her 
 husband on the dance, made him rush about after her, gave 
 him no rest. And Lenny's friends nodded their heads and 
 smiled sagely. "Oh, / know the sort." 
 
 "So do I, old boy." 
 
 "Insatiable. ... I may be wrong; but that's my 
 opinion, whatever the doctors tell him. It was marriage 
 that broke up Kindersley. . . . Comin' to lunch, Cal- 
 craft?" 
 
 Lenny nervously fingered his moustache; his face was 
 invaded by a dullish pallor; he stood staring at the distant 
 swing doors through which the cripple had vanished. 
 
 <24T 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 That night he scarcely slept a wink. He kept the 
 electric light burning. He had made up a big fire, and yet 
 he felt cold, shivering and tossing beneath all the thick 
 blankets and the eider-down quilt. He was so thirsty that, 
 having finished the siphon of soda-water on the table by 
 his bed, he got up and began to drink the contents of the 
 washing-stand carafe. He had emptied that too before the 
 daylight came. 
 
 Something had upset him — it was quite obvious. 
 
 And all night his mind worked busily — could not by any 
 effort be prevented from working. Hour after hour he 
 thought of Helen. 
 
 Desperately excitable, avid for pleasure, unable to rest or 
 to permit other people to rest! 
 
 He did not go to see her next day. He felt too tired 
 to do anything except sit about in armchairs, or loll on 
 couches. He was so unaccustomed to sleeplessness that one 
 bad night seemed to have produced an incredible fatigue. 
 He hoped, however, to recover himself by long hours of 
 deep slumber; and to this end he dined early — eating very 
 little, but drinking copiously — and was safe in bed before 
 ten p. m. 
 
 He could not sleep. The second night was more terrible 
 than the first. Really his distress became acute. 
 
 He thought of his future wife. Of course she had many 
 good qualities; but there were things about her that he 
 did not like — no evading the discomfort of this certainty. 
 And beyond the realm of certainty, all the doubts, interro- 
 gations, surmises? 
 
 She was a restless woman. She was an unbalanced, 
 neurotic, self-assertive woman — a companion who would 
 require unceasing attention, who would keep one on the 
 dance, who would eventually wear one out. 
 
 He sprang up in bed, gulped some soda-water, and 
 248 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 sniffed the warm air. Something was haunting him and 
 intensifying his discomfort. He could not get away from 
 it now, any more than he would be able to get away from 
 it year after year for the remainder of his life. And he 
 did not like it, had never really liked it. 
 
 All these harassing ideas, together with the want of 
 sleep, seemed to bring him into a state of semi-delirium. 
 His mind began to work erratically and explosively. Old 
 discarded notions and brand-new imaginations blended; 
 memory without warning pushed aside conjecture, and 
 was itself thrust into the dark background by luminous 
 intuition; past, present, and future became jumbled; but 
 each thought, no matter what its fuel, seemed to flash 
 and blaze with a brightness as remarkable as its tran- 
 siency. 
 
 He was walking in tight patent leather boots amid the 
 tombs of the Pharaohs — soon she would be making him 
 gallop all round them on a thirsty camel. Now she was 
 looking at him with half-closed eyes and asking him how 
 much strength he possessed behind his grace and symmetry. 
 He was getting her out of trouble on a Channel steamer, 
 and she was getting him into trouble on a Chinese junk. 
 They were lying out together under the stars; they were 
 sitting side by side at brilliantly illuminated restaurants; 
 they were standing face to face in dim hotel apartments. 
 But wherever they were, far or near, in the past, present 
 or future, he could not get away from that eternal perfume 
 of violets. 
 
 Why would she persist in using it? Why not ask him 
 which scent he preferred — if any at all? Certainly not 
 that insidiously penetrating muck! But no — in spite of 
 all fair promises, — her whim was to rule and guide every 
 decision, great or small. Too self-centred! A diffusive 
 wave of just irritation moderated the flaming condition 
 
 2i9 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of his mind, and gave some slight argumentative continuity 
 to the thoughts. 
 
 What was it that old Granville Yates said so tersely? 
 Number One is Helen's law! She talked too much about 
 herself — he had noticed that, the first time she ever 
 spoke to him freely. Self, self, self! He remembered 
 how, drinking tea with her at the Westchurch hotel, he 
 could hardly get a word in edgewise. It was all I — I — II 
 
 And with another and a bigger wave of irritation, 
 there came back to him nearly the whole of that twilight 
 conversation. She had told him the tale of her disap- 
 pointment after marrying her first husband. . . . Who 
 and what was Fletcher? What could be said against 
 him? Her own relations described him as a queer fish. 
 If that was the worst they could say of him, it didn't 
 amount to much. Not a bad fellow at all, very likely. 
 Older than Helen, of course — and she made that out 
 a crime. But he left her all his money when he died. 
 
 Dead! Fletcher died. Was Fletcher worried to death? 
 
 Suddenly he jumped up once more. Some of her words, 
 uttered when the room had become quite dark, now 
 sounded in his ear again, with a new and intolerably 
 irritating import. Word for word, the exact words — this 
 was the worst she herself could say of Fletcher. "He was 
 not the husband a girl had the right to expect." 
 
 What the devil did she expect in a husband? She had 
 better marry one of those mammoth bulls at the British 
 Museum. 
 
 Logic was gone again. He pulled the thick bed-clothes 
 to his chin, and lay thinking about her. He felt hot and 
 cold, full and empty, enormous and microscopic. And he 
 thought of her as a creature deadly and dangerous — beau- 
 tiful, catlike, terrible ... the tiger . . , the 
 snake. , . - the basilisk. 
 
 250 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 And then thought ended. Fancies, imaginations, memo- 
 ries, seemed to be swept out of his mind by a force that 
 was stronger than thought. Something tremendous and 
 majestic had arisen, and all yielded to its sway. 
 
 Lenny grew calm in presence of this sovereign power. 
 Its voice spoke to him throughout every fibre and cell of 
 his weary frame. "Lenny, O beloved one," — deep down 
 to his toes, high up to the top of his head, everywhere, the 
 voice was speaking — "I am the over-lord of all the instincts, 
 to the meanest of which the loftiest of the thoughts are 
 but servants. I am the instinct of self-preservation. Now 
 I issue my decree. . . . Escape. At all costs, escape. 
 Escape." 
 
 He wrote to her at immense length. It was an extraor- 
 dinarily difficult letter to write, and the only way seemed 
 to be by making it long. He started at it immediately after 
 breakfast, and despatched it in a cab about lunch time. 
 
 Then, assisted by the hotel boots, he began to pack his 
 trousseau. He was going on the honeymoon before the 
 stipulated date — and he was going alone. 
 
 He got her reply during the evening; and he read it as 
 he sat, tired but comfortable, by the bedroom fire. 
 
 . . . "Am I wrong to answer you ? Would it be more 
 dignified to accept your astounding communication in silence, 
 and never let you know how much or how little it had 
 hurt me? Or should I quote that sentiment of melodrama 
 which, however worded, always evokes a round of applause? 
 'The man who strikes a woman,' etc. When you were 
 filling all those pages with quite unintelligible excuses, 
 did you think for a moment that the worst blow a woman 
 can receive is one directly aimed at her pride as a woman? 
 And did you remember how I of all women would prob- 
 ably suffer most under such a blow coming from you ?" 
 17 251 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 What a number of questions! Wherever he looked, he 
 saw notes of interrogation. Her letter seemed to bristle 
 with them. 
 
 "It was / who asked for love, and it was you who said 
 you had love to give. I began by being unconventional, 
 and I will be unconventional to the end. I won't reproach 
 you; but I insist on having an explanation." 
 
 That was rather fine of her. No reproaches, no recrim- 
 inations. Considerable dignity! 
 
 "You speak of a mistake, but you don't in the least let 
 me know the nature of the mistake. If a mistake has 
 been made, I suppose it is I who have made it. Yet I 
 cannot believe it. I cannot have been mistaken in you all 
 along. And yet again, the man I took you for could 
 scarcely treat me in this manner." 
 
 And once more he thought that there was something 
 very fine about her. She had many estimable qualities — ■ 
 candour, straightforwardness, generosity, amongst others. 
 
 "Dear Lenny, when I first read your letter, I thought 
 there could be only one possible explanation. I thought 
 you must be mad. But I now see that this was my pride 
 struggling to defend itself. . . . No, I will hope that 
 there is truly some misunderstanding between us, and that 
 it may yet be cleared up. 
 
 "Of course, if you have changed your mind, I shall not 
 ask you to change it again. Certainly, if you don't want 
 to marry me, I don't want to marry you. But I do ask 
 — as my right — that you should tell me the real truth. 
 
 "Come and see me to-morrow morning, and we'll talk 
 like sensible people. Come early — 10.30." 
 
 But at 10.30 next morning he was in the boat train 
 somewhere between London and Dover. 
 
 Every mile that took him further away from her made 
 
 253 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 him feel lighter and more comfortable. The mental relief 
 and the sense of freedom were infinitely greater than after 
 he had got rid of Alma ; and, thinking now with deep grati- 
 tude of how he had been led by devious ways and dark 
 places, in danger, in fear, but finally delivered, he under- 
 stood that when fate seemed stupid, it was because he him- 
 self failed to interpret its ultimate intentions. 
 
 He could see clearly now. He understood that all his 
 uneasiness was caused by a wise repugnance to thraldom. 
 There had been too much of that in the past. Dr. 
 Searle said so. Doubtless his was a mind that, for its de- 
 velopment, required absolute freedom; and mysteriously 
 and wonderfully he had now worked through the long 
 battle to achieve the fullest emancipation that is pos- 
 sible. 
 
 The sky and the sea smiled at him; — smooth crossing, 
 delicious luncheon, flying express; — lights and more lights, 
 the town of light — Paris! He stayed in Paris two or three 
 days — to repose tired nerves and taste his happiness. Oh, 
 the joy of novelty! No friends, no acquaintances, a land 
 of strangers. What cutlets, what coffee, what sleep in the 
 odd French bed! 
 
 He strolled along the boulevards, he drove about in the 
 jolly little coupes, he went to places of entertainment. 
 Lounging round the big hall at the Folies Bergeres, he saw 
 himself, cloudily but splendidly, through the haze of to- 
 bacco smoke, in several looking-glasses. A robust, prince- 
 like figure — stiff shirt, white waistcoat, silk hat becomingly 
 cocked; the man of the world; the cosmopolitan, who is 
 never less alone than when alone. 
 
 It is difficult, however, to keep quite to oneself at the 
 Folies Bergeres. He paid a few bocks, for the good of 
 the house and for the honour of old England; he laughed 
 and he chaffed; then he went back to his stall, enjoyed 
 
 233 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the ballet, and admired the charming agile dancers. He 
 could still admire pretty women. 
 
 With pleasure he recognized that the sensuous side of 
 his nature, which lately had seemed asleep, was reasserting 
 itself. Mrs. Fletcher had induced a numbness, almost a 
 paralysis, in all normal impulses; but now they were again 
 becoming operative. He had not forgotten how to make 
 love. 
 
 After a happy day or two he was fortunate enough to 
 secure the services of an accomplished courier-valet; and 
 with this useful attendant he soon left Paris for the South 
 of France. 
 
XXVI 
 
 A HAPPY time, a restful time. 
 Lenny had a feeling that, like a flower too long 
 deprived of sunshine, he was blooming late. An- 
 other feeling was that the Riviera had been made for him. 
 It was Westchurch on a grander scale, with gorgeous white- 
 towered casinos instead of humble low-roofed clubs, and 
 royal or serene highnesses performing the social functions 
 of Miss Workman. 
 
 He did truly love the azure coast. He played baccarat 
 — as a modest "debout" — at the Cercle Nautique, Cannes; 
 he risked a few cart wheels and shot a few pigeons at 
 Monte Carlo, rode donkeys among the olives behind San 
 Remo, — and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Days that 
 shone out brightly on memory's still vivid page were 
 those of the Mentone Regatta, when, wearing his white 
 ducks, he lunched on the yacht of an affable Grand Duke; 
 and the Nice Carnival, when, wearing his snuff-coloured 
 flannels, he rode in a winning carriage with an extremely 
 affable French actress. On each occasion he felt that he 
 had blossomed into something very big indeed. His name 
 appeared in the New York Herald — he was somebody. 
 
 He spent the month of May on the Italian lakes; and 
 then ran through the Alps to Switzerland for the summer. 
 This admirably managed republic pleased him: nothing 
 could be better devised than all the arrangements for the 
 convenience of tourists, so long as one had the sense to 
 remain on the beaten track. Of course if you wandered 
 
 255 
 
IN COTTON WOOU 
 
 off it, you were asking for annoyance. But Lenny never 
 did so. He climbed the summits of the highest mountains 
 that can be reached by cog-railway, explored the wildest 
 and most romantic gorges that are open to ordinary 
 wheeled traffic; and not once, but again and again, 
 convinced himself that the Swiss still hold the record as 
 hotel-keepers. After three months he was able to say — in 
 fact said it at many tables d'hote — There is no nation in 
 the world that has a clearer comprehension of the meaning 
 of the word Comfort. 
 
 A happy time. No accident or real trouble — and only 
 two small events that proved even temporarily distressing. 
 One was the loss of his valet. He had to leave the poor 
 fellow lying dangerously ill at Lugano, and for a little while 
 afterwards he was harassed by the thought that perhaps 
 he himself had caught the infection; but no such misfor- 
 tune befell him. 
 
 Moreover, he found that, although he at first missed 
 the assistance to which he had grown accustomed, he was 
 able to get on very well without it; and he had spent so 
 much money on the Riviera that he was not sorry to econo- 
 mize. He did not therefore re-engage the convalescent. 
 
 The other little event was the astounding announcement 
 that he read, by the purest chance, one wet day in August. 
 He was at an hotel high up above the lake of Thun, and 
 idly looking at a stale copy of the Times he came bang 
 upon it. Really for several moments he could scarcely be- 
 lieve his eyes. 
 
 "Dryden — Reed. On the 3rd inst., at the Church 
 of the Blessed Virgin, Hebden Street, London, Gerald Dry- 
 den to Alma Reed." 
 
 Alma married! Alma the wife of young Dryden! Well, 
 upon my word, what next? Wonders will never cease — 
 
 256 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 but this beats everything. The news was so startling that 
 it really upset him. 
 
 There was a brevity, an aggressive abruptness, about the 
 wording of the advertisement that he felt to be peculiarly 
 distasteful. It seemed to Lenny characteristic of this strong- 
 willed, assertive, and socially ignorant young man. He 
 ought, of course, to have described himself properly, said 
 who his father was — without necessarily mentioning the 
 auctioneer's business, — and not merely given the bare names 
 — Gerald Dryden — as though they were world-famous. Rid- 
 iculous ignorance of ordinary forms and common usages. 
 Likely to bring ridicule on his wife. She of course should 
 also have been adequately described — "Alma, eldest daugh- 
 ter of Jervois Reed, Esquire, of Haven Lodge, West- 
 church." Almost brutal ignorance! 
 
 But that was like Gerald. He would never learn — no 
 matter what trouble one took with him. Too obstinate 
 and opinionated. He seemed to listen attentively to 
 what one said, he declared himself grateful for advice, but 
 he never acted on it consistently. He was consistent 
 only in his own narrow ideas. Pigheaded. Impossible 
 to turn him from his purpose. And Lenny thought of 
 that conversation in which Gerald had unfolded the 
 childish dream of his life. How unshaken he had re- 
 mained after all one's efforts to shake him! Because he 
 had been in love with Alma as a schoolboy, he was to 
 be in love with her for ever; he made a silly dream the 
 guiding star of his whole existence; all the world might 
 change, but he would still be constant. Such rubbish — 
 such utter rubbish! Yet he conceitedly and fatuously 
 laughed at all difficulties or obstacles. Alma knew 
 nothing of his infatuation — he did not mind about that. 
 He was not anxious for her to know. He relied solely on 
 
 257 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 himself. He must first earn money, and a long time 
 might pass before he made sufficient money — he did not 
 mind about that either. He would never cease to wish 
 for Alma as his wife, and in the end he would get her for 
 his wife. And he had done it. The thing was so as- 
 tounding that it affected one with the same creepy sensa- 
 tion, as when one hears a well-authenticated ghost story. 
 
 Then Lenny thought of Alma. Certainly he had not 
 wished that she should perpetually continue single for his 
 sake. No, he had been altruistic enough sincerely to 
 hope that she would some day meet with a good husband — 
 a husband worthy of her. It had caused him pain every 
 time that in imagination he saw her still fretting for him. 
 But the haste — the almost indecent haste — with which she 
 had consoled herself! Off with the old love, and on with 
 the new. Here had he been suffering all sorts of anx- 
 ieties, while she was quietly and secretly plotting this mar- 
 riage. Not a line from her to acquaint him with her inten- 
 tion. 
 
 And it seemed to him that he held in his hand and was 
 now reading the kind of letter that one might have ex- 
 pected she would probably write, "My own dearest 
 Lenny, perhaps this is the last time that I shall ever 
 address you in the old way; for I am about to do some- 
 thing which may appear to you as very strange. When I 
 see you again, I will explain all the reasons that have de- 
 cided my course of action; and until I get this opportunity 
 I ask you to suspend your judgment." . . . But no, 
 not a line, not one word of explanation. 
 
 What a marriage! How on earth could she have dis- 
 covered anything to attract her in Dryden? It was a mys- 
 tery that he felt he would never fathom. Incredible! 
 
 And again he thought of the young man who had once 
 been his admiring protege. So commonplace, so un- 
 
 258 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 polishable, so second-class. Of course, Gerald Dryden 
 had many good points — courage, determination, perse- 
 verance. Great energy of purpose! Perhaps in that lay 
 the key to the enigma. Unwavering aims and dogged 
 self-conceit — with no better stock in trade, quite stupid 
 people sometimes obtain a large measure of success. 
 Gerald had succeeded — he was no less successful in his 
 matter-of-fact business than in his romantic dream. He 
 had earned the money; he had won the wife. 
 
 Suddenly Lenny thought of the wreck and the rescue; 
 and the memory of old thoughts mingled with these fresh 
 thoughts. He remembered how he felt then that Gerald 
 had somehow frustrated him, cheated him of an oppor- 
 tunity, and generally got the better of him. He vividly 
 recalled the past feeling. It was the beginning of dislike, 
 when there came into his mind the unwelcome thought that 
 young Dryden had done the thing which he ought to have 
 done himself. 
 
XXVII 
 
 FOUR years glided by, and in this time Lenny had 
 passed through many phases. He was an inveterate 
 Londoner now — who frankly admitted that London 
 was good enough for him, and who did not mean to run 
 about the world in search of anything better. 
 
 "Sir," said Lenny, adopting the Johnsonian turn of 
 speech to do honour to so important a theme, "London 
 is more than the centre of the universe: it is a magnet 
 that draws everything to it. If you stay quietly in 
 London there is nothing that you won't see there, sooner 
 or later. And above all, in London a man can lead his 
 own life without observation or interference. He may 
 be very good or very naughty." As Lenny said this sort 
 of thing he used to smile meaningly. "Yes, sir, no one 
 cares a twopenny damn what his neighbour is up to — 
 and, between you and me and the post, he may be up to 
 some very strange tricks. For though you hear a lot of 
 talk about the wickedness of Vienna, Buda-Pesth, and 
 Constantinople, they all take a back seat to London." And, 
 making this point, Lenny rolled his head roguishly, and 
 his smile broadened into a complacent chuckle. 
 
 Either, then, Lenny had tasted some of the evil pleasures 
 of the vast town, or he was not unwilling that listeners 
 should suppose so. 
 
 Outwardly he was much the same as ever — less soldierly 
 in his bearing perhaps; shoulders not so square, and in- 
 clined to slouch; possibly a suspicion of incipient paunchi- 
 
 360 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ness. But these slight changes were not perceptible to him- 
 self. The only changes that the looking-glass showed him 
 were those of which he fully approved. For instance, there 
 was a certain indescribable print of time upon his face that 
 seemed to have added distinction to what had been merely 
 handsome. The sun-burn had gone, and he did not want 
 it back again; he was habitually pallid, and he liked the 
 pallor; the short curly hair on each side of his forehead 
 was quite grey, but he considered the greyness an immense 
 improvement. One day, caressingly passing his hand over 
 the top of his head, he had a scare. The hairdresser, how- 
 ever, reassured him. "Going bald? Certainly not. A 
 leetle thin on top — that's all." The hairdresser advised 
 him to wear his hair longer, and to brush it straight back 
 over the weak spot. He had done so ever since, and he 
 thought the new style most becoming. 
 
 On all state occasions — that is, whenever he had dressed 
 himself with especial care — he enjoyed the old pleasant 
 sensation of being at once large, imposing, and fascinating. 
 Thus, when dining at the club before a first night of a 
 fashionable theatre, he used to talk big because he felt big. 
 
 "I'm going round the corner to see WagstafFs new 
 piece. None of you fellows coming, I suppose? I go 
 myself, because I like to see my plays before the critics 
 have told me the plots; but to-night I don't expect great 
 things. I began by supporting Wagstaff, swearing he was 
 the coming man, championing him through thick and thin 
 — but he has disappointed me too often. Still I like to 
 be there, don't you know." 
 
 When he came downstairs after dinner he used to speak 
 of his motor-brougham in a very lordly tone. 
 
 "Is my car there? See if my car is there." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 But while the club servants helped him on with his muf- 
 
 261 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 fler and fur coat he would relax in dignity, and talk to 
 them with the same easy, chaffing, kindly manner that 
 used to delight Mary and the other maids at No. I, The 
 Crescent. 
 
 "Thank you, Collins. Many thanks;" and he wrapped 
 the muffler round his neck. "Good people are scarce, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Gently with the coat. These satin sleeves are meant 
 to slip — but they don't slip." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Now, where are my gloves? Thanks. I'll put them 
 on here, in the warm. It's only round the corner, and I 
 have ten minutes in hand." 
 
 At the theatre, questions were sometimes asked about 
 Lenny. 
 
 "Who is that man at the end of the second row?" 
 
 "Haven't the remotest idea." 
 
 "I see him regularly at first nights. He's always alone. 
 I've never seen him speaking to a soul." 
 
 Perhaps it often happened that Lenny met no acquaint- 
 ances among the audience, but whenever he got into con- 
 versation with a genial stranger he was ready to talk freely, 
 
 "What do you think of it? Won't do — that's what / 
 venture to say. I've seen too much of this class of work. 
 Very pretty, no doubt; but too namby-pamby — too tame. 
 Nothing to grip the public. I don't pretend to be a critic," 
 and Lenny smiled oracularly. "But I've dabbled in theat- 
 rical enterprises — wasted more money than I care to count 
 — so possibly I know as much about it as some of the news- 
 paper gentlemen. Anyhow, I've bought my experience and 
 knowledge, such as it is." 
 
 When he got back to the club, he said this all again. 
 And when at last his motor-brougham took him home to 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Albert Street, he would tell his landlord the story of the 
 new play — that is, if Mr. Jackson chanced to be sitting 
 up for him. 
 
 He lived in dear old Albert Street, but not at the same 
 old house. His rooms on the first floor, over a picture- 
 dealer's Shop, were better than any suite at Steel's; and the 
 fact that their situation was a few doors further from Bond 
 Street rendered them quieter. 
 
 "It's surprising, sir," said his landlord, "what a differ- 
 ence it makes. Gentlemen who've lodged at Mr. Steel's 
 tell me you can't sometimes hear yourself speak. But no 
 one has complained of the traffic here." 
 
 The landlord and his wife were thoroughly nice honest 
 people. Jackson had been a servant in noblemen's house- 
 holds; and Mrs. Jackson was a country woman, who con- 
 trived to keep open channels of communication with her 
 rustic family, by which she drew supplies of unimpeach- 
 able new-laid eggs, spring chickens, and honey in the comb. 
 They had earned and deserved a reputation for doing their 
 lodgers wonderfully well. 
 
 Lenny in the first instance took his rooms by the week. 
 The arrangement was a make-shift or stop-gap until he 
 could find more suitable accommodation. He was looking 
 about for an unfurnished flat, in which he might install 
 himself permanently. But he never found what he wanted, 
 and he often used to say to Mrs. Jackson, "I really don't 
 know what to do, Mrs. Jackson." 
 
 Then one day, in homely pleasant fashion, she said, "I 
 know what I should do, if I was you, Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 "What is that, Mrs. Jackson?" 
 
 "Why, stop here, of course. I'm sure we do our best 
 to make you comfortable." 
 
 "I'm sure you do," said Lenny cordially. 
 
 "And of course you could make any little additions you 
 
 263 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pleased — I mean, like altering the rooms or putting in 
 any of your own things, — in which case I answer for Mr. 
 Jackson that he'd meet you in a fair spirit." 
 
 That solved the problem, and lifted another burden 
 from the mind of Lenny. He installed a new bath — not 
 so grand a bath as that birthday present at Westchurch, 
 but adequate; and he bought a splendid throne-like 
 bed and a new dressing-table. The dressing-table was 
 as fine as a woman's, with a double-winged looking-glass, 
 innumerable bottles, pots, and boxes, and two silver- 
 gilt trays for his tortoiseshell brushes and combs. Very 
 little new furniture was necessary to improve the sitting- 
 room — an immense sofa, an armchair with foot-rest and 
 book-rest similar to those at the club, a few cushions, and 
 two or three of those ingenious electric bells on strings that 
 you can trail about and ring, wherever you are, without 
 disturbing yourself; and really that was all. 
 
 Here then, with his faithful Jacksons, Lenny had been 
 long established. This for him was home. 
 
 At times he lived splendidly, but always he lived 
 cautiously. He knew what he was doing; although, as 
 he fancied, he might appear to others to be reckless and 
 lavish. But after what seemed extravagance came retrench- 
 ment. As he said himself, he was always able to draw in 
 his horns. For instance, he hired this motor-car for the 
 dark muddy months only, and dispensed with it throughout 
 the summer. 
 
 A man may launch out boldly when he has mastered 
 the secret of pulling up promptly. The great thing is to 
 control your expenses, whether great or small. Don't be 
 too proud to act as your own accountant. Lenny kept ac- 
 curate accounts of all his outgoings — entering in his diary 
 the amount of all cheques to Self practically broke the 
 back of this job — and so he regularly knew how he stood 
 
 264, 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 at each period of the year. So much already gone since 
 January I, and only so much more to go before Decem- 
 ber 31. 
 
 He never boasted, or pretended to be rich. Indeed he 
 perfectly understood that, although one's vanity may be 
 tickled by the fact that friends suppose one is possessed 
 of large means, it is not safe to foster this erroneous belief. 
 More will be expected of you; in the end it will be said 
 that you are mean. 
 
 "No," he used to confess quite frankly, "I am one of 
 those unfortunate people with a fixed income — and a small 
 income at that. Nevertheless I manage to rub along on 
 it comfortably enough. So, as the pious old ladies say, 
 I've much to be thankful for!" and he would laugh good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 But now came a year in which Lenny laughed less often. 
 Why? He did not know. He could not understand the 
 cause of his increasing melancholy. He endeavoured 
 to think about himself with greater earnestness, hoping thus 
 to bring to light and remedy the matters that were vaguely 
 troubling him. 
 
 Once he thought he had discovered a possible explanation 
 of his curious psychic state. His life was narrowing in- 
 stead of widening. 
 
 But how to open up larger vistas? If, as was perhaps 
 true, one had slipped into a groove, how to get out of it? 
 Except for a month at the seaside during summer's 
 extreme heat and two or three week-end trips, he never 
 left London; and, much as he liked London, he now 
 admitted to himself that there was a monotonousness in 
 its delights. He had, perhaps unfortunately, neglected all 
 chances of making a mark in general society. The fact 
 was, he had grown shy of society — that is, of dinner-par- 
 
 265 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ties, tea-parties, evening receptions, and so on. Numerous 
 as are the social circles of this comprehensive London world, 
 they intersect each other so embarrassingly. He had wished 
 to avoid all circles in which he would be likely to meet 
 Helen Fletcher or any of her set. But how was that pos- 
 sible? Almost every house that welcomed him would be 
 also just the sort of house to contain Mrs. Fletcher lurk- 
 ing in a back drawing-room, or old Granville Yates, or that 
 loutish Donald, coming down the stairs. Helen, he be- 
 lieved, had never said a word to his discredit; but he knew, 
 as a fact, that those people of hers — cousins and friends — 
 had gone about traducing him in the most disgraceful man- 
 ner. 
 
 More than once he had seen Helen herself — outside a 
 Bond Street shop, at the private view of a picture-gallery, 
 and on the platform of a railway station; and each time 
 the sight of her had upset him. She did not see him, be- 
 cause he slipped away too quickly. 
 
 In the spring of this year he felt a nostalgic yearning 
 for a peep at funny little old Westchurch. He had a sud- 
 den conviction that Westchurch would be tonic medicine 
 to him. Just to stroll along the front and sniff the air 
 would do him good. And a glimpse of all the old faces 
 would cheer him enormously. 
 
 But no — not so. He had forgotten. The old faces 
 would look back at him. Here again slanderous tongues 
 had been busy; his fame was darkened; the legend of youth- 
 ful virtues had died hard, but it was now stone dead. 
 Very cruel. His own flesh and blood had turned against 
 him. That sister — Sarah Holway — took her children to 
 stay one winter in lodgings on the parade, and while 
 there had said simply outrageous things about him. Dr. 
 Searle — the only person with whom he had remained 
 
 266 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 in touch — wrote and reported the regrettable damage to 
 Lenny's reputation. Searle was bursting with indignation, 
 but powerless to assist his friend. "Everybody believes 
 her," said loyal Searle, "because she is your sister, and no 
 one will listen to me." 
 
 At the time, Lenny felt so strongly that he wrote to 
 his sister's husband, demanding apologies, withdrawals, even 
 threatening libel actions; and the man Holway had writ- 
 ten a very decent reply. He said he did not share Sarah's 
 views, and he would beg her to refrain from expressing 
 them so injudiciously. He offered thanks for the money 
 received by his wife as a free gift, and further added that 
 she was not truly in need of any more money. He himself 
 was prospering with his business. Lenny appreciated Hol- 
 way 's sensible, straightforward statements. Holway was 
 quite a good sort. But unhappily the mischief had been 
 done, and it could not be undone. 
 
 And as Lenny recalled these things, there was sadness — - 
 great sadness — in the thought that he could never, never 
 go again to dear little Westchurch. 
 
 He was still very fond of the St. James's Street club — 
 yet the club had in certain respects disappointed him. 
 It had provided many companions, but no friends. None 
 of them would ever call him Lenny. Often he had 
 tentatively tried to make them do so — introducing his pet 
 name in anecdotes: " 'Ask Lenny Calcraft,' that used 
 to be the cry. . . . 'Look here, Lenny Calcraft,' he 
 said to me. All my pals called me Lenny. I liked it." 
 But these new pals would not take the hint. 
 
 Outside the club, he had somehow lost his hold on the 
 
 old friends of early days, of the hunting-field, of militia 
 
 trainings. The indurating effects of time showed on all 
 
 the men he had once known. It was not worth speaking 
 
 18 267 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to them. A nod in the street — given grudgingly, — and they 
 hurried on, selfishly preoccupied with their own personal 
 affairs. It was not worth nodding to them. 
 
 Even his friend of friends, George Verinder, the man he 
 respected more than other men, had turned cold or forget- 
 ful. They never met now, and they had ceased to write 
 to each other. 
 
 The sense of sadness and loneliness deepened throughout 
 this year. He thought of himself with intense pity — alone 
 in the midst of a crowd. These words had presented them- 
 selves unexpectedly, and he was continually echoing them. 
 It seemed that he had never understood the pregnant mean- 
 ing of the phrase till now. It exactly hit off his own case. 
 
 He had a notion of spending Christmas out of London. 
 Advertisements of seaside hotels that provided Christmas 
 festivities for their guests seemed rather attractive, and 
 he vainly endeavoured to find somebody at the club willing 
 to join him in a three-days' excursion. But nobody would 
 go with him; everybody was engaged. It seemed that 
 he was the only person among the six million inhabitants 
 of London who was thrown quite on his own resources 
 at this season of good will. He was compelled to eat his 
 Christmas dinner at the club. 
 
 A most lugubrious business — the great building empty of 
 life; nearly all the servants away, and the few who re- 
 mained on duty resenting the necessity that kept them from 
 their happy homes. Only two other members in the huge 
 coffee-room, and not even sitting together; making two 
 camps at widely separated tables, like two mariners ship- 
 wrecked on a desert island, who had not yet encountered 
 each other. One was Admiral Ritson, a sufferer from 
 chronic asthma, who never had breath to speak to anybody; 
 the other was a man called Porter, who from inclination 
 
 268 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 always appeared silent, reserved, self-contained. Lenny saw 
 the head waiter bring a small plum-pudding and show it 
 to Porter before cutting it. The cook had decorated it 
 with a little flag and a sprig of holly. A piteous and feeble 
 reminder of rejoicings which only made one feel sadder. 
 Porter closed the magazine that he had been reading and 
 glanced at the pudding. He betrayed no emotion, and it 
 seemed to Lenny that he was one of those priggish unso- 
 cial people who like being alone, and who would not open 
 a conversation with strangers even on a desert island. 
 
 However, downstairs in the gloomy smoking-room, Por- 
 ter did speak to Lenny. He and Lenny drank their coffee 
 together, sat all the evening together, and enjoyed an ex- 
 tremely pleasant conversation. Old Admiral Ritson had 
 withdrawn to a distant corner, where he fell asleep, snored 
 stertorously, and now and then coughed and gasped. 
 
 Porter was thin and grey-haired, about fifty-five years 
 of age, neat and prim as to his attire, and with a manner 
 that might unquestionably be set down as priggish. He 
 talked, too, rather sententiously, and he had queer little 
 finical gestures. But he proved to be a man of high intelli- 
 gence, an instructed man, a well-read man: altogether 
 so sympathetic and agreeable a conversationalist that Lenny, 
 before the evening was over, became extremely confidential, 
 in fact unbosomed himself of many little troubles. 
 
 "The other day," said Lenny, "I read an article in that 
 magazine," and he pointed to the current copy which Por- 
 ter was still nursing, "by a fellow who had stumbled on 
 something that has often struck me. He maintained that 
 the happiest people are people who give themselves up to 
 hobbies. No matter what the hobby — golf, stamp-collect- 
 ing, autograph-hunting — it serves its object if it occupies 
 a fellow, and keeps his mind off the strain in leisure hours." 
 
 "Oh, quite," said Porter. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Developing the theory myself, I have come to the con- 
 clusion that what we all want is outside interests. We 
 get too much engrossed in the ordinary business of life, 
 and we don't sufficiently cultivate new interests; but I'm 
 sure that from time to time one requires a new interest." 
 
 "Quite," said Porter. 
 
 Lenny had already noticed Porter's frequent employment 
 of the word "quite;" and he now observed how by giving 
 it a different intonation Porter was able to make it suffi- 
 cient for every purpose. He said it with such sincerity, 
 sympathy, and comprehension, that it sometimes sounded as 
 pleasantly as a long speech would have done. 
 
 "But what interests? Where is one to unearth them? 
 One gets into a groove, one becomes blase, one has seen 
 
 so much that one begins to think there is nothing worth 
 
 ' • n 
 seeing. 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "Take myself as an example. I was a hunting man — 
 hunted regularly for years; but then was obliged to give 
 it up — could not afford it. Later on, when I came into a 
 little money, I might have managed it again. But, some- 
 how, I never did. No one was keener than I used to be, 
 yet I didn't seem inclined to take it up again after a lapse 
 of years. I shirked the effort. The fact is, there are many 
 things that one would do if the effort of doing them didn't 
 put one off. 
 
 "Oh, quite." 
 
 "I myself had a reason for avoiding unnecessary fatigue. 
 My doctors had advised me to take things easily. For 
 a number of years my health has not been what it ought 
 to be; nevertheless, I dare say it was good enough to have 
 stood a few days with hounds. I don't say six days a 
 week, or heavy days. But you can get plenty of fun with- 
 out overdoing it, I see now that the notion of weak 
 
 270 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 health was an excuse — I mean, an excuse that I made to 
 myself to explain my vis inertia, or laziness. The fact is 
 this, and there's no getting away from it — the more you 
 save yourself from effort, the less capable you are of making 
 an effort." 
 
 Porter said "Quite" with so much sympathy, and such a 
 full comprehension of what Lenny meant, that the con- 
 versation went on more pleasantly than ever. 
 
 "You agree with me? You have probably felt it 
 yourself? But, again, about interests in one's life. I 
 have several times tried to find them. Take the theatre. 
 I go to first nights; sometimes I'd rather not go, but I 
 do go all the same. I like to keep up my interest in the 
 drama. A little while back I interested myself in theatrical 
 speculation — in a modest way — you understand; musical 
 comedy — that is the paying thing nowadays. . . . Would 
 you mind pushing the matches across? Thank you." 
 
 Lenny lit another cigarette, and puffed at it reflectively. 
 
 "Yes," he went on, smiling, "musical comedy. Three 
 or four other men and myself put up our money. Not 
 much — say a hundred or two hundred pounds apiece, to 
 back one of these musical comedies. We sent it round the 
 suburban theatres; meant to take a West End theatre if 
 we could make it pay. It didn't pay, but it was fun, 
 you know. Very amusing." And Lenny chuckled. "I 
 suppose I've lost several hundreds in that sort of way, but 
 I don't regret it. I got my money's worth. Naturally 
 the syndicate had certain privileges as backers of the show. 
 One went behind the scenes to see how the young ladies 
 were getting on. Very amusing — some of those little 
 musical comedy actresses. Always on the look out for a 
 capitalist — meaning to be stars one day, and grateful to 
 anyone who will push 'em along." And Lenny rolled his 
 head roguishly and chuckled once more. "I don't say 
 
 371 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 that one had les droits de seigneur; only, you understand, 
 one was somebody in the theatre — not a negligible quan- 
 tity." 
 
 But Porter did not say "Quite." He looked serious, as 
 though his intuition had failed him, or for the moment he 
 had fallen out of sympathy with his companion. 
 
 Lenny changed the subject, and went on talking. 
 
 "And many other things I've tried — more as a duty than 
 a simple relaxation. A little racing. Once I had a flutter 
 on the Stock Exchange — but I burnt my fingers at that. 
 Once bit, twice shy — never tried it again. So there you 
 are. One exhausts things. One has experiences, and 
 then there is nothing new in repeating them. As I say, 
 where is one to find fresh interests? It's all very well talk- 
 ing about them, but they are like birds — deuced difficult 
 to put salt on their tails." 
 
 "Quite," said Porter. 
 
 Lenny went on talking, really unbosoming himself with 
 complete candour ; and it was not till the end of the evening 
 that Porter began to exchange confidence for confidence. 
 
 "For a long time," said Porter, "I've had a little hobby." 
 
 "You have, have you?" 
 
 "I find great interest in it." 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 "I don't know if it would interest you to hear about it." 
 
 "Enormously," said Lenny, stifling a yawn. 
 
 Then Porter told him how he had interested himself in 
 some work at the East End of London. It was an organiza- 
 tion set on foot by various kind people to provide enter- 
 tainment and amusement for those who would otherwise 
 never have obtained either. The organization had estab- 
 lished itself in a horribly poor parish, obtained the use of 
 a large hall, and with the assistance of local and visiting 
 clergy had supplied a happy evening once a week for all 
 
 272 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the poor souls who cared to avail themselves of this brief 
 respite from the pains and cares of their normal lives. 
 
 "It humanizes them," said Porter. "No question of 
 that. They love it. But it humanizes me too. It has 
 opened my eyes — it has given me food for thought. It 
 lifts one out of oneself. Of course that's a selfish way to 
 look at it." 
 
 "I don't see that," said Lenny. "You are working for 
 others; it's only proper that you should have some reward." 
 
 "Well, I take my reward," said Porter sententiously. 
 "And I consider it a big reward." 
 
 Then he paused, and flicked away some cigarette ash with 
 a finical gesture. 
 
 "Would you care to come down with me some Saturday 
 evening?" 
 
 "I should," said Lenny, jumping at the idea. 
 
 "If you're in search of novelty, you will find it." 
 
 "I dm in search of it," said Lenny eagerly. "Delighted 
 to come with you." 
 
 "Next Saturday?" 
 
 "Delighted." 
 
 "We might dine here quietly — say seven o'clock, and 
 go on together. I always go by the District Railway to 
 Whitechapel and then " 
 
 "I'll drive you in my motor-car." 
 
 "Oh, thank you. That will be very convenient." 
 
 "Well, it's a convenience to have a car. At any rate 
 at this time of year. I feel it costs a lot of money, but I 
 do feel it's a great convenience, as well as a luxury." 
 
 "Quite," said Porter. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 LFNNY delighted in his East End visits. Everything 
 was so strange, so fresh, so extraordinarily simple. 
 He enjoyed his second visit better than his first, 
 and his third better than his second. Soon he had become 
 so fond of the Happy Evening Association that he counted 
 the days, and thought they moved slowly, till Saturday 
 came round again. 
 
 On one side of the big hall there was a raised stage, and 
 a piano; on the other, a gallery with an organ; tables 
 and benches were arranged along the walls, and in the 
 middle of the floor there were movable arrangements for 
 games, such as bagatelle boards, parlour skittles, and so 
 on; and beneath the flaring gas-jets, in an atmosphere 
 that grew warmer and stuffier every half hour, you might 
 expect to see assembled any number of people from eighty 
 to two hundred. They were old and young, of both sexes. 
 Workmen of all the lesser trades, a great many girls from 
 neighbouring jam or soap factories, young men belonging 
 to the Y. M. C. A., and lads and boys who wore the belt 
 and cap uniform of some sort of church corps, formed the 
 elite of the weekly gathering. Beyond these there was a 
 small but noisy contingent of respectable costermongers, 
 with a few portresses or market carriers; the rest consisted 
 of vaguely indefinite toilers, women who sank with a sigh 
 upon the nearest bench, men who leaned against the walls, 
 and often seemed too tired to do anything else. 
 
 Members of the Committee mingled freely with the 
 274 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 guests, quietly and unobtrusively keeping order; and vis- 
 itors like Lenny hung about and made themselves generally 
 agreeable. 
 
 Lenny, introduced to various members of the Committee, 
 found them all to be the kindest and pleasantest people. 
 There were charming well-bred women, who brought 
 friends, took a peep at things, and then went away; other 
 women who stayed longer were of the bustling energetic 
 sort, accustomed to what they were doing, and doing it in 
 the most businesslike manner; and there was always a full 
 supply of clergymen. These were of all denominations, 
 for the Association was non-sectarian, the religious element 
 being studiously kept in the background. Lenny at 
 once made the acquaintance of a jovial Catholic priest and 
 a Wesleyan minister, and to his surprise and pleasure, he 
 was claimed as an old friend by one of the Anglican par- 
 sons. This was a Mr. Trevenna Dale, who said that he 
 had once delivered a lecture in his, Lenny's, drawing-room 
 at Westchurch. Lenny did not in the least remember him. 
 but he was delighted to meet him again. 
 
 The entertainment opened with a little address from one 
 of the parsons. But Lenny and Porter did not arrive in 
 time to hear the address. Then came games, talk, and 
 whenever it could be arranged, songs, dances and recita- 
 tions. Mr. Porter recited — atrociously, — several of the 
 clergymen recited almost as badly, and one of the costers 
 danced a most admirable breakdown. One evening Lenny 
 found the benches all set out in lines before the stage, and 
 a member of the Committee made the gratifying announce- 
 ment that two music hall artists had very kindly volun- 
 teered to give an example of their art. 
 
 These performers, a man and a woman, were obviously 
 of the most humble rank in their profession, but they 
 entirely satisfied the audience. The humour of their 
 
 275 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 songs was very broad; but the jam girls laughed vocif- 
 erously, the Christian young men stamped their feet, and 
 the church boys were howling, suffocating at the jokes. 
 Lenny, looking round, saw that the Committee ladies 
 were unruffled, that the parsons did not mind; they were 
 beaming tolerantly; and the Catholic priest covered his 
 face with a newspaper, pantomiming shocked modesty, and 
 laughed as loudly as anybody there. It was a contagion 
 of mirth. Soon Lenny gave himself to the cheap fun, and 
 laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 During intervals, when the music hall artists were not 
 making one's sides ache, Lenny had snatches of serious dis- 
 cussion. One of the Association organizers surprised him 
 with a few startling facts. And a fat middle-aged clergy- 
 man talked both philosophically and instructively. 
 
 "Look at the faces, Mr. Calcraft. They all have the 
 same expression — trustfulness. If people will only under- 
 stand them. Treat them the right way, and you can do 
 anything with them." 
 
 "Yes, they seem awfully jolly. I've spoken to several, 
 and I want to speak to a lot more of them." 
 
 "Your friend, Mr. Porter, understands them. He has 
 been of the greatest assistance to us here." 
 
 Then there was another song; and after the tumultuous 
 applause had ceased, the fat parson and Lenny resumed 
 their chat. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Calcraft, see for yourself. This is the raw 
 material — how good, how fine it is really; if it could be 
 moulded, and directed into noble growth, instead of being 
 warped and crushed and trampled under foot! Think 
 of the wretchedness of their lives — and now hear them 
 laugh. You don't hear such laughter west of Aldgate. 
 You never saw an evening party in Mayfair to which people 
 came with such a solid intention of amusing themselves." 
 
 27G 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, they do seem awfully jolly." 
 
 "Who was ft, Mr. Calcraft, who said that man is prop- 
 erly a laughing animal?" 
 
 "I forget for the moment," said Lenny. 
 
 "It's true. It's wonderfully true. Laughter is the 
 great medicine." 
 
 Certainly it was a medicine that benefited Lenny. He 
 felt much the better for it. These happy evenings became 
 the main interest of his life. It seemed to him — without 
 groping to the base of the thought — that the whole 
 organization, the good priests, the kind ladies, the nice 
 serious young men were working for his benefit — to 
 provide him, Lenny, with happy evenings. He gave a 
 few sovereigns from time to time, and received effusive 
 thanks. 
 
 And the freshness lasted. Always something new — 
 a confidence of a coster — a religious confession of a tardy 
 convert — secrets poured into his ear. Once a girl talked 
 to him of her love affairs. This was at the amusing magic 
 lantern show, when for a time the slides would not work 
 properly, and the lecturer, losing his temper, was mildly 
 chi-iked by some of the audience. The girl, a thin pasty- 
 faced little thing from the soap works, sat close to Lenny, 
 her head scarcely reaching above his elbow. 
 
 "I'm only seventeen," she declared artlessly. "I ain't in 
 an 'urry. There's two after me. I can pick me choosin'; 
 and they ain't great shakes, either of them — too much 
 wrapped up in theirselves." 
 
 It made Lenny laugh. These girls were artless, differ- 
 ent from any feminine types he had yet studied. 
 
 "'Ullo!" said his neighbour, "the fur beginnin' to fly. 
 Pity they don't turn on the lights." 
 
 Then the magic lantern show was interrupted by two 
 young ladies right at the back, who had disagreed. A few 
 
 277 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 shrill words, and a distressing sound. One of them had 
 slapped the other's face. 
 
 They were hastily separated, and one heard members of 
 the Committee talking — little scraps of talk, to which all 
 listened. 
 
 "Oh, Kate! How very unkind to strike a friend!" 
 
 "No friend of mine." 
 
 "No, nor never wanted to be. Why don't she 
 be'ave?" 
 
 "Kate! Kate! This is not nice of you." Lenny recog- 
 nized the voice of one of the clergymen — "You disappoint 
 me sadly." 
 
 Curiosity took Lenny round to observe as well as to 
 listen. 
 
 "All right, my girl." The assaulted one was loud now. 
 "This don't end 'ere. When I tell Alfred 'ow you've 
 served me, I bet my boots he'll pay you." 
 
 Then the clergyman spoke again. 
 
 "Nellie, Nellie, you fill me with regret. What an ugly 
 threat! Are you so cruel and vindictive that you would 
 spread the quarrel ? She has not really hurt you. It's only 
 the insult you feel. Come, forgive." 
 
 Other members of the Committee clustered round, and 
 chimed in on the same note. 
 
 "Not kind. . . . Not Christian. . . . Shake hands. 
 . . . Kate, you must first apologize." 
 
 And now Kate, the aggressor, ascended to great heights. 
 "There! Tit for tat. Give it back— I'll take it." In a 
 glow of enthusiasm, she was thrusting forward her plump 
 face, offering it for a blow. 
 
 "No, no," said the clergyman, "certainly not. Shake 
 hands at once. You are disturbing everyone." 
 
 And indeed, cries were coming from all parts of the au- 
 dience. "Stow it, you two. . . . Cheese it! . . . 
 
 278 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 d'ye hear? . . . Smack 'em both, guv'nor, till they let 
 up." 
 
 Then the performance went on again. The girls bore 
 no malice; they were artless, they thought little of smacks 
 — as Lenny soon had an opportunity of learning. 
 
 There had been talk of a special supper, or high tea, with 
 cold meat, cakes, oranges, and so forth. Lenny jumped 
 at the idea, subscribed liberally, and looked forward with 
 eager anticipation to the supper night. 
 
 On this occasion the hall was gay with cotton flags; fes- 
 toons of coloured paper hung from cross beams; paraffin 
 lamps blazed upon the ranged tables. And the coarse food 
 looked dainty and appetizing to all the hungry guests. How 
 they ate! Lenny and the Committee were walking up 
 and down behind the tables, carrying cups, handling plates, 
 cracking little jokes — in a word, playing the part of host 
 to the best of their capacity. 
 
 After supper, when the tables had been removed, there 
 were romping games; and Lenny, consenting to be blind- 
 folded, found himself in the position of Olivia at Farmer 
 Flamborough's, when the town visitors spoiled sport and 
 put her to shame. 
 
 "Some one be'ind you, sir. . . , That's me. . . . 
 'Ere I am, sir. . . ." Voices of boys, and of girls too, 
 uttered the words; and resounding smacks followed. "All 
 in fun, sir. . . . No 'arm. . . . 'Ere I am again, 
 sir." There was no interruption by unsympathetic visitors 
 to extricate Lenny from his predicament. The game played 
 itself out. At last he pulled off the bandage, with a young 
 woman fairly held. 
 
 His collar was limp, he was hot and tired, but jovially 
 elated. 
 
 He felt the delightful conviction that he had become pop- 
 ular, After the supper, when his name was mentioned as 
 
 279 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 a generous subscriber, there came a burst of thunderous 
 applause. Not for the money, but for his genial company, 
 they liked him. Impossible not to feel that he was welcome 
 down here. Faces lit up on his appearance. When speak- 
 ing of future events, his humble friends said, "You will 
 come, won't you, sir? You will be here too, sir. We rely 
 on you, sir." 
 
 Three or four boys especially made a friend of him, told 
 him their troubles, seemed to invite his advice; and he 
 talked to them earnestly, pointing out pitfalls in the path 
 of youth, removing little doubts, smoothing unmovable dif- 
 ficulties. 
 
 "No," he used to say, "I don't know what is going to 
 win the Grand National, and I shouldn't tell you if I did." 
 And he laughed and nodded his head. "The only tip I'll 
 give you is this, and it's the best tip you'll ever get — Don't 
 bet — never make another bet as long as you live." 
 
 "Why not, sir?" 
 
 "I'll tell you. Because it's a fool's game, a mug's game, 
 an utterly rotten game. And I ought to know, because I've 
 done it myself." 
 
 Then he and the boys would laugh together. 
 
 "Suppose you win, the money will do you no good." 
 And he went on more seriously than before. "I'll tell 
 you the only money that's worth having — the money that 
 you honestly earn. It's the only money that ever does one 
 real good. Say you pick up a tanner here and there — I 
 mean extra, by bets, or cadging, or tricks. What do you 
 do with it? I know. You just trot off to the nearest 
 public house with it. And there's another fool's game 
 for you. Don't drink." And he turned to one of the boys. 
 "This is to your address, Dick, old chap. We all know 
 your little weakness, and we mean to cure you of it. And 
 you mean to cure yourself. You have told me so. Well, 
 
 280 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stick to that. And you other chaps can help him — by ex- 
 ample, and by grabbing his coat tails, and pulling him away, 
 if you see him going down the wrong turning." 
 
 A strange clergyman overheard him once delivering some 
 such homily. 
 
 "Mr. Calcraft," said the stranger, "may I shake hands 
 with you? It did my heart good to hear you just now. 
 'You have the exact knack of speaking to them. You go 
 straight at them. You did them good." 
 
 And the boys themselves said so, with pride and affection. 
 
 "I done what you told me, sir. I never been near the 
 pub sence last week. Nothin' 'as parst my lips but non- 
 alco'olic bevridges — and I believe the wust is over. I've 
 conquered meself — thanks to you, sir." 
 
 It was one of these especially friendly boys who spoke 
 to him about their favourite singer. A young lady visitor 
 had just warbled somewhat feebly, and the boy con- 
 demned her attempt. 
 
 "Don't think much of it, sir." 
 
 "Well, Tom," said Lenny, in a confidential whisper, 
 "I'm inclined to share your opinion." 
 
 "Ever hear Mrs. Dryden sing, sir?" 
 
 "What Mrs. Dryden?" 
 
 "A very nice lady as used to sing here pretty reg'lar. 
 Oh, it's prime, is Mrs. Dryden's singing." 
 
 "Is she — er — young?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir. Not what you'd call young, but very nice." 
 
 Lenny asked more questions, and another of the boys 
 presently told him that this Mrs. Dryden, whoever she was, 
 would soon come and sing to them again. 
 
 "I 'eard say she was a-comin' next Saturday but Rev'- 
 ren' Mr. Hardie, he wasn't sure about it." 
 
 On the following Saturday Lenny hurried Mr. Porter 
 through his dinner, and they arrived quite early. It was 
 
 281 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 a crowded night, and one had to wait a long time before 
 the entertainment began. Lenny did not move about the 
 hall to-night. He sat at the end of one of the benches, 
 quietly waiting. He was far from the outer door; and the 
 performing visitors, as they came in, were received by the 
 Committee and conducted to a little room, from which 
 they emerged upon the platform. 
 
 At last! Mrs. Dryden's turn now. At the announce- 
 ment there is terrific drumming of feet, loud whistling, and 
 violent hand-clapping. 
 
 "Silence, please! Hush. Silence!" 
 
 A tall woman in a black dress, with a pale face and a 
 fringe of dark hair under an Alma Reed hat — the woman 
 who had loved him. His own Alma, no one else — and now 
 a stranger, another man's wife. 
 
 She began to sing; and he was suffused with a pleasure 
 akin to pain. Her voice affected him more than he would 
 have believed possible; it poured out floods of gentle melan- 
 choly; it evoked a hundred tender memories; it swept him 
 back into the past, whether he wished to go there or not. 
 
 She sang again; and his sensation became entirely pleas- 
 urable. What an astounding episode! Exciting, stimulat- 
 ing. Just the sort of thing that writers make a lot of in 
 their books and plays — a chance meeting, after long years, 
 between a man and a woman who once were lovers. She 
 was older — that went without saying; but to his eyes she 
 was almost as charming and graceful as ever. Certainly 
 she sang just as well. She was his own lost Alma. Yet 
 here was he sitting near her, and there was she standing 
 close in front of him; and she did not know that he was 
 anywhere within a thousand miles of her. No instinct had 
 warned her of his proximity. 
 
 She sang three times. Then enraptured boys and girls 
 broke from the ranks of benches, wildly applauding, turn- 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 bling over one another, as they rushed to the door at the 
 side of the platform through which she must pass on her 
 way out of the hall. The boys got all round her, when she 
 came down the steps from the little side room. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am. . . . Sing to us agin, ma'am. 
 , . . Do sing agin. . . . Oh, it was just lovely, ma'am." 
 
 Members of the Committee were also thanking her; and 
 when Lenny joined the group, one of them took him by the 
 arm, and made a friendly introduction. 
 
 "Mrs. Dryden, let me introduce a new and valuable 
 recruit — Mr. Calcraft, who has been so kind and helpful 
 to us." 
 
 With difficulty he persuaded her to let him drive her 
 home in his motor-car. It was raining; and a rather 
 officious clergyman assisted him in forcing her to accept 
 this kindness. Mr. Porter must find his way back by the 
 underground railway — Lenny left no messages for him. 
 
 The car moved slowly through the crowded streets, 
 which were now at their busiest. The Saturday night mar- 
 ket of the East End was in full swing. Lamplight filled 
 the car, and Lenny watched the delicate profile beneath the 
 big hat. For a little while both remained silent; but he 
 felt an extraordinary contentment. It seemed to him that 
 she had scarcely changed at all; the years had not touched 
 her; she was just as she used to be when he sat by hef 
 side like this ages ago. 
 
 But in those days she did not speak hardly and coldly, 
 like this. 
 
 "Well, Lenny, what have you got to say for yourself?" 
 
 "I am thinking of the amazing chance that has brought 
 us together — Whitechapel, of all places in the world." 
 
 "I suppose we had to meet somewhere, and some time — 
 and it's just as well to get it over." 
 19 283 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Dear Alma, do you mind it? I have so often won- 
 dered about you — longed for some opportunity to get news 
 of you." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Yes, really and truly. And now, tell me one thing. 
 Are you happy in your new life?" 
 
 "Perfectly happy, thank you." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad." 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 "Of course I am — overjoyed." And then Lenny sighed. 
 "I wish I could say the same for myself. ... By the 
 way, you haven't told me where you and — er — Gerald 
 live." 
 
 "Knavesmere Gardens. That's just off the Bayswater 
 Road. But please put me down anywhere convenient to 
 you, and I'll get a cab." 
 
 "Alma! Of course I shall drive you to the door — the 
 very door." 
 
 Presently he made inquiries about Gerald, and Alma re- 
 ported that her husband was both healthy and prosperous. 
 
 "Capital," said Lenny. "I should like to see Gerald 
 again. I hope you will let me do so. I should enjoy hav- 
 ing a talk over old times." 
 
 "Would you? That rather surprises me." 
 
 Then after a pause Lenny asked another question. 
 
 "Have you told him about me?" 
 
 "Yes— a little." 
 
 "Not all?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Dear old Alma! I only ask because — well, one wants 
 to know how one stands. They say that, even when reti- 
 cence would be wise and proper, wives never keep anything 
 back from their husbands." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm not that sort of wife." 
 284 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Ah! Then I may take it, Gerald just knows the main 
 fact that you and I were regular pals?" 
 
 "Yes — regular pals." 
 
 She would not thaw, she would not unbend. Her voice 
 had a metallic hardness; and once when she laughed, her 
 laughter sounded unmusical. And worse than all this, she 
 flatly declined Lenny's proposal to visit her at the house 
 in Knavesmere Gardens. 
 
 "Why not?" he pleaded. "Gerald and I are old friends. 
 What could be more natural?" 
 
 "No," she said resolutely, staring straight in front of her. 
 
 "Oh, why? It would be a comfort to me — if I might 
 see you sometimes." 
 
 Then she turned to look at him. 
 
 "Lenny, I think you are the most incomprehensible per- 
 son that ever lived." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Only you would have asked the questions you have 
 asked. No one but you would want to come and see me — 
 I mean, no one but you could suppose that I should wish 
 for such a guest." 
 
 "Well, I won't press it, if it would be painful to you." 
 
 "Painful!" And her voice deepened. "No — but it 
 would be simply wearisome." 
 
 He took her to her door, and watched her while she went 
 up a flight of white steps out of the little front garden. It 
 appeared to be a funny old-fashioned box of a house; but 
 it was all dark now — no light showing from any of the 
 windows. She let herself in with a latch-key, and she never 
 looked round or waved her hand. 
 
 Except for this omission, it seemed quite like the old 
 days — when, after an evening at the theatre, he used to 
 drive her home to the ugly building that contained Frances 
 Shipham's flat. 
 
 285 
 
XXIX 
 
 A FEW days passed, and then to his surprise Lenny 
 received a very nice letter from Gerald Dryden. 
 "My dear Calcraft, Alma has told me of how she 
 met you slumming. Do come to dinner to-morrow, eight 
 o'clock. Not a party — only ourselves." 
 
 Lenny was delighted. Alma had managed this after 
 all. She had not truly thought his presence would bring 
 weariness with it, but she had dreaded opposition or re- 
 luctance on the part of Gerald. It had taken her a dny 
 or two to overcome some little difficulties, and now she 
 had succeeded. This meant, of course, that she did want 
 to see him again. Splendid! A gleam of light. 
 
 He dressed himself with scrupulous care — white waist- 
 coat, newest example of shirt, latest form of tie, and his 
 very choicest studs. Although he knew that buttonholes 
 were not strictly speaking in fashion, he provided himself 
 with some lilies-of-the-valley and a pink rose for the silk 
 lapel of his coat. He wanted to look his very best to-night. 
 
 Dryden received him kindly, if not cordially; but there 
 was a certain irksomeness and constraint that was difficult 
 to get over. Alma seemed very shy. Lenny purposely 
 left her alone, addressing himself to Gerald, and saying 
 how much he admired their charming little home. The 
 house was, in fact, very pretty; small and compact — really 
 like a country house in London, with all kinds of graceful 
 prettinesses that were undoubtedly due to Alma's good 
 taste. 
 
 286 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 At dinner they talked of Westchurch. Gerald and his 
 wife had spent Christmas in the family circle of Haven 
 Lodge; and a slight relaxation of restraint was caused 
 by a fortunate allusion to old Mr. Reed's favourite pastime. 
 
 "Does your father still play golf?" 
 
 "He never played golf," said Alma, with the flicker of 
 a smile. 
 
 "Oh, surely. He " 
 
 "He used to try to play, and he still tries." 
 
 Then they all laughed, and in Alma's ripple of mirth 
 Lenny heard the old music; free now from that metallic 
 sharpness. 
 
 Throughout the meal he noticed that Gerald called him 
 "Calcraft" instead of "Lenny," and that Alma did not use 
 any name at all. 
 
 Gerald had not improved externally, and inwardly he 
 seemed to have been hardened rather than softened by his 
 success. The hair had receded from his forehead; his jaw 
 had become, if possible, squarer and more resolute than 
 ever. There was a broadness, a commonness, a total lack 
 of distinction about his whole face. His clothes were badly 
 made, his tie was all wrong; in fact he was dressed abomi- 
 nably, and he seemed to be aware of this, and almost vain- 
 gloriously to boast of the fact. 
 
 Once he looked across the table grinning, and drew 
 attention to Lenny's magnificence. 
 
 "I see you are as well turned out as ever, Calcraft. 
 Still the buck and dandy. Do you remember how you 
 used to go on about my clothes? But I never picked up 
 the doggy air. Alma rags me about my shabbiness. But 
 it's no use; I'm past reforming." 
 
 After dinner, when Alma left them, Gerald kept the 
 guest an unconscionable time in the dining-room, and this 
 was the most difficult and crucial period of the evening. 
 
 287 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Gerald smoked a big and rather rank cigar, and Lenny 
 got through at least six cigarettes before he was permitted 
 to go into the drawing-room. 
 
 "I say, M said the host abruptly, after a silence, "I'm 
 glad to see you. But there's something that I want to 
 have out with you. Merely a trifle, but it's there at the 
 back of my mind, and I want to get rid of it." 
 
 "What is it, Gerald?" 
 
 "Well, when I used to gas you about Alma — you re- 
 member — my dream and all that, — why didn't you tell me 
 that you were seeing Alma up here?" 
 
 Lenny shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, and puffed 
 at his cigarette before answering. 
 
 "She didn't w T ish it, Gerald. She had broken her con- 
 nection with Westchurch, and she was anxious not to re- 
 new the links — at that time, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, I see. That's what I gathered from her." 
 
 "Yes. I wanted to tell you, of course. It was very 
 difficult not to tell you, but I didn't feel myself a free 
 agent in the matter." 
 
 "Well, that's all right," said Gerald, with a change of 
 tone. "And I'm glad I spoke of it." 
 
 "I think,". said Lenny, "that I can read your thought 
 exactly. You felt that as you had confided in me with 
 such completeness, I ought not to have held back any in- 
 formation which I possessed, and which might be useful 
 to you." 
 
 "Yes," said Gerald, "that was exactly my thought. I 
 couldn't understand it. There seemed something myste- 
 rious — almost underhand — about it." 
 
 "Just so," said Lenny. "But then, confidence is confi- 
 dence. I was to a certain extent in your wife's confidence 
 at that time, and I was placed in somewhat of a dilemma. 
 But I have a clear recollection of how I went as far as I 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 felt justified in going, when you told me of your affection, 
 your hopes, and so on." 
 
 "Very likely," said Gerald carelessly. "That's all right. 
 I merely wanted to have it out with you. I'm quite satis- 
 fied, and now we're all square." 
 
 After this there was a perceptible increase of cordiality 
 on the side of the host. He talked more easily, became 
 vaguely, if not explicitly confidential, and once or twice 
 called the guest "Lenny." 
 
 "Glad you like the house, Lenny. It was Alma's choice. 
 I've done the best I can for her. God bless her! The best 
 wife a man ever had, Lenny." 
 
 Then, immediately following on this praise of the wife, 
 he spoke again of the house. 
 
 "Of course, it's very small. I hoped, we both hoped, 
 that it would prove too small for us before this; but that 
 hasn't happened." 
 
 "I understand," said the guest sympathetically. "But 
 it may happen later on. You are both so young." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said Gerald, with brutal can- 
 dour. "Alma is thirty-five, getting on for thirty-six, and 
 I've passed the fledgeling stage." 
 
 Lenny shrugged his shoulders, and gently waved his cig- 
 arette, but could not find any appropriate words. 
 
 "When she and I fixed up our contract," Gerald con- 
 tinued, "I was obliged to pledge myself that our 
 young people should be brought up as Roman Catholics. 
 It rather stuck in my throat, but I had to give way. 
 These Roman Catholics won't budge nowadays." And 
 he gave a laugh that was a snort of contempt. "Well, I 
 need not have worried. The restriction hasn't troubled 
 me." 
 
 Yes, thought Lenny, this was where the shoe pinched. 
 No children. He tried to resist any unworthy satisfaction, 
 
 289 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 but failed. The fact that there were no offspring of the 
 marriage gave him pleasure. 
 
 "But one can't have everything in this world," said 
 Gerald, as though changing the subject. "By the way, 
 Lenny, did you know what an extraordinarily religious 
 woman she was?" 
 
 "Do you mean was, or is, Gerald?" 
 
 "Is— now." 
 
 "Oh, of course I knew that she was, in the old time 
 at Westchurch; but I fancied that with her intellectual 
 growth she had got beyond orthodoxy, and rather shaken 
 off the cut-and-dried forms of religion." 
 
 "No, or she has come back to them. Of course I leave 
 her absolutely free. I never interfere with her. But if 
 I'm anything, I'm a Protestant. I like protesting, and 
 the worst of that Roman Catholic thraldom is that it does 
 make people so confoundedly superstitious. Poor Alma is 
 stuffed up with superstition — will swallow anything the 
 priests tell her." 
 
 "Really? You greatly surprise me, Gerald, by all this. 
 But perhaps it is not unnatural." 
 
 "No, I suppose not. But it's disconcerting — sometimes. 
 I'm too practical, of course. But when it comes to mir- 
 acles " Dryden paused; and then going on again, he 
 
 spoke so vaguely that Lenny failed to catch his drift. 
 
 What did he mean? Lenny could not understand. But 
 he seemed to hint that Alma craved for some sort of mir- 
 acle in her own life. Then all at once Lenny guessed, 
 rightly or wrongly, that Alma had been on a pilgrimage to 
 Lourdes, or that she wanted to go there, with a view to 
 achieving something miraculous. 
 
 No doubt that was it. There it was again. The pinch 
 of the shoe. The mutual discomfort that infallibly arises 
 irt childless marriages. 
 
 290 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 At last, after what seemed at least two hours, the host 
 allowed the guest to rejoin his hostess. Alma was reading 
 by the drawing-room fire, and she looked up with a smile. 
 
 "Here we are," said Gerald jovially. "Now tip us a 
 stave, old lady." 
 
 Alma looked at the guest interrogatively. 
 
 "Yes, do please sing," said Lenny. "I should love it." 
 
 Alma meekly took her place at the piano, and began to 
 sing; and Lenny sat listening, with bowed head and folded 
 hands. Her voice began to vibrate inside him; he was 
 full of indefinite sadness. 
 
 "Do sing something else," he said, when the first song 
 was finished. 
 
 "Do you know All Souls* Day?" asked Alma. 
 
 "No, but I should love to hear it." 
 
 Lenny's thoughts were active until she came to the end 
 of All Souls' Day. And the thoughts grew sadder and 
 sadder. Alma, his own Alma — and he thought of all that 
 he had lost in losing her. Ah, that was the perfect solace, 
 if only it could have been continued. No other woman 
 would ever be to him what Alma once was. He tried 
 to banish the feeling of regret by observation of surround- 
 ing facts. Gerald was a common fellow — utterly un- 
 worthy of her. Dreadful for her to be mated to this clown. 
 She was such a thoroughbred. More now than in those 
 far-off days at Haven Lodge, she seemed like a creature 
 of another race — a swan among ducklings — the princess in 
 captivity. 
 
 As at the East End, Alma sang three times. 
 
 "Do you know The Green Trees Whispered?" she asked. 
 
 "No," said Lenny. 
 
 "I doubt if I know it myself, but I'll try it if you like." 
 
 "Do, please." 
 
 Gerald had picked up the evening paper, and Lenny, 
 
 291 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 seeing he was absorbed, kept his eyes fixed on Alma's face. 
 He was thinking. All this — the house, the piano, and the 
 singer — might have belonged to him. They could have 
 run to such a little house as this — certainly, if deprived of 
 the blessing of children. Then he would have been the 
 host and Gerald the visitor. And he thought of the room 
 upstairs that he would never see: Alma's room — with the 
 wardrobes where she kept her hats. Her dressing-gown 
 would be hanging now over the back of a chintz-covered 
 chair, her slippers close by, and all about the unseen room 
 there would be her pretty little things. 
 
 Alma seemed to be troubled by his ardent gaze. She 
 faltered, and then stopped. 
 
 "No, I don't really know this. Haven't practised it. 
 I'm sorry." 
 
 Then she left the piano, said good-night, and moved to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 Lenny hastened to open it for her. She let him hold 
 her hand for an instant, and then turned to her husband, 
 who had put down the newspaper, and was giving her some 
 domestic order. 
 
 "Alma, don't touch the upstairs switch." 
 
 "Very well." And she went out into the snug little hall 
 and up the stairs. 
 
 The evening was over, and Lenny would have gone away, 
 but he was not allowed to do so yet awhile. Gerald in- 
 sisted on taking him to his own private den on the other 
 side of the hall, making him drink whisky and soda, smoke 
 more cigarettes, and suffer almost insupportable boredom. 
 Once Gerald took him out of the room, back into the hall, 
 to show him a wonderful switch-board — something patented 
 by Gerald's firm — an ingenious contrivance by which one 
 could control every lamp in the house, and light them and 
 extinguish them just as one pleased. That was a fair 
 
 292 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 sample of the whole of this interview, — terribly boring. 
 Lenny yawned behind Gerald's back. But, however bored 
 he might be, he did not dare to hurry off. He must es- 
 tablish his footing, because he wanted to come again. 
 
 For the most part, Gerald was recounting his career, and 
 the enterprises in which his firm had engaged. Tramways 
 at Buenos Ayres — power station in Mexico — mills on the 
 Danube — idiotic technical twaddle. 
 
 "Yes, Lenny. I'm making money, but it's slow work. 
 I've been deuced lucky — lucky to be taken on as a partner 
 — lucky that the other partners were such old chaps. Tired 
 men, all three of them ; glad to give me scope. The business 
 was all right, but going to sleep when I came into it." 
 
 Suddenly Lenny thought of Porter and his trick of say- 
 ing "quite." After that it was easier. Lenny gave Gerald 
 a "quite" in every pause, and Gerald appeared to be thor- 
 oughly satisfied. 
 
 "But I shan't go on for ever. I shall slack up directly 
 I have made enough. It's the old story: I have only one 
 aim — Alma. It's all for Alma, and, please God, I mean 
 her to have a good time of it before long. She is such a 
 brick, she never grouses. But it's mighty dull for her. 
 I'm obliged to leave her continually. I can't help it." 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "That's one of the troubles in married life, when you 
 don't belong to the leisured class. If a man's got to work, 
 he can't be always trotting his wife about. Yet if he doesn't 
 do it, people say he is neglecting her. Alma never says it, 
 never hints it; but she is thrown on her own resources. 
 She doesn't make friends readily. She used to, but she 
 doesn't now. Then, being so much alone, she slides into 
 all this religious fervour and excitement." . . . 
 
 Really Lenny had ceased to listen — he was thinking of 
 the room upstairs. In imagination he had forced his way 
 
 293 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 into it now. He could see it. A reading lamp and small 
 circle of bright light. Alma reading in bed. All her pretty 
 hair loose — a narrow white face in the midst of a dark 
 cloud — just as he used to see it. And soon — it must be 
 soon; this couldn't last much longer — the door of the room 
 would be opened, and she would lift her eyes and say "Is 
 that you, Gerald dear?" — instead of saying "Is that you, 
 Lenny dear?" 
 
XXX 
 
 LENNY went no more to the Happy Evenings. He 
 had another interest in life. 
 
 Without delay he called at Knavesmere Gardens 
 to thank Alma for her hospitality; and, hastening to pay 
 his social debt, he invited her and her husband to dine 
 with him at a smart restaurant on the following Sunday. 
 Gerald seemed pleased to accept this invitation, and the 
 little party went off charmingly. Then Lenny proposed a 
 night at the play. He had bought four stalls, and he wished 
 the Drydens to see this piece — it was a great success, and, 
 as he understood, very amusing. Would Alma ask one of 
 her women friends to make up the quartette? Dinner, of 
 course, to be provided by Lenny before the dramatic treat. 
 
 Several visits were necessary to complete all arrange- 
 ments; and in the end the party was a trio and not a 
 quartette. Alma had not been able to find any woman 
 friend available. 
 
 After this Gerald's business called him away to Germany 
 for three days; when he came back, it was only to be 
 called away again; and during these absences Lenny saw 
 for himself the absolute truth of all that Gerald had told 
 him. Poor Alma had been left alone in the house, with- 
 out amusement or companionship; at whatever hour one 
 called, one never met any of her friends there; she seemed 
 to possess no real friends; she was thrown entirely on her 
 own resources. 
 
 Yet she resolutely declared that she could not renew an 
 old friendship which would infallibly relieve the monotony 
 
 295 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of her long dull days. She did not like receiving visitors. 
 She had occupations ; and occupations are better than amuse- 
 ments. She hardly ever felt dull. 
 
 She said she was happy — thoroughly contented; and he 
 admired the steadfast courage that supported her while she 
 uttered this boast. Poor girl, she knew that she had made 
 her bed and must lie on it. She would never abrogate 
 a woman's natural pride and own that it was not a bed 
 of roses. Very fine, this, essentially fine — just what one 
 might expect from Alma. 
 
 Nevertheless he had determined to help her in spite of 
 herself. Their friendship — a certain amount of it — should 
 and must be renewed. 
 
 For him there could be little true pleasure in it — no 
 pleasure, one might say, that was free from pain. But he 
 gave himself freely to the varied feelings it aroused — regret, 
 remorse, vague yearnings, unformulated hopes. And al- 
 ready he had gained something. The whole affair was in- 
 teresting, absorbingly interesting. Of late when waking 
 of a morning — unless it was Saturday morning, with a 
 Happy Evening in view, — he had been at once conscious 
 of a mental lassitude and emptiness; and his whole body 
 seemed to echo the whisper of his mind. Another day, but 
 why get up at all? What's the use of a day? Cui bono? 
 Now, however, he woke with a vigorous briskness of 
 thought. His body felt purposeful, quite eager to relin- 
 quish the warm bed. Each day brought its work with it. 
 He had something instead of nothing to do. 
 
 And soon he began to feel that once more he was being 
 guided by wise instincts. Alma might make him sad, but 
 all the time she did him good. Alma linked him with his 
 vanished youth — the careless sunlit epoch of hope and 
 strength and joy. The sight of her lips, the sound of her 
 voice, and, above all else, the touch of her fingers, carried 
 
 296 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 him straight back. Alma could, and before long would, 
 make him feel almost young again. 
 
 It was slow, arduous work. But Lenny had now found 
 the lever that would move her — not very much; but still 
 it did move her. Pity — that sweetest and most gentle of 
 feminine qualities. By the constant appeal to all that was 
 compassionate in her nature, he had achieved progress. 
 
 One afternoon — a nasty foggy afternoon — he was left 
 waiting in the drawing-room for a considerable time; and 
 when at last she appeared, she told him explicitly that he 
 must not continue to pay her these visits. 
 
 "Alma, dear, may I ask you one question? Does Ger- 
 ald object?" 
 
 "No. Gerald is much too busy for me to bother him 
 with any little worries of mine." 
 
 "Gerald, I honestly believe — from what he let fall — 
 would be only too glad for anybody to come here now and 
 then, and cheer you up." 
 
 "You do not cheer me up. Besides, you altogether mis- 
 interpret whatever Gerald may have said. I can't have 
 your car standing out there every afternoon — people would 
 begin to wonder." 
 
 "I'll never bring the car again. I'll come in a cab. I'll 
 walk. I'd walk right across London for the joy of seeing 
 you." 
 
 "Lenny," she said seriously, "are you going to force me 
 to tell the servants that you are not to be admitted ? I must 
 do it, if you force me. . . . Please go away; and please 
 don't come here again — at least until my husband asks you." 
 
 She had not sat down; she had not even shaken hands 
 with him; and now she turned her back, and went to the 
 window. 
 
 Lenny followed her, stood beside her, stared forlornly at 
 
 297 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the little front garden, the car, and the foggy roadway. 
 And then chance aided him, and gave him a useful hint, 
 just as he was despairing of ever making a substantial step 
 forward. 
 
 Outside the window something attracted Alma's attention 
 and diverted the train of her thoughts. It was a flower- 
 seller — a wretched, skinny, ragged woman, who offered 
 pots of yellow tulips, and was being repulsed by Lenny's 
 chauffeur. She picked up the weighty basket that held 
 her stock of flower-pots — quite a dozen of them — and 
 limped past the garden railings. Seen thus, vaguely in 
 the fog, she looked like some miserable ghost — a piteous 
 figure from purgatory — a weak sinner doomed to carry a 
 monstrous burden through the dim under-world. 
 
 "Oh, poor soul!" said Alma; and her voice was eloquent 
 with pity. "I don't believe she has sold a single one. She 
 has been up and down the road since ten this morning. 
 Oh, I must send out and buy one. Lenny, ring the bell 
 for me." 
 
 Lenny did not ring the bell. Hatless, he dashed out of 
 the house, dismissed his car in passing, ran after the ragged 
 woman, and bought all her flower pots. 
 
 He came back to tell Alma, and to crave her acceptance 
 of this handsome supply of yellow tulips. 
 
 "You were quite right," he said cheerily. "She hadn't 
 got rid of one — and only a shilling apiece, poor dear! I 
 gave her a sovereign, and told her to keep the change." 
 
 "That was kind of you, Lenny — really kind." Her eyes 
 were moist and bright; there was colour in her pale face; 
 her voice had a full note, and a pause, if not a break, that 
 gave him a faintly delicious thrill. 
 
 He sat down on one of the chintz-covered chairs; and 
 while the flowers were being delivered and she was out of 
 the room, he thought. A sovereign well spent — a good in- 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 vestment! This had been a turning-point, a crisis, a trifling 
 event that might have tremendous consequences. "Lenny," 
 he said to himself, "take care. You are playing with fire." 
 Well, if so, he must go on playing with it. 
 
 But it was not a comfortable thought, and, for that rea- 
 son, he immediately dismissed it. Chance had prompted 
 him. He had his cue now. Pity! If she was so sorry 
 for any poor beggar in the street, she would be sorry for 
 him. 
 
 When she returned to the room, she didn't send him 
 away. He knew that she would not be so obdurate. She 
 allowed him to stay for quite an hour, and all through the 
 hour he talked about himself. 
 
 He told her of his loneliness, his reveries, his bad health, 
 and his melancholy. Speaking of the sadness, he took 
 some splendid imaginative flights. He said the sadness 
 was like a dark sea, rolling through the years towards him; 
 and he felt like a man standing at the foot of an unclimbable 
 cliff, while the cruel waves slowly mounted the shore to en- 
 gulf him. No escape possible. 
 
 "So I live in the past now, Alma. Can you wonder? 
 I have nothing to look forward to." 
 
 He saturated himself, and he tried to saturate her, in 
 sentimentality. She must pity him; she should pity him. 
 And in itself the talk was so valuable. It was doing him 
 good. It eased him and soothed him. 
 
 "Lenny, what can I say? I don't know why you should 
 be sad; but if you are sad, of course I'm sorry that you 
 are." 
 
 There! She had said it. How could she help saying 
 it? It would have been unnatural if she, of all people 
 in the world, did not sympathize with him. He kept the 
 conversation swinging along, on the same topic, and every 
 minute he felt more forcibly that, so long as they talked 
 
 20 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 like this, he would as it were have the whip hand of her. 
 The logic of facts seemed to be arguing for him. After all, 
 she had married; and he had remained single. This ob- 
 vious reflection, which would perpetually present itself to 
 her mind, must tend to influence her, to placate her, to 
 soften her. 
 
 It was fortunate that no whisper of Helen Fletcher had 
 ever reached her. He recognized that, had Alma known 
 anything of that entanglement with Mrs. Fletcher, his task 
 would have become twenty times more difficult. 
 
 Not happy, although she swore she was. But he meant 
 to make her confess the truth. He felt that until he 
 should have beaten down her reserve and wrung this con- 
 fession from her, he would never enjoy the charms of open 
 and unembarrassed talk. There were so many questions 
 that he wanted to ask her. Years ago there had been such 
 absolute frankness between them, ideas held in an intel- 
 lectual partnership, a unique communion of mind with mind. 
 And it would come again; it was surely coming. 
 
 Festina lente — he often repeated these classic words, — 
 hurry slowly, hurry slowly. And indeed his progress in the 
 last two weeks had been remarkable. 
 
 She had consented to go out for walks with him, or had 
 consented to allow him to accompany her when she went 
 for walks. At first there was no prearranged plan. Their 
 meetings seemed to occur by chance. He had learnt her 
 habits, and if he guessed that she was going to such and 
 such a place — Kensington Gardens, the old palace that 
 she* still loved, or the Regent's Park, — well, he went there 
 too, turned up accidentally. But then her pride and loyalty 
 revolted against even the semblance of dissimulation; she 
 insisted on putting everything in a clear light; and thence- 
 forth, if they met at all, it was to be by definite appointment. 
 
 300 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "If for a moment I thought it wrong, I wouldn't do it," 
 she said firmly. 
 
 Wrong? What a notion! If two lonely people taking 
 exercise for the benefit of their health may not join forces 
 and stroll together — two old friends, — why, what may one 
 do? 
 
 The candid explanation delighted Lenny. Another turn- 
 ing-point or crisis safely negotiated. A step forward in 
 the line leading towards those purely intellectual gratifica- 
 tions for which he craved. 
 
 They were companions who often walked side by side — 
 but still at arm's length, so to speak. Keeping vanity out 
 of the question, one could not but suppose that after the 
 isolation to which she was accustomed a willing escort must 
 prove an agreeable novelty. It really made no difference 
 whether Dryden was away or at home — in Berlin or in his 
 Queen Victoria Street office: he was always up to the eye- 
 brows in business, and of no practical use to his wife. 
 Lenny, when thinking of him, employed one of his 
 favourite thought-counters. Gerald was a negligible 
 quantity. 
 
 Gradually he succeeded in winning her to the sentimental 
 meditations that he himself found so tenderly soothing. 
 Our past — that is the field for sentimental exploration; let 
 us open memory's gate, and enter it hand in hand. The 
 mists hang over it — Alma, do you remember our morning 
 walks? — but the sun will presently burst through the white 
 veil and show us wonderland. 
 
 The past was drawing her. He felt sure that she too 
 lived much in the past. He did not pretend to believe her 
 when she denied or protested. She was always thinking 
 about the past, although she said that one ought not to 
 think of it. 
 
 "The past is over and done with." When they were 
 
 301 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 speaking generally, philosophizing, she often said that sort 
 of thing. "I shall never agree with you, Lenny. One's 
 dead past should be left in its quiet sepulchre. It should 
 not be revived by oneself — at any rate. If it rises 
 like an ugly phantom, and stalks after us — that's another 
 matter. But we shouldn't look back. It's weakness to look 
 back. We should look forward. All our duties lie ahead, 
 and none of them behind us." 
 
 And once, trying to confute his arguments, she said 
 something that interested him intensely. 
 
 "Lenny, I have authority on my side. At a time when 
 I was very miserable — scarcely knowing what was right 
 or wrong — and those much wiser than myself were directing 
 my conduct, they taught me this great lesson. We are not 
 to torment ourselves by looking back." . . . 
 
 "I understand," he said softly. "Alma dear, I have 
 read all your thought." 
 
 "I don't think you have. In fact I know that you 
 couldn't possibly do so." 
 
 She had flushed. She turned away her head, and, uncon- 
 sciously quickening her steps, walked so fast that he could 
 hardly keep up with her. 
 
 But he felt sure that his intuitive surmise was correct. 
 She had been alluding to that dark period when, losing 
 him, she fell back into the hands of the priests, and Gerald 
 Dryden came courting her. And the priests had advised 
 her not to tell Dryden too much. She would have made a 
 clean breast of everything; but those wiser than herself 
 restrained her. 
 
 He felt a momentary glow of veneration and gratitude. 
 Rome may have her faults; but there is something sublime 
 and tremendous about her — a wisdom that rides with such 
 steadiness over the troubled seas of life, a doctrine made 
 for all time, a faith which discriminates so infallibly between 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 essentials and non-essentials. And, say what you will, 
 her priests are nearly always men of the world. 
 
 Lenny did not venture to pursue the subject; nor did 
 he boast of his clairvoyance; but he thought that sooner or 
 later he would be questioning, and she would be answering 
 freely. Nothing could possibly be more interesting than 
 to get her to fill in all those parts of her life that were blank 
 to him. Some day she should give him the exact words of 
 what the priests had said to her, and of what she had said 
 to Gerald; and in exchange he would give her a minute 
 record of all his emotions immediately after the parting. 
 Perhaps he would even describe his state of fear when he 
 fancied that she had committed suicide. Or perhaps he 
 wouldn't describe that. He was not sure whether he would 
 or he wouldn't. He would decide when the proper time 
 came. 
 
 Meanwhile he persistently adhered to sugary sentiment. 
 He made her speak of Haven Lodge, of her family, of 
 Father Marchant's church. 
 
 "You must have been glad to be among your people 
 again." 
 
 And she said that she had felt very glad. 
 
 "By the way, your stepsisters! Any of them off the 
 shelf?" 
 
 Yes, she said, one of them, Gladys, had married a soldier, 
 and gone to India. Mrs. Reed was rejoiced at this happy- 
 event. 
 
 "And your father?" 
 
 "Father notices nothing. Father has aged. Oh, Lenny, 
 I saw such a difference last Christmas. It went to my 
 heart." 
 
 Then he made her speak of her dead mother. In the 
 past he had never shown any curiosity about this lady; but 
 now he craved for the very fullest particulars, and Alma, 
 
 303 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 after a little hesitation, told him many things of the parent 
 whom she had greatly loved and greatly missed. She spoke 
 sweetly — her eyes growing moist and dark, with lashes 
 blinking; her voice taking the deep tones to which he 
 liked to listen, breaking as she uttered the last two words 
 of the story. 
 
 "Poor mother!" 
 
 "Yes, and poor Alma! Oh, how I understand what 
 she was to you!" and he nodded his head, until his hat 
 came right forward on his forehead. Then readjusting the 
 hat, he continued mournfully, "Alma, do you remember 
 something that you once said to me — I shall never forget 
 it — about our joint destinies, how they were interwoven? 
 Well, isn't it a curious thought — that we had each of us 
 lost our mother, we were both motherless, when you and 
 I first met?" 
 
XXXI 
 
 HE had torn the confession from her. 
 Days were drawing out now; the tardy spring 
 began to show signs of its approach; and one after- 
 noon, when the air was peculiarly mild and soft, they sat 
 for quite a long time on a bench in Kensington Gardens. 
 
 Alma had been talking of her husband's manifold vir- 
 tues, and she went on talking as though she would never 
 get to the end of them. Really it became like a Biblical 
 song, or a rather tedious doxology. 
 
 "He is so good that he has made me think better of 
 all mankind. If you only knew how he worked, never spar- 
 ing himself, driving himself, flogging himself. And it is 
 all for me — he would tell you so himself. And I do noth- 
 ing for him — never have been able, never shall be able, to 
 repay him for his generosity, his — his love, his unceasing 
 goodness." 
 
 "And yet," said Lenny quietly, "you are not happy 
 with him." 
 
 Of course she denied it; but the hour had come for per- 
 sistence, and he pressed her more persistently, until at last 
 she acknowledged the truth. 
 
 "Then no — I am not altogether happy." 
 
 "Ah!" And he gave a sigh of satisfaction. "That is 
 what I feared." 
 
 "If you think there's any disloyalty to him in my tell- 
 ing you — you're mistaken." 
 
 She had hastily brought out her handkerchief, and was 
 wiping her eyes. 
 
 305 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Dear Alma, it overwhelms me to see you in this dis- 
 tress." 
 
 "All right. D-don't be overwhelmed, Lenny. It's noth- 
 ing to do with you, anyhow." 
 
 She put away her handkerchief; and, though her lips 
 trembled, she looked at him resolutely. 
 
 "But I think it is everything to do with me — your old- 
 est friend. If I haven't the right to sympathize with you, 
 who has? And if you mayn't confide your secrets to me, 
 
 why " He broke off; he could not go on with these 
 
 vague generalities; he must be frank and open. "Alma, 
 why did you marry him?" 
 
 "Why? What a question! Only you would have asked 
 me. 
 
 "I never could explain it. Literally, it surpassed my 
 comprehension." 
 
 "I dare say it did." 
 
 "One hazarded guesses, of course. I suppose it was this 
 terrible feeling of loneliness — from which I myself am now 
 suffering." 
 
 "Yes, something of that kind." Her voice for a few 
 moments became hard and metallic. "I was feeling just 
 a little lonely, slightly neglected, rather tired of myself. 
 I did it to escape from myself. . . . And I haven't 
 succeeded." Her voice suddenly softened, and was again 
 melodious to the ear. "I don't even make him happy — not 
 as happy as he ought to be; — but I try, Lenny. That is 
 my life — the rest of my life: to be true to him." 
 
 "Just so. Still I don't understand how you convinced 
 yourself — I mean, quite at the beginning — that there was 
 any fair propect " 
 
 "You don't understand? Then let me enlighten you as 
 far as I can." 
 
 He was watching her with acute interest. She sat 
 306 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 very upright and rigid; and her eyes distinctly flashed at 
 him. 
 
 "Yes, enlighten me," he whispered soothingly. 
 
 "I'd rather tell you more about him — but you won't 
 really understand that either." 
 
 "Alma! It's unkind to suggest " 
 
 "Can you understand that the love of a good man is 
 something so rare and strange that we women can't afford 
 to reject it lightly? Can you understand that Gerald 
 never loved any other woman but me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes — Alma dear." 
 
 He was rather scared by her earnestness. But it seemed 
 that, having started her, he could not stop her; and un- 
 fortunately in her excitement she was speaking a little too 
 loudly. However, there was nobody within ear-shot. 
 
 "I was his dream — isn't that worth boasting about? I 
 was his star — bright to him, no matter how faint to all 
 others; and he steered by his star. He came to me through 
 the darkness — was always coming, though I never knew, 
 never guessed. . . . These were the flattering things 
 that he said when asking me to be his wife — and he meant 
 them. They were true then. And they are true to-day. 
 Do you understand that?" 
 
 He watched her intently. Her eyes were truly flashing, 
 her cheeks were full of delicate colour, the tones of her 
 voice deepened and swelled with violent emotion; and she 
 had lifted both her hands to the front of her jacket. He 
 noticed that the hands trembled; and they seemed to press 
 against her bosom, as though she were vainly trying to keep 
 back the flood of distress. He was dreadfully sorry to 
 see her agitate herself in this manner, and to such an ex- 
 tent; but he thought that she looked extraordinarily pretty — 
 almost as pretty as she had ever looked. 
 
 "Gerald loved me. Can you understand that? Gerald 
 307 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wanted me — this worthless me" And the fragile, gloved 
 hands pressed and shook. "This poor broken Alma — buf- 
 feted by fate — picked up and tossed aside by men — this rag 
 of a woman was to him a thing to be held high — to be 
 cherished, to be worshipped — the woman who he believed 
 could make him happy. . . . Now can you under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 "Yes. I do understand that his affection — which I 
 don't doubt, which I never doubted — would have great 
 influence with you." 
 
 The handkerchief appeared again, and she dabbed at 
 her eyes. 
 
 "And if I am unhappy, it is only for his sake. Lenny, 
 I have failed him. There's the bitterness." 
 
 "Alma, don't give way. I'm sure you reproach your- 
 self without cause — quite without cause." 
 
 "He wanted children — every good man does. And I 
 haven't given them to him. He tries to hide his dis- 
 appointment — he is so chivalrous and brave that, if he could 
 help it, he would never let me know what a cruel, cruel 
 disappointment it has been." 
 
 Lenny was intensely sorry for her. He watched her 
 and admired her. Such a splendid nature — refined gold. 
 Oh, how could fate be so unkind to his poor little Alma! 
 
 "Lenny, it's the discrepancy of years too — one can't 
 get over it." 
 
 Her voice was quiet and low of tone; she had clasped 
 her hands upon her lap; and, instead of being rigid, her 
 figure seemed to droop from the slender waist — like some 
 graceful flower, beaten down by a storm that is now over. 
 He noticed the pathetic quiver at the corners of her mouth ; 
 her whole aspect had that air of tragic sweetness that he 
 remembered well. 
 
 308 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "I am so much older than Gerald. The ugliness of 
 age has touched me already." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "Yes, it has. He doesn't see it yet — or he is struggling 
 against facts. He is brave and staunch — he wont see it. 
 For a little while he'll succeed, he'll conquer facts. . . . 
 But in ten years the tragedy will begin. This is merely 
 prologue. He will wake one day, and see the old, faded, 
 sexless wretch to whom he has tied himself. And I shall 
 see his eyes resting on every young woman that comes our 
 way — the parlourmaid, the girls who bring my dresses 
 from the shops, the daughters of his friends. He won't 
 do it basely or treacherously, but because he can't help 
 it — in sheer relief, just to rest his eyes with youth and 
 freshness and joyous life after they have looked for so 
 long at staleness, dryness, deadness." 
 
 "Alma! These ideas are morbid — simply morbid. Not 
 the least ground for them." 
 
 She was staring straight in front of her, and her voice 
 grew softer and softer. 
 
 "I think I shall tell him to snatch any joy he can find. 
 I shall say, 'Gerald, you have been good to me; and you 
 must not be unhappy because of your goodness. Your wife 
 has failed you. Take mistresses now. I won't mind — I 
 won't suffer — I will be glad, if you are glad.' " 
 
 "Alma, how can you talk like this?" 
 
 "But if I had borne him children, there could be no 
 tragedy. I should look forward without fear." She was 
 still staring, as though across the paths and grass she could 
 see in the distance all that she spoke of. "Little things — 
 little things!" And her voice was so faint that he could 
 only just hear it. "Little things — weak and yet strong! 
 They would make small doors all over his heart, to run 
 
 309 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 in and out of — and everywhere a child can pass is big 
 enough for its mother to creep through." 
 
 Lenny looked round in all directions. There was nobody 
 near. He very gently patted her clasped hands. 
 
 "You are so sweet, so good, that I wish — most truly — 
 that you could have been happy in this marriage." 
 
 She made no answer. It was as if her thoughts had 
 taken her far away, and she could not yet listen to his 
 words, however well chosen they might be. But he con- 
 tinued, in a gentle consolatory tone. 
 
 "That is much for me — of all people — to be able to 
 say. It proves how dear you were to me, that I wished 
 your happiness — even with somebody else. . . . Alma, 
 do listen to me. . . . You must not entertain all these 
 painful ideas. I said just now that they were morbid; 
 but I might have said with equal truth that they were 
 delusions — simply delusions. Gerald is the luckiest of mor- 
 tals — to be envied." 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 "Yes, to be envied — to be envied more than perhaps 
 you would like me to say." 
 
 She was not listening. He withdrew his hand: there 
 was no pleasure in patting her if she did not know he was 
 doing it. 
 
 "Alma dear, do rouse yourself. Throw off these un- 
 comfortable sensations." 
 
 She raised her head, and turned to look at him again. 
 Her eyes were dark, with deep shadows around them; and 
 her face seemed narrower, the features pinched as if by 
 cold. 
 
 "Yes, Lenny. What were you saying?" And she 
 shivered. 
 
 "I am telling you that you're not to fancy you're getting 
 310 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 old — or in any way losing your charm. No one would 
 see it so well as I, if it was true. But it isn't true. No, 
 there is all the fascination that there ever was. To my eyes 
 you are still quite a girl." 
 
 "Lenny, it is getting late. I must go now." 
 
 "Yes, we'll go. But just one minute. I have so loved 
 this confidential talk. It was what I pined for. And 
 I've so much to say — to cheer you." 
 
 "I don't require cheering." 
 
 "Alma, this isn't kind. . . . Frankly, I see now ex- 
 actly what you mean about the discrepancy of years. That 
 is true. And I therefore don't attempt to contradict it. 
 He is younger than you. That's a pity. And I under- 
 stand how completely it destroys what ought to be the 
 greatest joy of marriage — the perfect companionship. 
 . . . Oh, Alma! Ours was the ideal companionship." 
 
 "Was it, Lenny?" And once more there came the sharp 
 metallic ring in her voice. 
 
 "Yes," and he nodded his head, and sighed. "Oh, Alma, 
 what a mess we have made of our lives!" 
 
 "We?" 
 
 "Well — I. The mistake was mine. I admit it. Oh, 
 what a hideous mistake it was!" 
 
 "Lenny, it is getting cold. I can't sit here any longer." 
 And she got up from the bench, "Don't trouble to sec 
 me home. Really I would rather you didn't." 
 
 "Let me go as far as the gates — at least to the gates. 
 Don't banish me to loneliness and sadness sooner than is 
 necessary." 
 
 He walked by her side, talking smoothly and easily. He 
 felt wonderfully peaceful and contented; but presently, 
 speaking of Gerald, he said something that she considered 
 derogatory or disparaging, and she flashed out at him again. 
 
 3U 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny!" she was rebuking him indignantly, even wrath- 
 fully. "You forget who I am. You insult me, as well as 
 your friend." 
 
 But Lenny did not mind. For a little while it was quite 
 like a lovers' quarrel — one of those trifling disagreements in 
 the past, a temporary flare-up on her side and a calm 
 waiting attitude on his, nothing serious; for they never 
 really quarrelled. And now all this carried him straight 
 back to the dear old days. 
 
 "Alma," he said deprecatingly, when he thought she 
 was nearly pacified, "don't be huffed by my frankness." 
 
 "It isn't frankness: it's rudeness — and utterly horrid of 
 you." 
 
 "When I said that Gerald was a bore, truly I didn't 
 mean to be unkind. Good gracious, who isn't a bore some- 
 times? I dare say I bore people myself. It is purely a 
 matter of sympathy — it is a question of companionship." 
 
 "You and Gerald got on very well at Westchurch." 
 
 "Yes — exactly. There, Alma! You know how much 
 I liked him — but it wasn't companionship;" and Lenny 
 laughed good-humouredly. "How we used to tramp up 
 and down that parade? But with Gerald one couldn't talk 
 — he was like a child toddling by one's side, and prattling 
 about his little hopes and schemes. And it is the same 
 thing now. He runs on without a pause about his own 
 affairs — very interesting to him, of course. It is all what 
 I did yesterday and what I intend to do to-morrow. Well, 
 that isn't conversation!' 
 
 They were near the gates, and Alma stopped short. 
 
 "Lenny, I think it is horrid of you to speak of Gerald 
 in this way — and if you do it, I can never meet you again." 
 
 "I won't do it. Sooner than do it, I'll forget that Ger- 
 ald exists." 
 
 "Good-night. No, not a step further." 
 312 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He did not insist; he thought that he had made a very 
 big step already. 
 
 Next morning he received a letter from her. She wrote 
 to say she had come to the conclusion that nothing could 
 be gained by their meetings, and they must therefore cease. 
 She was sorry that he felt so lonely and miserable, 
 but she could not assist him to regain his peace of mind. 
 She advised him to try the effect of change of air, and 
 to occupy his time with some kind of regular work; and, 
 as he understood her meaning, she hinted at a hope that 
 chance or thought might one day direct him to seek con- 
 solation where she herself had found it. That meant relig- 
 ion — the bosom of Rome — and so on. Then she wound 
 up by praise of Gerald, and a request that Lenny would 
 not take too seriously what she had let fall about certain 
 regrets in her own life. 
 
 He did not reply by another letter. Litera scripta manet 
 — one had not forgotten all one's Latin. He went to see 
 her, and made a poignant appeal to her compassion. She 
 was doing him good; she was taking him out of himself, 
 leading him towards equanimity — he implored her not to 
 cast him back into outer darkness. 
 
XXXII 
 
 HE was the victim now of an intense longing for one 
 of the old embraces. He scarcely knew when the 
 longing began, or when he first recognized that it 
 was there; but, once having gained status as a plain fact, it 
 strengthened and grew more imperious at every meeting. 
 While he was with her its repression was a difficulty that 
 poisoned all his pleasure; while he was away from her its 
 indulgence filled the whole realm of his imagination, mock- 
 ing him with intangible bliss, enervating, exhausting, almost 
 sickening him with recurrent series of thought pictures. 
 
 And the longing made him meditate more boldly than 
 was his custom. Logic of facts again! All mental activity 
 is sustained by a physical basis, and intellectual gratifications 
 cannot stand quite alone. Communion of minds may be the 
 highest joy; but a companionship of the opposite sexes 
 that contains nothing more substantial is a phenomenon 
 so unusual that one may surmise it to be repugnant to 
 Nature's laws. Then he remembered something, directly 
 bearing on this argument, that he had once read in a trans- 
 lation of a learned German book. Even in friendships be- 
 tween rough unemotional men, all those outward manifesta- 
 tions of regard, such as gripping of hands, slapping of shoul- 
 ders, and digging one another in the ribs, serve a useful pur- 
 pose and have their function in nourishing the jovial sense of 
 affectionate good-fellowship. 
 
 Then he remembered something else that he had read 
 or heard. Given favourable opportunities, if a woman 
 has once been really yours, you can always make her yours 
 
 314 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 again. And something else still. The first lover has an 
 irrefutable, almost invincible claim upon a woman's heart. 
 Something mysterious, perhaps inexplicable about this, but 
 probably a lot of truth in it — the impress of an image when 
 the mind is plastic — a chain forged, which may be hidden, 
 but cannot be broken. 
 
 Gerald Dryden was in London now; but he would soon 
 be going to France — to Lyons, to Marseilles, and to an- 
 other town. Once, as Alma related without a word of 
 complaint, he had been away for eight months — working 
 through the republics of South America, a commercial trav- 
 eller touting for orders. What a husband! Nearly always 
 away, and when at home making himself a wet-blanket, 
 showing his poor little wife that she is not all-sufficient, 
 depressing her because he has not obtained all his wishes. 
 
 But Lenny had promised to forget Dryden. Only the 
 thought of those eight months opened out wide regrets 
 for lost possibilities. How many afternoons and evenings 
 in eight months! Why had he permitted the separation 
 to extend through so many wasted years? He should have 
 made some effort to discover where she was and how she 
 was. He ought to have written to tell her about himself. 
 It was wrong not to write to her. 
 
 She had yielded to his importunity, and they continued 
 to go about together. Several times she talked to him 
 seriously and very sweetly of his future. Why wasn't 
 he more ambitious? Why didn't he go into Parliament? 
 Or if he could not afford that, there were other things 
 that he could do — there are so many useful things that 
 can be done by a man who is not compelled to work for 
 his living. 
 
 "Lenny, I'm certain that you would be the better for a 
 settled purpose and a regular occupation." 
 *1 315 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He did not of course reply that just now he had both. 
 He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her. 
 
 "My health! I greatly doubt if my health would 
 justify " 
 
 "But, Lenny, your health seems all right," and she 
 glanced at him searchingly. 
 
 "Do I look all right, Alma?" 
 
 "Yes, on the whole, I think you look quite well — strong, 
 I mean — healthy." 
 
 There was melancholy in his smile, and he shook his 
 head. "Then, Alma, I am like a damaged watch — its face 
 looks all right, it goes all right for a little while, and then 
 the movement ceases. Alma, the mainspring of my life is 
 broken." 
 
 "I doii't believe it — I — I shall never believe it." 
 
 Her tender care for his future gratified him; but it was 
 to the past that he wished to confine her attention. It was 
 the past that would aid him now. It was the past that in- 
 sensibly would draw them together. 
 
 And gradually, perhaps unconsciously, she submitted to 
 his controlling purpose. They glided into the phase of 
 Do-you-remember ? — the phase that is so common and so 
 entrancing when friends renew association after long years. 
 
 "Alma, do you remember Miss Workman pouring out the 
 hot water for you?" 
 
 Alma used to have command of the tea-pot at those pleas- 
 ant little parties; but once Miss Workman replenished the 
 silver vessel, and talked politics at the same time — and she 
 went on talking and pouring. No one could check her. 
 She flooded the tea-table, she emptied the kettle, she nearly 
 scalded Mrs. Blacklock. 
 
 They both laughed, like children, at the memory of this, 
 trivial episode. The long years had given value to the fee- 
 blest jest. And so it was with other reminiscences — some 
 
 316 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 magic property attaching to that which is irrevocably van- 
 ished made small matters appear vastly important or signifi- 
 cant. 
 
 "Lenny, do you remember Mr. Tucker's poodle?" 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 Alma softened perceptibly during such childish chatter 
 as this; but she hardened if he tried to evoke less innocent 
 recollections. She would not pass on in memory from 
 Westchurch to London. She would not remember any 
 events, however amusing, in the time that had elapsed 
 between her leaving Westchurch and her marrying Dry- 
 den. 
 
 On a Sunday late in March she consented, after much 
 persuasion, to go a little way out of London with him. 
 He suggested Windsor — they would go by train, because 
 from the first she resolutely refused to make use of his 
 motor, and he had got rid of it two months earlier than 
 usual. Windsor, she said, was too far off, but they might 
 perhaps go to Kew Gardens. He did not remind her that 
 Kew was one of the spots they had often visited in the 
 blank unremembered period. 
 
 It was a dull, cheerless day, and the gardens showed 
 them bare trees, flowerless beds, stretches of wet grass, 
 and very little else. Grey mist creeping up from the river, 
 no sunlight, no colour, and no laughter — they walked along 
 the damp paths through cold and empty woods, and the 
 all-pervading sadness of the hour and the place possessed 
 them. 
 
 A few people were scattered here and there about the 
 glass-house; but the expanse of wild garden was deserted. 
 For a while they were quite alone, wandering aimlessly be- 
 neath gaunt beeches and gloomy firs, pausing to peer down 
 dim vistas and to watch the dark water of a small lake. 
 And it seemed to him that Alma, as she grew sadder, soft- 
 
 317 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ened more and more. He succeeded immediately when he 
 tried to make her speak of the obliterated epoch. He had 
 asked her about her old work at the London offices; and she 
 told him of its drab monotony, the weariness of pamphlet 
 compilation, the repetitive annoyance caused by stupid inqui- 
 rers who could not comprehend the simplest theories of the 
 Association. And, talking, she walked slowly, languidly, 
 and seemed so pale and limp and tired that his whole being 
 yearned over her. His own Alma — so sad then, and so tired 
 now. Oh, cruel and unjust fate! 
 
 Very gently he slipped his arm through hers and sup- 
 ported her. She still talked of the time of dear Frances 
 Shipham, of the newspaper contributors, the queer women 
 who came to the flat; and presently, when they paused at 
 the turning of another path, he took her hand and held 
 it in his. 
 
 A sad, but most delicious ramble, with the dusk falling 
 and the mists rising — they walked close together, side by 
 side, like two ghosts of lovers. 
 
 And he found that he might gently press her fingers 
 before he relinquished them ; he might rest his hand upon 
 her shoulder — but when he slid the hand from her shoulder 
 to her neck, she stopped him. She always stopped him. 
 
 "Lenny, don't." 
 
 "Oh, Alma," and his voice sounded hoarse and shaky, 
 "oh, be nice to me — be nice to me as you used to be in 
 the dear old days." 
 
 Then it was as if she awoke out of a dream. She pushed 
 his hand roughly from her, stepped back, and almost glared 
 at him. 
 
 "Lenny, since you can't understand, I'll never see you 
 again." 
 
 "Alma," he murmured imploringly. 
 
 Truly he did not understand. Just now it seemed to 
 
 318 
 
■ 
 
 IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 him that he had succeeded in exercising the power that 
 must logically be his; she had felt the chain of habit con- 
 straining her to submission; what she had been in the past 
 she was about to become again — the servant of his wish. 
 But now everything seemed to have broken loose. She had 
 snapped the chain, and was angrily trampling it under her 
 feet. 
 
 "Alma, why won't you be nice to me?" 
 
 They went home sadly and silently. No more reminis- 
 cences — and not one smile. He suspected that he had not 
 hurried slowly enough. And, trying to read her thoughts, 
 he guessed that she had suffered his slight caresses mechani- 
 cally — too much engrossed by the conversation to notice 
 them; and, angry with herself for this lapse of attention, 
 for being as it were thrown off her guard, she was harshly 
 punishing him. 
 
 Nevertheless something that she said while upbraiding 
 him made his pulses throb, and sent a flame of pleasure 
 rushing through his veins. The words and their tone com- 
 bined to change a reprimand into an entreaty. He could 
 not afterwards recall the exact words, but they seemed 
 to pray him not to urge her further. Then he did possess 
 power over her, and she dreaded the power? 
 
 She said that she would see him no more ; but she relented. 
 He had felt sure that she would relent. Obviously she 
 must enjoy these outings: in the utter loneliness and bore- 
 dom of her life she must crave for relief. 
 
 On a bright April morning they went down to Kingston 
 — another place that for him was hallowed by tender mem- 
 pries. They would walk by the water's edge, see the trees 
 in the Home Park, have tea at the old shop near the market 
 square; and then come quietly home — just as they used to 
 do. 
 
 319 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 The sun shone, the air was soft and warm, and Alma 
 looked sweetly pretty. She wore a brown frock, with a 
 plain countrified hat — not one of her big feathered hats — 
 and through the white spotted veil her eyes gleamed 
 brightly, and her cheeks had a glowing pinkness. They 
 sat opposite to each other, and though there was nobody 
 else in the compartment they talked very little. Nearly 
 all the way from Waterloo to Kingston, he was silently 
 watching her and admiring her. 
 
 "Alma," he said, towards the end of their journey, "I 
 wish I had a looking-glass to show you yourself at this min- 
 ute. You wouldn't talk of being old. Your eyes are 
 flashing like sunbeams on glass, your face is full of rose 
 petals." 
 
 "Lenny, why do you flatter me?" 
 
 "It isn't flattery. In that veil, you are quite absurdly 
 young; you are a girl of eighteen — you are Alma as I first 
 saw her." 
 
 "My veil! It's my veil, Lenny — that hides the ugly 
 truth." 
 
 "No, the glorious truth." 
 
 She smiled sadly, and spoke sadly. "Time won't stand 
 still for us. Everybody is getting old. I told you how 
 I felt it at Westchurch — every face so changed. My father 
 — Miss Workman — Dr. Searle — every one of them grown 
 so old — so old." 
 
 Lenny looked at her anxiously, and asked if she thought 
 that he too showed any signs of age. 
 
 "Oh, in your case it's of no consequence." 
 
 "Why? . . . Ah, that means you do see changes. 
 Tell me candidly. . . . Describe me. Tell me what I 
 am like — I mean, if I were a stranger, what would be your 
 impression? Describe me." 
 
 And he went on talking eagerly and anxiously. He 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 had asked her to describe him, but in fact he described 
 himself. 
 
 "My hair is grey, at the sides; but I'm not bald. I'd 
 rather be grey than bald. Many men are bald quite young. 
 I'm solid; but it's muscle, you know — not fat. I feel just 
 the same as I always did — honestly, not a day older — 
 except in the one thing that I get tired more easily." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "perhaps that is all that I notice — 
 just the something different;" and she turned her head, 
 and looked out of the window. 
 
 "Yes, I am often tired. But not now, Alma. Never 
 when I'm with you." 
 
 He was satisfied. She had not flattered him. She would 
 not pay him the tiniest little compliment; but he had the 
 pleasant conviction that in her secret heart she thought, 
 if he had changed at all, he had changed for the better. 
 She, quite as well as himself, could see that the grey 
 hair, the pallor, and the few lines about his eyes added 
 distinction. 
 
 They walked through the picturesque town, and along 
 that formal parade by the quiet, locked Thames. Trees on 
 the other side of the water had vernal tints; the sky was 
 a faint blue, flecked with cloud; the sunlight shone feebly 
 on the land and brightly on the water; and the air wafted 
 towards one indefinite promises and caressing hopes. They 
 sat upon a bench and glanced idly at people passing to and 
 fro, nursemaids and children, young men and young women, 
 lovers and friends. At a distance the bridge glittered whitely 
 above barges in tiers, an anchored steamer, and two punts 
 with red sails. A ripple and then a wave ran across the 
 sunlit water as a noisy tug went by ; and after it had gone 
 there was a splashing and flopping noise as its wash struck 
 the stonework of the shore. 
 
 "Very well kept up — this parade," said Lenny, glanc- 
 
 321 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 fng at the strips of grass, the shrubs, and iron railings. 
 "A great amenity, for residents as well as visitors." 
 
 Except that it was beside a river instead of a sea, it 
 might have been the Westchurch parade. The scene, har- 
 monizing with his thoughts, held him in the happy past. 
 
 "Alma," he said abruptly, "raise your veil. I'm sure it's 
 hot and stuffy for you. Enjoy the air." 
 
 But she assured him that she experienced no incon- 
 venience from the veil. 
 
 "Yes, do. I ask it as a favour. Humour me in this. 
 A fancy. I'll explain it presently;" and he got up. "Do 
 it while I walk on a little way. Please! And you are to 
 sit here until I stop and turn. Then jump up and come to 
 me — with your veil raised." 
 
 He nodded his head, smiled gaily, and walked away. 
 Without once looking round, he walked along the parade 
 for about three hundred yards. Then he stopped and 
 turned. 
 
 A small black figure on a remote seat — he stood watching 
 it intently. It had moved; it was coming towards him; 
 it was changing from black to brown. He watched with 
 breathless interest. 
 
 Quite young — a tall slender girl, swinging long legs in 
 a splendid graceful rhythm of health and strength; a dark- 
 haired unveiled girl, carrying her small head defiantly 
 high; — his girl, his own lost Alma, exactly as she was years 
 ago, fresh and young and sweet, coming to him on bright 
 mornings along the dear old esplanade. 
 
 Then, as she got quite close and stood before him, smil- 
 ing in the sunlight, he saw all the change — havoc, ravages, 
 a glowing picture destroyed by time. For a moment he 
 could see it, and then she was almost unchanged again. 
 And truly it amounted to nothing — features slightly 
 pinched, hardness of outline, lack of blood colour in lips, 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 and some smooth polish or white lustre of the skin now 
 not discoverable, — nothing really and truly. 
 
 "Lenny, why did you make me do that?" 
 
 The words were music — thrilling and stirring as the 
 sound of brass and cymbal. That was exactly how she 
 used to speak to him: "Lenny, you oughtn't to have 
 made me do it. . . . Lenny, don't make me do what I 
 know isn't right." 
 
 "Dear Alma," he said enthusiastically. "You have re- 
 stored every illusion for me. The sight of you links me 
 with my youth — brings my happiness to life once more." 
 
 There was nobody else in their compartment during the 
 homeward journey, and for a little while they sat side by 
 side. 
 
 "Alma, look — the river again! How pretty!" 
 
 And indeed it was a pretty peep — a grey stream, another 
 old bridge, and a wooded hill, all faint and soft in the 
 evening light. 
 
 As she leaned forward to look at it, he put his arm 
 round her waist and tried to draw her to him. But she 
 became rigid, unbending; and when she turned her face, 
 he saw that it was stern and cold. 
 
 "Very well," he said humbly; and he withdrew his arm. 
 "Don't move. I won't do it, if you tell me not to." 
 
 She had got up, and for the rest of the journey she 
 sat opposite to him. 
 
 "Why do you desert me, Alma, when you see that I 
 obey you — however hard it is?" 
 
 He was sick with disappointment; his shoulders drooped; 
 he looked like a man worn out by heavy physical exertion. 
 She was staring out of the window at flat park-land and tall 
 trees ; but she glanced at him as the train entered a shallow 
 cutting and slackened speed. 
 
 "Thank you, Lenny." Her face had suddenly softened, 
 323 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 and gently and compassionately she laid her hand upon 
 his knee. "It was good of you to understand that you 
 must not ask for impossibilities." 
 
 Her hand had gone before she finished speaking. But 
 at her touch the longing for the forbidden delights tortured 
 him. It was nothing to him that she had lost or was rapidly 
 losing her beauty, that she was old, with weary eyes, pinched 
 cheeks, and bloodless lips. It was he and not she who felt 
 the chain of habit, cruel and unbreakable, dragging him 
 irresistibly; contact with her revived in one moment seven 
 dead years; a thousand recorded sensations added themselves 
 together to give thousandfold force to the present sensa- 
 tion. The most lovely woman in the world could not so 
 have affected him. Had they all come thronging to madden 
 and allure, had the women of history emerged from twenty 
 centuries and wooed him with the siren-spells that cap- 
 tured kings, overturned thrones, and enslaved whole peo- 
 ples, he would have rejected them as useless in this his 
 great need. 
 
XXXIII 
 
 LENNY had done an odd thing. Without any inten- 
 tion of permanently shifting his quarters from Albert 
 Street, he had taken rooms at that big hotel near the 
 Embankment where he had once stayed for so many months. 
 
 His rooms were some of the best in the hotel, what 
 they called "a separate suite," on the ground floor — that 
 is to say, you approached them through level corridors 
 from the front hall and the public saloons; but when you 
 got into them, you found that by reason of the sloping 
 site you were two stories up on this other side of the 
 building. They were thus charmingly quiet, well away 
 from the bustle and movement of the hotel's main life; 
 beautifully furnished, too, and with a view that, although 
 restricted, gave one a pleasant glimpse of the river and 
 railway bridge. One might enter them, if one pleased, 
 by a back entrance and a silent unfrequented staircase. They 
 were very expensive — but Lenny did not mind that. 
 
 He enjoyed the isolation and mystery of the back part 
 and the animation and gaiety of the front part of the hotel. 
 He used to sit about in the hall or the lounge; then retire 
 into his retreat, and think — and always his thoughts were 
 of the intensely interesting past. It was here, under this 
 vast roof, that he had gained experiences and developed 
 faculties. In that grill-room he had eaten simple little din- 
 ners — a soothing memory. In that smoking-room he had 
 met McAndrew and his gang of toadies, the sharks who 
 might have ruined him if he had not pulled up short — an 
 
 325 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 exciting memory. "Yes," he used to think, "I was here at 
 the time when I was beginning to get over my great grief, 
 and when the whole world smiled again, when I felt so full 
 of hope and joy and ebullient energy." 
 
 And it seemed to him that once more a wise instinct 
 had directed him in this whim of his. Although by tempo- 
 rarily abandoning Albert Street he had not obtained a real 
 change of air, he had given himself a change of scene, and 
 the change was doing him good. The association of ideas, 
 the memories, and the thoughts, all assisted in carrying him 
 back to happier days; and he felt younger, more hopeful, 
 more energetic than he had felt for a long while. If for 
 no other reason, it would have been well worth staying 
 here. 
 
 But he had another reason. He wanted to get Alma to 
 come to tea with him. He yearned to be really alone with 
 her — shut in, surrounded by four walls, behind doors that 
 would not be opened unexpectedly, in a small castle of his 
 very own, where he would be able to talk without dropping 
 his voice for fear of listeners, to take her hand, hold it, 
 and yet not have to guard against prying, inquisitive eyes. 
 He longed, he pined, he craved for this bliss of uninterrupted 
 talk and unobserved gestures. Nevertheless he hesitated 
 to ask her for the boon. She would refuse; and perhaps 
 be worried, even alarmed by such an invitation. He must 
 trust to chance. 
 
 And the chance came. So many opportunities gliding 
 away, — absolute freedom of days and weeks, — her husband, 
 who had been busy in France for a fortnight, returning 
 to-morrow ; — but now on this Saturday afternoon the natural 
 opportunity presented itself. 
 
 They had gone to a morning performance at the theatre 
 — that pretty little playhouse by the railway bridge, close 
 to his hotel. Alma wore black to-day, and he thought he 
 
 326 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 liked her better in black than in any colour. She loved 
 the play, and thanked him delightfully for bringing her 
 to it — he said that it was a piece that she really ought 
 to see. 
 
 The fable and its setting charmed one — an incident in the 
 lives of some sailors and marines, honourable ambitions and 
 kindly self-effacements; — you could hear the brave hearts 
 beating, while the sea-breeze blew clean and fresh in an 
 atmosphere of valour and integrity. You could not be 
 surprised that the play was a huge success. Lenny also 
 said he loved it — it brought a lump into his throat and made 
 his eyes wet. And above all, he praised the tone of it. 
 "At once manly and gentlemanly," he declared, with epi- 
 grammatic enthusiasm. 
 
 Then, when the play was over, he said he would give 
 her tea at the nearest hotel, and hurried her away. 
 
 "Lenny, isn't that the place where we said good-bye? 
 Oh, I'd rather not go there. Oh, anywhere else." 
 
 But, persuading her that it was the only place available 
 and convenient, he led her round the building to the back 
 entrance. 
 
 "Lenny, this isn't the same place?" 
 
 "Yes, yes it is. We can get in easier this way — avoid 
 the crowd." 
 
 Then he ushered her up the quiet staircase, and led 
 her into the sitting-room of his fine expensive suite. 
 
 She looked about her in surprise, and then told him that 
 she could not have tea with him in a private room. But 
 he implored her to grant this favour. 
 
 "Alma, just for once. I'll ring the bell — I'll get tea 
 in two minutes — and we shall be comfortable here, not 
 stared at, all by ourselves." 
 
 "Lenny, don't make me. It isn't right. If anyone 
 
 knew " 
 
 327 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Who can know? Don't be so conventional. Alma, 
 I have been praying for this — you and I alone — to talk, 
 to be quiet, by ourselves." 
 
 The door of his bedroom stood open, and he pointed 
 to it. 
 
 "Go and put your hat in there." 
 
 "I'm not going to take off my hat." 
 
 "Oh, yes, take off your hat;" and he went on pleading. 
 "Yes, for this once, let it be like the old days." 
 
 "No, the old days are gone. I don't care to be re- 
 minded of them." 
 
 "I want to see your pretty hair. Oh, Alma, be nice 
 to me. Take off your hat and your coat — and let me 
 believe that the past has come again. Give me the illusion 
 for one brief hour." 
 
 "Lenny, I mustn't stay here. Please don't ask me." 
 
 Then she uttered a frightened cry. 
 
 "Lenny! Don't, don't be cowardly — don't make me 
 Ashamed that I ever knew you." 
 
 He had clasped her with both arms, and he was kissing 
 her face in a furious ecstasy. 
 
 "Alma — darling girl — don't struggle." She was strug- 
 gling desperately. "I must ... I can't help it. You 
 love me still. Why not ?" 
 
 He could not control himself. He was like a man half 
 dead of thirst drinking at a pool. He was violent and re- 
 morseless as a starved beast grasping its prey, 
 
 "Lenny!" And she continued to struggle. 
 
 "You belong to me. Fate! What you said yourself — 
 the unseen powers !" It seemed to him that the strength of 
 his desire had endowed him with terrific and incredible 
 powers. He was a giant, and something weak and small 
 as an insect was opposing her will to his. "Alma . . . 
 My Alma. . . . My own sweet Alma." 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 The daylight had not yet faded, but grey mists rising 
 from the river hid the last rays of the setting sun; beneath 
 the railway bridge motionless shadows deepened and grew 
 black; and here in the room, when Lenny turned from 
 the windows, shadows surrounded him — shadows that flitted, 
 hovered, and danced, as flames darted and sank on the 
 hearth. Twilight, shadows, and the flicker of fire — how 
 those things haunted him during the important hours of 
 his life ! It seemed to him that the past had returned frag- 
 mentary; two chapters of his marvellous history, trying 
 to repeat themselves, had got mixed — the opening of a 
 blissful chapter was being followed by the end of a painful 
 chapter. 
 
 All this that was occurring now had occurred before in 
 this very building — but higher up, on another floor, in a 
 cheaper and more commonly furnished apartment. The 
 episode had become exactly like that of their parting. 
 
 Here was Alma lying on the sofa, with her face upon 
 her arms, in exactly the attitude he remembered; and weep- 
 ing now — but not passionately as then, no noisy sobs ; a quiet 
 flow of wretchedness and hopelessness, as though life itself 
 was flowing from her. 
 
 And here was he, just as then, vainly endeavouring to 
 cheer and comfort her. He patted her shoulder, and she 
 did not stir. He murmured affectionate words, and she 
 did not answer. He stooped, and put his face against hers; 
 and she did not offer the slightest resistance. Her face 
 was cold, her very tears were cold. 
 
 "Alma dear, why will you go on crying?" And he sat 
 on the edge of the sofa, and gently raised her. "Alma, look 
 up." 
 
 He took her in his arms, and she was limp, passive; 
 motionless, except for a spasmodic trembling that shook 
 her unceasingly. 
 
 329 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Alma, speak to me. . . . Alma, my pretty Alma, 
 stop crying." 
 
 Her cold wet face lay upon his breast; and her hands 
 hung straight and loose — like a dead woman's. 
 
 "Speak to me, Alma." 
 
 Then, when at last she spoke — in a low moaning voice, 
 — it was without moving, without looking at him. 
 
 "Lenny, how could you? Oh, why did you make me 
 come here? Oh, how could you be so merciless?" 
 
 "Alma, it's unreasonable to " 
 
 "Oh, if I had known this would happen, I think I should 
 have killed myself." 
 
 "No, no. Nothing has happened." 
 
 "Everything has happened." Her voice was dreadful 
 to hear — so toneless, so lifeless, so bitterly sad. "Once 
 you left me crippled, bleeding . . . and I didn't die. 
 I struggled to my feet. I was standing again on dry 
 ground — not crawling in the mud. And you found me. 
 . . . And now you have knocked me down to the dirt 
 again." 
 
 "Alma, you break my heart." 
 
 She went on, as if talking to herself. "I had made my 
 peace with my Church — I was safe with my husband — I 
 was learning to walk through this cruel world with fixed 
 eyes — I was beginning to see beyond the misery of life." 
 And she moaned and shivered. "O Mary, Mother of God, 
 have pity on me. . . . O Mary, Mother of God, in- 
 tercede for me." 
 
 Presently he put her in an armchair by the fire. 
 
 "There, you'll be more comfortable. . . . Warm 
 your dear hands. . . . And, yes, we'll have a little 
 Hght." 
 
 He turned on the electric light, and, drawing a chair to 
 the hearth, sat down near her. 
 
 330 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Now, dear, we can talk quietly. And first I must 
 implore you not to distress yourself like this. Truly it is 
 unreasonable — quite without cause." 
 
 All at once she gripped the arms of her chair and sat 
 up. 
 
 "I must put on my hat. I must go away," 
 
 "Alma, darling, don't rush off in this mad way." 
 
 "Yes— I must." 
 
 "Think. You can't be seen looking almost distraught— 
 your dear face all tear-stained — your pretty hair all any- 
 how. Someone would see you." 
 
 "What does it matter who sees me now?" 
 
 "Alma, of course it does." 
 
 "Let me go." 
 
 "I can't let you go — until you are composed — until we 
 have settled things. For your own sake, dear. Really we 
 must talk quietly." 
 
 Then for some time they sat staring at each other. 
 
 "Alma," and he spoke hesitatingly and anxiously, "what 
 are you going to do?" 
 
 "I must go home." 
 
 "Yes, but you won't give way to baseless fancies?" 
 
 "I must think. ... I ought to pray — but I feel as 
 if I should never be able to pray again." 
 
 "Yes, think things out quietly. And be reasonable. I 
 shall never cease to love you. It is our destiny — and you 
 and I are helpless in the coils of fate. And believe what 
 I say: you have nothing to reproach yourself with — abso- 
 lutely nothing. If love was ever a justification, it is in our 
 case — an d it is always a justification. We are both un- 
 happy. If we can console each other " 
 
 "And destroy Gerald's life?" 
 
 "No, of course not." 
 
 "Betray him?" 
 
 22 331 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No — he will never know, he will never guess, how 
 much we still are to each other." 
 
 Finally he judged that her composure was restored. She 
 was "more like herself," as he said soothingly. When he 
 came back to the room, after going out and bringing a 
 cab to the conveniently adjacent back entrance, she stood 
 waiting for him. She had put on her hat and veil, and 
 she looked quite neat and nice — ready for anyone to see 
 her. 
 
 Before taking her downstairs, he said good-night and 
 embraced her tenderly. She was passive, unresisting. He 
 might kiss and caress her as much as he pleased; but he 
 could not extract any response, and she would not give him 
 definite promises for the future. 
 
 "I pin my faith on you, Alma. You'll see me again — 
 I mean, soon." 
 
 "I don't know. I tell you I must think." 
 
 "Yes, yes, think it out. Then write and tell me where 
 we are to meet." 
 
 "Please let me go. I must be alone — I must think." 
 
 "Promise me that it shall be soon." 
 
 "I can't promise." 
 
XXXIV 
 
 FOR two days he lived in the thought of his great hap- 
 piness. He had recovered her; the old sweet do- 
 minion over the woman he had always loved was 
 once more his. He could look forward again; the time 
 of sad retrospection had finished; the future opened out be- 
 fore him bright and fair. And he thought of Dryden's 
 periodic absences — weeks, fortnights, months, when the per- 
 fect companionship would continue almost unintermittently. 
 But at all times they would enjoy a practical immunity of 
 risk — in this glorious active immensity of London, where 
 each has his absorbing concerns of toil or joy, where one 
 passes unseen among millions of heedless eyes, where, as 
 he often said, nobody cares a twopenny curse what games 
 his neighbour may be up to. 
 
 She had not written to him yet ; but he was not afraid. 
 Soon, of course, if she did not write or make some other 
 sort of communication, he would grow anxious ; but at pres- 
 ent he felt calm, contented, full of confidence. He could 
 wait patiently — or whenever necessary he could go and 
 see her, and in quiet talk straighten out any little tangle. 
 
 Then, altogether unexpectedly, he received a brief note 
 from Dryden. Writing at his offices in Queen Victoria 
 Street, Dryden said: — 
 
 "Dear Calcraft, I particularly want to see you about 
 something. Can you give me a call here any time after 
 four and before six to-morrow or Tuesday? Till then I 
 remain, Yours sincerely, Gerald Dryden." 
 
 333 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 This letter made Lenny rather uneasy. What did it 
 mean? He could not understand it. Was it business — ■ 
 the offer of some rotten speculation, opportunity of putting 
 money into Gerald's firm, or taking shares in some electrical 
 enterprise? He had rather foolishly spoken to Gerald of 
 the wretchedly inadequate revenue yielded by ordinary in- 
 vestments. Perhaps that was it. If so, No-thank-you must 
 be the answer. 
 
 Or was it a ruse of Alma's? She had planned some- 
 thing, and Gerald was unconsciously to convey intelligence 
 of her meaning? No, very unlikely — because Alma had 
 a natural distaste for intrigue, for underhand diplomacy, 
 for anything except direct methods. Then a conjecture 
 suffused him with a warm and comfortable glow. Could 
 it be possible that Gerald, summoned away to the other side 
 of the earth, was turning to him as an old and tried friend 
 with the intention of placing Alma more or less in his charge 
 and under his care during this enforced and unusually pro- 
 tracted absence? Husbands do such extraordinary things 
 that one never can say what they won't do. But no — this 
 was too much to hope for. 
 
 Then came apprehensive doubts. Perhaps Alma was 
 ill! This idea horrified him. Weeks of sick-bed, weeks 
 of convalescence, eternity to be lived through before he 
 could see her again. Thus for a little while his thoughts 
 ran up and down the scales of hope and dread. 
 
 "Oh, there you are," said Dryden. "Sit down, I won't 
 be a minute." 
 
 He was engaged with two clerks, winding up the day's 
 work; and the visitor noticed his curt businesslike tone 
 both to them and to himself. 
 
 "That'll do. Take all this with you — and tell Downes 
 J shan't want him again." 
 
 334 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny had seated himself on a chair near the wall, facing 
 Dryden's office-table, and he stroked the nap of his silk 
 hat. He was not quite easy in his mind. He thought 
 that this was the most uninteresting room he had ever 
 entered; and, as he watched the two clerks leave it, he 
 felt an unreasoning wish that he might go with them, so 
 that the door would shut him out instead of in. His 
 thoughts began to work with astounding rapidity, and 
 yet he could not concentrate them. 
 
 Dryden, getting up from his table, moved to the hearth, 
 and stood with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "Look here," said Dryden, and he paused. 
 
 "Yes, Gerald?" 
 
 "It's about Alma." 
 
 "Alma! Not ill, Gerald?" 
 
 "No. Not ill — but she has been a little worried. It's 
 just this. You mayn't understand it, but your attentions 
 upset her — they just upset her." 
 
 Lenny's thoughts worked fast but confusedly. Suddenly, 
 on what seemed a smooth and open path, rugged and ugly 
 obstacles had arisen. But the obstacles must be surmounted 
 or got around. A crisis — an important hour; — all would 
 depend upon his keeping cool, using his highest faculties, 
 from moment to moment bringing to bear his utmost brain 
 power. Only he felt that his heart was pumping too much 
 blood into his brain, and the extra unnecessary supply 
 created a throb that lessened the acuteness of his perceptions. 
 He could scarcely catch what Gerald was saying to him. 
 
 "Yes, that's why I wanted to see you. Just to tell 
 you " 
 
 Gerald went on talking, quietly and firmly. In spite 
 of painful effort, Lenny could not get his thoughts under 
 control. . . . Someone must have seen them together — 
 someone had advised Gerald to keep an eye on his wife — 
 
 335 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Some unknown foe to himself or Alma had sent anonymous 
 warnings. What a fiend! . . . Collected thought was 
 impossible, but instinct began to whisper. He must not 
 quarrel with Gerald. Whatever happened, he must avoid 
 the irreparable breach that would result from a quarrel. 
 He must fight for fragments, if he could not get all — he 
 must cling to shreds and patches of his happiness. And the 
 way to succeed in this horrible interview would be by pene- 
 trating Gerald's mind, reading his hostile ideas, meeting his 
 objections point by point. Mentally he must put himself 
 in Gerald's place, and attain a clear view of both sides. 
 
 "Well," Gerald continued, "that's what I had to say — 
 and now I've said it;" and he opened and shut his mouth 
 several times. 
 
 That was an old trick of his when excited. Lenny noticed 
 another idiosyncrasy — the expansion and contraction of his 
 wide nostrils. Obviously, although Gerald assumed this 
 hard businesslike manner and spoke so quietly, he was a 
 prey to considerable emotion. Yes, thought Lenny, it is 
 a pill to swallow — to recognize that another man bulks 
 too large in the existence of your wife, and to have to ask 
 him to remove himself. 
 
 "Gerald,' he said slowly, "this comes as a great sur- 
 prise to me." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 "Of course it does. Alma and I were pals almost be- 
 fore you ever knew her — when you were a boy." 
 
 "Yes, I'm quite aware that she is older than I." 
 
 "And you and I have been pals — for how many years? 
 I'm pretty well alone in the world; I never go into society 
 — and I don't mind saying that the hours I have spent in 
 your house have been very pleasant to me." 
 
 "Yes, but what about the hours outside my house?" 
 
 "Er, of course — whatever my own inclinations — your 
 336 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 wish, Gerald, must be law. If you intimate to me that in 
 your judgment " 
 
 "Oh, don't let's have long words. Look here;" and 
 Gerald flushed. "When I heard you were hanging on in 
 this idiotic way, I couldn't believe it. But I had to believe 
 it. Well, I hardly knew what to do — and then I thought, 
 'Dash it all, old Lenny Calcraft and I were friends — real 
 friends.' " 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny eagerly, "that's just it. Always were, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Yes, were. . . . So it seemed to me I ought to 
 speak to you openly. It seemed to me the frank thing, the 
 manly thing, the right thing." 
 
 "It is," said Lenny. "Gerald, I take it as a compliment, 
 in a sense." And he began to talk volubly, pleading for a 
 continuance of the amiable relations that had existed for 
 so long, not only between him and his friend, but between 
 him and his friend's wife. "Alma and I are so accustomed 
 to one another — it's a friendship that nothing has ever really 
 interfered with;" and he urged that it would appear 
 strange, barely explicable, if in the future there were not 
 to be some little friendly intercourse. "And, again, an 
 order from you to sever our relations altogether might de- 
 feat your purpose." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "Well, I mean for her sake. You feel, rightly or 
 wrongly, that she is disposed to rely on me too much for 
 company — that I have been seeing her too often;" and 
 Lenny looked at Gerald with a candidly engaging smile. 
 "Well — for argument accepting your view, — wouldn't it be 
 wiser to let me efface myself gradually — and not, as I said, 
 because you have ordered me to vanish? Forbidden fruits 
 are sweet. Instead of thinking less of me, she may think 
 
 more " 
 
 337 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But at this point of the argument Dryden lost his tem- 
 per, and spoke rudely as well as angrily. 
 
 "Gerald," said Lenny deprecatingly, "it is evident that 
 somebody has been trying to set you against me. But are 
 you wise in listening to any malicious talebearer who ?" 
 
 "Talebearer! It was Alma — Alma herself told me." 
 
 Lenny had a sudden sensation of coldness and faintness. 
 How much had she told him? Not much — but sufficient 
 for her cruel purpose. She had asked her husband to pro- 
 tect her. It was the one thing that Lenny had not dreaded. 
 The death blow to all hopes. It struck dully on his brain; 
 making him stupid, and clumsy of speech. 
 
 "You — you surprise me. . . . greatly surprise." 
 
 "Anyhow, you know now " Gerald flushed redder, 
 
 and his nostrils were widely expanded. "And it only re- 
 mains for me to ask you a question. Haven't you a single 
 feeling of a gentleman, or are you just a dirty little cad?" 
 
 "I don't think you've any right to say that." 
 
 Gerald gave a snort of scornful laughter. "Well, that's 
 a tame answer, if ever I heard one." And really he seemed 
 staggered by it: he stared at Lenny incredulously. "Didn't 
 you hear what I said? I insulted you. Don't you mind 
 being insulted?" 
 
 Lenny moved his hat with a vacillating gesture, and spoke 
 heavily and slowly. 
 
 "Pardon me if I say — that this sort of thing is — er — be- 
 neath contempt." 
 
 "Oh, no. I'm not beneath contempt, as you'll find out 
 before you leave this room." 
 
 "I shall not talk to you, if you go on addressing me in a 
 totally unwarranted tone." 
 
 Dryden laughed again, harshly and scornfully; but then 
 he did change his tone. He was still staring, and he spoke 
 in a voice that seemed to express incredulity, regret, pity. 
 
 338 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Good heavens, what's happened to you, Calcraft? What 
 is it? Where's the man that I used to know? I liked you 
 —looked up to you — believed in you. Was I just a young 
 ass? And were you really and truly like this always 3 
 . « . No — because Verinder believed in you too — and 
 he's all right." Dryden's voice had become quite gentle, 
 as if old feelings and old thoughts were making him un- 
 expectedly tender and kind. "And you were all right, 
 Lenny. Everybody said so. It couldn't have been collec- 
 tive hallucination." 
 
 Lenny shrugged his shoulders, and, remaining silent, 
 showed some slight dignity of manner. 
 
 "But never mind all that;" and Dryden, as he said 
 this, reverted to his hard and implacable tone. "We won't 
 trouble about what you were then. It's a different person 
 I have to deal with now. If we understand each other, 
 you can go — and I don't want to see you again. And Alma 
 doesn't want to see you either. Is that clear? Do you 
 understand it? On no pretence whatever are you to pester 
 and molest Alma again." 
 
 "Alma was fond of me," said Lenny heavily. "I can't 
 think that she authorized you to give me such a message 
 as that." 
 
 "Didn't she? Perhaps not;" and Dryden blazed into 
 savage wrath. "But it is what / tell you. She was fond 
 of you once, was she? Very good — there's no accounting 
 for tastes, and she didn't know me in those days. She 
 thought well of you — because other people did. She was 
 deceived, with the rest of them. . . . But now she is 
 my wife — and, good God, when I think of any fellow hesi- 
 tating after I have told him to leave my wife alone!" and, 
 as if automatically, he clenched his fists. "Look here. Do 
 you want me to come down to that club of yours and 
 thrash you before the servants and your friends?" 
 
 339 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Please remember, two can play at that game." 
 
 "Yes," and Dryden glared ferociously, "would you like 
 to begin the game here, now?" 
 
 But Lenny would not permit himself to be dragged into 
 a brutal quarrel — from the very beginning he had made 
 up his mind as to this, and dully and wearily he stood firm 
 to the fixed decision. 
 
 He was tired and disgusted; all hope had been taken 
 from him; he might just as well satisfy Dryden by giving 
 him promises, and it did not matter how they were phrased. 
 He would never molest Alma again. 
 
 "Molest!" What a hateful word! But every word used 
 in this interview had been hateful. 
 
 He went away through the crowded streets feeling 
 crushed and miserable and desperately lonely; and as he 
 plodded along, vainly hailing hansoms and taxis that were 
 occupied and therefore ignored him, he continued to think 
 about some of the horrid words. "A dirty little cad!" 
 Those were certainly the worst of them. And what stung 
 him most of all was that adjective "little." By what frenzy 
 of impudence had Dryden ventured to use it — Dryden, who 
 was a considerably smaller man than himself? But he 
 understood that the word had been used on this occasion 
 in a metaphorical rather than a literal sense. Little — mean- 
 ing petty or mean, and not necessarily undersized. 
 
 He was extraordinarily civil and agreeable to people at 
 the club ; smiling at members who were practically strangers, 
 nodding and waving to the merest acquaintances, and beck- 
 oning all whom he could consider friends. And every 
 smile, every nod, every genial word that he could thus 
 anyhow attract, was a restorative medicine for his wounded 
 pride. He was respected here, at all events, and he could 
 
 340 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 never feel really lonely while he had his club to fall back 
 upon. He would always be comfortable here. 
 
 To-night, however, the coffee-room dinner seemed vilely 
 bad. The saddle of mutton left a nasty taste in his mouth ; 
 the wine was thin and cold and flavourless; the cheese bis- 
 cuits nearly choked one. The scene in that uninteresting 
 office had shaken him greatly — infinitely more than he 
 guessed. Henceforth, though he did not know it, there 
 would be a psychical battlefield inside him — a conflict must 
 occur between the man that Dryden thought he was and 
 the man that he still wished to believe himself; each might 
 destroy the other; and after the fight a new self might arise 
 and hold the ground. But by nothing short of a miracle 
 could the confident, unvilified, unthreatened self of this 
 morning be reinstated. 
 
 Sipping muddy coffee and an impotent watery liqueur, 
 he thought of young Dryden. What a brute he had de- 
 veloped into! What an utter brute! And Alma? There 
 was something treacherous in her turning Gerald loose 
 against him. A betrayal. Unlike her. But, say what you 
 will, that Romish superstition has a deteriorating influence. 
 Alma had deteriorated. 
 
 Gradually the dead weight of the catastrophe descended 
 upon him. He had lost her — irrevocably. She was gone 
 from him for ever. By this fatal stroke she had cut the 
 old bond, the chain that linked them together. A tre- 
 mendous effort was needed to break his power over her — 
 but she had fatally succeeded. 
 
 And just when he was counting on peace, just when he 
 felt that the comfort of his future was assured! Alma 
 not regained: Alma lost. Gradually the pain of it took 
 possession of him. 
 
 341 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Dashed hope, sick regret, thwarted desire, smarting pride 
 —these were what he lay down with at night, what he 
 got up with of a morning. And day after day the same 
 thing — no, not the same thing; because the pain was always 
 increasing. Terribly as he suffered, he foretold that he 
 must suffer more. 
 
 Alma — his lost Alma! In imagination he could hear her 
 voice, feel the touch of her lips, see her smiles and her 
 tears. The sight of his rooms at the hotel stabbed and 
 lacerated him — he sent Mr. Jackson to pay the bill and 
 remove his things for him. He wished that the huge build- 
 ing could be swallowed by an earthquake, that it would 
 tumble down of its own accord, or be burned to the ground 
 and swept away in dust and ashes, so that he might never 
 have to see it again. At Albert Street Mrs. Jackson ob- 
 served his strange depression, tried to cheer him with break- 
 fast dainties, and urged him to dress himself and go out 
 and enjoy the gay spring mornings. But he had no heart 
 to go out in the sunshine. He sat for most of the day 
 poring over relics at the bottom of drawers, or rummaging 
 for them in trunks and tin cases — her letters and her photo- 
 graphs. Yes, here's another photograph, faded, spotted, 
 brown with age — a narrow childlike face, a frank but shy 
 smile, a crown of hair in the shadow of a large hat — Alma, 
 his sweetly cruel, his divinely kind, his own lost Alma. 
 Staring dully at the picture that lay faded and cold in his 
 hand, he thought of the reality, glowing and warm, in 
 Dryden's arms ; and the pain of it was like a malignant can- 
 cer of the mind, gnawing, dragging, tearing, with teeth 
 of fire. 
 
 At dusk he used to go out, and walk and think. He 
 was not a man who for any length of time could safely 
 deprive himself of feminine companionship — this old thought 
 often mingled with the new ones. Walking in the streets, 
 
 34,2 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 he saw the hundreds and hundreds of women whose com- 
 pany he could procure, with a little labour. He had money. 
 He could buy in a market where prices run high but the 
 goods are unexceptionable. He thought of charming lonely 
 girls earning their own living, really ladies, yearning for 
 the society of a discreet male friend, who would pass im- 
 perceptibly from the role of a friend into that of a pro- 
 tector. If he could find one of these, she might bring 
 back his peace. But the labour that would be required in 
 the wooing, the courtship, the seduction — call it what you 
 please — appalled him. He thought of easier chances; girls 
 not so well-born, less straight-laced, — girls adrift after the 
 departure of Numbers One and Two, and ripe for a bargain 
 with Number Three. Or these shop girls — flitting in cov- 
 eys, in flocks and packs, through the dusk of St. James's 
 Park: birds released from Bond Street cages. Very nice, 
 many of them. He stared at dozens, hundreds. He ad- 
 mired the prevailing mode of their costume — close skirt, 
 buckled shoes, coloured stockings, — all looking alike. Many 
 were distinctly sympathetic — returning his stare, then low- 
 ering their eyes or averting their heads, provocatively, with 
 mock demureness shamelessly inviting overtures. He spoke 
 to one of them, walked by her side in the Buckingham 
 Palace Road, even booked her address. She seemed ready, 
 only too ready, to open a friendship with this dignified, 
 grandly attired, sad-visaged stranger — but he did not pursue 
 the business. It was no use. They were all useless to him. 
 Alma — and nobody else. 
 
 It had become an intolerable torment by night and by 
 day. He sat in his rooms, he mooned about the streets, 
 pitying himself. Vague apprehensions as to the future made 
 him tremble. His health! What was wrong with him? 
 Gerald had asked the question. There must be something 
 
 343 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 not quite right when even a dull lout like that instantly 
 detected symptoms of an alarming nature. Wicked to 
 throw him back on himself! He needed a constant watch- 
 ful companion — vast and as yet impalpable dangers were 
 looming ahead of him in the lonely darkness. 
 
 But she would have saved him. And he remembered 
 what she had said — so prettily — about the end of their 
 lives: together, under one roof, when the darkness began 
 to close in. He ought to have married her. She would 
 have given him happiness, peace, safety — he saw it now 
 quite clearly; and with equal clearness he saw how despic- 
 able it was not to marry her. A mistake — a hideous mis- 
 take. And he had been warned: fate, shadowing forth 
 the peril, had tried to put him on his guard. That lifeboat 
 rescue was the warning. He should not have allowed Dry- 
 den a second time to do the thing that he ought to have 
 done himself. 
 
 Not a single hope, except a sinister one. Only the 
 blackest thoughts could show a gleam behind them. If 
 Gerald would die, Lenny would marry his widow. He 
 might be drowned at sea, go down with a South American 
 liner; he might catch a fever, or be smashed in a railway 
 accident — he was always running risks. 
 
 But no, he would not die. Not he! The brute — the 
 odious vulgar brute. Brute — triple brute. 
 
XXXV 
 
 LENNY was two years older; and the light falling 
 from one of the tall windows of the club coffee-room 
 showed bare streaks on the top of his head, over 
 which long wisps of hair had been ineffectually brushed 
 and plastered. His cheeks were less firm than they used to 
 be; indeed they seemed rather flabby in texture and slightly 
 pendulous in shape; the flesh immediately beneath his eyes 
 was puffy wherever it was not wrinkled; and he had ac- 
 quired a trick of blinking his eyes before speaking. Other- 
 wise he appeared as splendid and imposing as ever — fault- 
 lessly dressed, with braided edges to his coat, well-tied neck- 
 cloth, black and white checked trousers, and thick-soled pat- 
 ent leather boots. 
 
 "No, thank you, Henderson," and Lenny blinked and 
 smiled. "I'm much obliged to you for mentioning it — 
 but I really mustn't." 
 
 He had nearly finished luncheon, and the head waiter 
 was tempting him to try a Strasburg pie which had come 
 in that morning. Though some of the new members might 
 look coldly at him, the old servants loved him. He gave 
 so liberally to their Christmas fund ; and he spoke so kindly, 
 causing them trouble, but always thanking them. 
 
 "May I bring it, sir?" 
 
 Lenny consented. He felt that he had eaten quite 
 enough already, and he did not much like the reputation 
 of these foreign dainties; but when the pie was set before 
 him it entirely fascinated him. 
 
 345 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Thank you, Henderson." 
 
 A newish member — an unduly familiar young man — 
 came sauntering down the room, and paused in front of 
 Lenny's table. 
 
 "That's right, Calcraft," said the young man; and 
 he grinned somewhat impudently. "I see you're hard at it 
 — like so many of the nobility and gentry one meets here, — 
 digging your grave with your teeth!" 
 
 Lenny blinked and flushed. "I believe that this is not 
 the most digestible thing in the world; but the very small 
 quantity I have eaten of it is not likely to give me annoy- 
 ance." 
 
 The young man laughed, and passed on. 
 
 Lenny, though he had spoken courteously, was angry 
 and disgusted. Why weren't the committee more careful? 
 Why had they flooded the club with these young bounders? 
 "Digging your grave with your teeth!" He thought it 
 the most horrible expression he had ever heard. He could 
 not forget it. Three times before bedtime it recurred to 
 his memory. 
 
 He was not quite so fond of his club as he had once 
 been. Already, in such a little time, old faces were disap- 
 pearing, and the strange faces all seemed unattractive. 
 Often, after coming home to dress for dinner, he did not 
 go out again. He asked Mrs. Jackson to give him some- 
 thing light and appetizing which he could supplement with 
 a snack later if necessary, and he spent the evening in his 
 own rooms. He used to keep Jackson talking when he 
 had removed the dinner-things, and sometimes got him 
 to return afterwards for more talk. Jackson was a politician, 
 and, like so many other politicians, a little too partial to 
 the sound of his own voice. But in spite of this failing, 
 he proved better company than Lenny could procure at 
 the club. In fact recently Lenny had clung to him — es- 
 
 346 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 pecially he seemed loath to part with Jackson the last thing 
 at night. When Jackson said "Will you want anything 
 more, sir?" Lenny would talk volubly, introduce fresh 
 topics, and endeavour to draw Jackson into argumentative 
 disputes. The sound of Jackson's voice might not be music 
 but it was so much pleasanter than blank silence. 
 
 He listened with regret to Jackson's footsteps going up- 
 stairs. When he went into his bedroom, he turned on all 
 the lights, stood still and listened. He felt vaguely uncom- 
 fortable — almost afraid. But afraid of what? Nothing. 
 Afraid of being afraid — as though something inexpressibly 
 painful were coming in the night. 
 
 And one night it came — sudden overwhelming terror. 
 Without cause, without reason, he lay quaking and perspir- 
 ing. For a little while the terror completely paralysed 
 thought; and when it lessened and gradually remitted alto- 
 gether, connected thought seemed impossible. Lenny could 
 not think and he could not sleep. 
 
 And night after night the same sort of thing occurred. 
 Sometimes it did not amount to very much. In a half 
 dreaming state he was confronted with unusually vivid pic- 
 tures of everything that he did not wish either to imagine 
 or remember: the South African veldt; troops marching 
 over mountains and through ravines; a storm at sea; a mast- 
 less brig driven upon a shore, with the lights from com- 
 fortable houses faintly piercing the darkness. Then he 
 had the fancy that he was being dragged forward and made 
 the central figure of these scenes. He was a person quite 
 helpless, surrounded by monstrous perils. The morning 
 light dissipated everything. But the worst of the whole 
 business was the havoc to one's nerves caused by sleepless- 
 ness. 
 
 During the daytime he argued with himself. How could 
 he be so silly and undignified? In the sunshine there wai 
 28 347 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 not a trace of all this nocturnal distress. But was that 
 quite true ? No. The thing was there, latent if not active ; 
 by a thought he could arouse a qualm. He tested himself. 
 Suppose he happened to be walking across Westminster 
 Bridge, and a woman clambered upon the parapet and 
 jumped over — what would he do? He ought to dive in — 
 but the mere notion of the dizzy height, the awful drop, 
 the darkly running stream, made him supremely uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 These sensations surprised and mortified him. They 
 seemed to indicate something strangely amiss. He knew 
 that he had started life with fully the average share of 
 pluck. And he thought of his youth — of how he liked a 
 row; of how he enjoyed those riots at Cleckhampton, when 
 his militia had all they could do to hold the mob in check; 
 of how he laughed when the tiles came rattling down, 
 and the air grew thick with stones. And after that period, 
 when he saw a crowd in the street, he always bustled to- 
 wards it, feeling stimulated by the idea of trouble — yes, 
 even of danger. If there was to be wrangling, violent alter- 
 cation, finally a general melee of excited spectators, he felt 
 that he must take part; he pushed his way through outer 
 rings, meaning to pacify the strong or support the weak, 
 anyhow to assert himself by getting into the thick of it. 
 But now he would not do that. 
 
 He thought of his riding — the joy of a horse that 
 took hold; the search for animals that were really big 
 bold fencers; a point-to-point race when he distinguished 
 himself on a brute called "Touch and Go," a sketchy 
 performer that possessed the one virtue of speed. And 
 he tested himself again. He could not do that now. He 
 remembered how of late years, hacking in the Row, he 
 did not by any means wish that his gentle hirelings should 
 take hold. He asked many questions at the livery stables 
 
 348 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 in Park Lane before engaging his hacks. He wanted 
 something with good manners, and was most particular 
 that it should not be larky in traffic. But when he got 
 out among the motor-buses, the diabolical engines with 
 trains of trucks, and all the other road nuisances that 
 are now permitted to surround the Park with a belt of 
 peril, his hands failed him. They became weak and 
 vacillating, or he used them too much and reinforced them 
 unnecessarily with his legs. He could not believe that 
 any horse ever foaled would face what was slowly grinding 
 and crashing towards him — in point of fact he shied, and 
 not the horse. Yet he could ride. If he could do anything, 
 he could do that. Everybody had admitted it. 
 
 He had lost his nerve; and he mused about it. Inex- 
 plicable. One could understand how a man who hunts 
 regularly comes to lose his nerve. After several severe 
 tosses he begins to calculate risks; large fences look larger; 
 the memory of disaster takes the edge off his keenness. But 
 how can a man who does not hunt at all lose his nerve — 
 how can it be possible that, sitting in your armchair, and 
 never being tossed by it, you yet come to dread a fall from 
 your horse ? 
 
 But all this philosophy by day did not banish the 
 trouble of his nights. The worry continued. Then he 
 made a startling and most alarming discovery. He had 
 lost weight. He ought to weigh something between 
 thirteen and a half and fourteen stone. He had always 
 kept about that mark. Now, suddenly, six pounds had 
 slipped away from him. Good Heavens! One of those 
 rapid wasting diseases that attack a man of middle age 
 and polish him off before he can make his will or ask his* 
 friends to rally round him for his last days! He dashed 
 out of the club, bellowed for a cab, and, driving straight 
 to Dr. Ashford in Brook Street, demanded an immediate 
 
 349 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 interview. He was greatly surprised that the doctor did 
 not remember him, and he blinked excessively while explain- 
 ing who he was. 
 
 "I saw you some time ago. You advised me to take care 
 of myself." 
 
 "And have you done so?" 
 
 "On my honour, I have," said Lenny. 
 
 Dr. Ashford smiled at his earnestness. "Well, then, Mr. 
 — er — Calcraft — let me see. Let me look up your case, 
 since you say that I saw you before." 
 
 And searching among note-books, he at last found the 
 volume and page that he wanted. 
 
 "Bless me ! Fourteen years ago. And it was your nerves 
 then? Yes, you told me that you had worn yourself out 
 by nursing your father. You were completely overwrought." 
 And the doctor looked up. "But your father is dead now, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "Oh, yes. He died ten years ago." 
 
 "But you are overwrought again. Well, now, tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 Dr. Ashford treated the matter lightly. He said that 
 Lenny was wearing very well. He said that he looked as 
 strong as an ox; but unquestionably there must have been 
 of late an excessive expenditure of nerve force. And the 
 cure for that is a quiet and healthy life. Mr. Calcraft 
 should go on taking care of himself. He must not racket 
 about, or play fast and loose with his strength. 
 
 "Keep quiet — at any rate, for a time. That is the great 
 thing. As to the loss of weight, it's nothing." And Dr. 
 Ashford laughed. "You see, you are rich enough in that 
 respect to lose a few pounds without being perceptibly the 
 poorer." 
 
 Lenny went away discontented. He felt pleased at 
 first, but on reflection he considered Dr. Ashford an ass. 
 
 350 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Ashford had not diagnosed the fine and delicate character 
 of his nervous organization, so highly strung, so susceptible 
 to slightest influences, so complex. He had addressed all 
 his attention to matter, when perhaps, after all, it was the 
 spirit that wanted healing. In regard to the decreased 
 weight, what he said was the sort of rubbish with which 
 untouched friends console a man who has lost money. 
 Suppose you begin to lose your money; only a little at 
 first, but then more and more. The thing goes dribbling on 
 until it can sap away a handsome fortune. 
 
 However, he thought better of Ashford's skill after a 
 week. Ashford had mysteriously made him all right again. 
 No more trouble at night. This his first attack of night 
 terrors had passed over; he was able to sleep. Neverthe- 
 less, he weighed himself at frequent intervals, carefully en- 
 tering results in the volume that lay opposite the machine 
 at the club. 
 
 When he had established himself on the red velvet seat 
 of the machine, his face used to become excessively grave. 
 He looked down at the little circular tray dependent 
 from the beam, at the incised weights that fitted so neatly 
 into the tray, and at the brass needle, of which the least 
 movement had such portentous interest. Then, lifting 
 his feet from the marble pavement, and making quite sure 
 that the skirts of his jacket or coat were not obtaining sup- 
 port, he carefully completed his delicate task. 
 
 One day a talkative, intrusive member bothered Lenny 
 while he weighed himself at the luncheon hour. He in- 
 tended to weigh himself again after luncheon, and the 
 second result would be the one that he would enter in 
 the book. But this inopportune chatterbox perplexed 
 him; he picked up the little weights with insufficient care 
 — the ten-stone weight, the two-stone weight, and then 
 would come the adjustment of the slot on the graduated 
 
 351 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 beam. The man went ort talking, telling some stupid 
 anecdote, and cackling at his own jokes. Lenny had put 
 the three-stone weight instead of the two-stone weight, 
 and thus the scale would begirt to mark with thirteen 
 stone to its credit. When he looked for the result, he 
 saw that the beam was dowri, not up. He blinked, and 
 then looked at it again with a sick horror. Great Heavens ! 
 Had he lost a stone in the last three days? He could not 
 now turn the scale at twelve stone. He got up slowly, 
 almost tottering. 
 
 Then he discovered the mistake, and with a joyous 
 cry flumped himself down on the velvet seat again. Truly 
 he crashed into the seat like a sack of coals falling from 
 a crane. The beam kicked; the brass needle snapped off 
 short: he had broken the machine. 
 
 There was a cackling laugh; and genial idle members 
 gathered round. 
 
 "What is it? Eh, what?" 
 
 "Calcraft, if you please, trying to weigh himself !" And 
 the talkative idiot laughed prodigiously. 
 
 "Trying to weigh himself, and smashed the machine. 
 . . . You know, old boy, this is a sensitive instrument — 
 not intended for giants." 
 
 Lenny could hear the laughter and the chaff. He was 
 feeling an exquisite sense of relief. Only a ridiculous 
 mistake. No more weight lost since his visit to Dr. Ashford. 
 
XXXVI 
 
 LENNY was another year older. 
 He blinked his eyes still, and he had picked up 
 another trick. When listening to conversation, he 
 frequently retracted his lower jaw; and this gave a gaping 
 and vacant expression to his whole face, as of a person who 
 cannot fix his attention. It was just a nervous little trick, 
 of which he himself was aware, and he knew that it pro- 
 duced a momentary disfigurement of his normally imposing 
 aspect. He felt, however, that Dr. Ashford had been en- 
 tirely correct — there was nothing to worry about. 
 
 He had never recovered those pounds avoirdupois, and 
 probably had lost a few more; but he did not know for 
 certain, because soon after defraying the cost of repairs to 
 the broken machine he ceased to use it. Weighing oneself 
 was too agitating and disappointing, if results failed to 
 realize one's hopes. 
 
 During all this year he had not once been out of London. 
 He made excuses when Mrs. Jackson begged him to take a 
 summer holiday or to grant her an opportunity for spring 
 cleaning. 
 
 Rarely, if ever, did he spend an evening at the club 
 nowadays. The club, like so many other things which 
 once were full of delight, could now no longer charm 
 him with its grandeur, luxury, and varied amenities. When 
 occasionally he dined there, it was in morning dress, and 
 quite early; and after dinner he came straight home for 
 his coffee and cigar. 
 
 353 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He had become greatly dependent on Mr. Jackson for 
 society. At first Jackson used to hover near the door 
 while they talked, merely changing his attitude from that 
 of Attention to Stand at Ease; but then he was invited 
 to sit down and rest his legs, and now Lenny regularly 
 begged him to bring his chair to the table, to light a cigar, 
 to have a whisky and soda. And Jackson, accepting such 
 condescension in a proper spirit, never encroached; next 
 morning when he brought Lenny's neatly brushed and 
 folded clothes into the bedroom, he was the silent respect- 
 ful valet with whom the master had never exchanged six 
 words that did not closely relate to his service. As Lenny 
 knew — and as he said himself, — he had been trained in a 
 good school. 
 
 The aristocracy had done much for Jackson, and he 
 was becomingly grateful; indeed a veneration for the old 
 established titled classes permeated all his thoughts, and 
 perhaps formed the basis of his political faith. 
 
 "What drives me almost to desp'ration, sir," said Jack- 
 son, "when I read the goings-on of this Government, is 
 their wilful setting of class against class." 
 
 "I quite agree with you, Jackson. . . . Will you 
 kindly fetch the ash-tray from the mantelpiece?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. . . . According to what they allow these 
 Socialists to teach a lot of pore ignorant men, the upper 
 classes are to be pillaged as so many enemies of the people. 
 And what does such jumped-up spouters really know of our 
 landed noblemen? Why, they don't move in such circles. 
 I know this very well — I never met one of the lot as an 
 invited guest to the house in any situation I was ever in." 
 
 Jackson treated the matter with well-bred composure, but 
 nevertheless was inordinately gratified, when a bachelor 
 peer came to Albert Street and installed himself on the 
 second floor over Lenny's head. 
 
 354 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "His lordship is not wealthy, far from it, sir — or we 
 could hardly expect to have him here; but it's a grand 
 fam'ly, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson always spoke of her new lodger as "the 
 Earl." She told Lenny that the earl was "shaking down 
 very nice"; he intended to go to his country seat for the 
 hunting or the shooting, but he would come back again, 
 and he would probably retain the rooms all through the 
 London season. 
 
 He was a jovial-looking little man, with a round clean- 
 shaven face and a cheery open-air voice. He gave one 
 perhaps rather too many opportunities of measuring his 
 vocal power. Lenny lying snug in bed used to hear him 
 on the landing upstairs, as he passed into the very inferior 
 second floor bathroom, doing "hound-talk," and facetiously 
 cheering himself on to face the cold water. "Forrard — 
 forrard, away — o! Get away on to him, Loiterer. What 
 yer hanging about there, Loiterer?" And he imitated the 
 crack of a whip and the sound of a horn. It made Lenny 
 smile; but it was sometimes a little disturbing. However, 
 one did not care to complain, because the earl seemed to 
 be a friendly amiable creature. 
 
 When Lenny met him on the stairs he always said 
 "Mornin', Calcraft"; and if the weather was wet, he 
 added "Nice day for tadpoles." If the weather was fine, 
 he said "Mornin', Calcraft. This'll worry the wag-tails, 
 won't it?" 
 
 And some further civilities passed between them. The 
 second floor on various occasions sent the first floor a brace 
 of pheasants, a couple of woodcock, and some hot-house 
 fruit. 
 
 "His lordship's compliments," said Jackson, with unction, 
 "and he begs you to accept of these birds. He has more 
 than sufficient for his own use." 
 
 355 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny, of course, returned compliments, together with 
 thanks. For a little while it tickled his vanity to think 
 that the earl might develop into a pleasant crony for even- 
 ing smokes and talks; and to this end he conveyed through 
 Jackson some sort of intimation that his lordship, if he 
 cared to drop in, would be welcome. 
 
 The earl for a long time ignored this hint; but then one 
 night very late he honoured Lenny with a visit. He had 
 been out to dinner; and he came upstairs singing a popu- 
 lar song, stumbled somewhere on the mat near Lenny's 
 door, and presently banged its panels. 
 
 'Tut my foot in a rabbit-hole," said his lordship, laugh- 
 ing gaily. "How are you, old boy? What price a whisky 
 and soda? But, mind you, if I say yes, it must be a very 
 small one." 
 
 The visitor sat down, and Lenny gave him a drink. 
 
 "Thank ye. Here's to Foxhunting and the Ladies!" And 
 his lordship glanced round the room, as if taking stock of 
 all its comforts and ornaments. "So this is your little crib. 
 But I say, old boy, you have fugged yourself in till the air 
 is beginning to hum." 
 
 "Is it too warm for you? Shall I open one of the win- 
 dows?" 
 
 "Oh, don't mind me." 
 
 It was painfully clear that the visitor had been dining, in 
 the worst sense of the word; and for half an hour Lenny 
 found him a most objectionable companion. He was far 
 too familiar — he adopted a careless patronizing tone. 
 
 "Jackson told me to look in — Jackson goes on saying 
 you wished it. So here I am. But I never saw the point 
 of it, and I don't see it now. I'm all right up there, and 
 you're all right down here. See what I mean? Live and 
 let live — that's my motto. Chacun a son gout. Never lift 
 hounds till they're really at fault. . . . But I like to 
 
 356 
 
in cotton wool 
 
 do the polite to everybody. And of course I'm glad for 
 you to have your share in anything that's goin'. Neigh- 
 bours, eh; Share and share alike — so far as I'm con- 
 cerned. I said so to Jackson. . . . Look here, Calcry 
 - — old boy — I've got some brandy upstairs— real fine genu- 
 ine stufi; and if you catch the collywobbles through sitting 
 in a draught, you send up for some of it. Just you ask 
 for anything you want; and if I've got it, it's yours. I 
 can't say more." . . . 
 
 And thus the visitor maundered on until he took his 
 leave. 
 
 After this there was a coldness in the demeanour of 
 the first floor towards the second floor. Lenny wanted no 
 more visits from the earl. A pity! Because the earl, being 
 a late bird, might have proved useful to prolong one's even- 
 ing when Jackson had gone to bed. 
 
 With the utmost respect, Jackson had been obliged to 
 make a bargain in regard to these evening conversations. 
 
 "The fact is, sir, it does not suit me to be kep' up. 
 Mrs. Jackson she makes remarks about my smoking cigars, 
 and will have it that I indulge too free other ways." 
 
 "Oh, but that's most unjust. I'll tell her you never 
 exceed." 
 
 "Really, sir, if you'll allow me, I think I'd better make 
 the bargain which she has proposed — that is, to leave you 
 at eleven o'clock sharp." 
 
 And Lenny was compelled to adhere to Mrs. Jackson's 
 vexatious rule; although he often looked at the clock re- 
 gretfully as the hands crept towards the appointed hour. 
 
 It was not that Jackson was good company: he was the 
 only company available. After dinner, when he had cleared 
 the table, he put the evening newspaper over the arm of 
 Lenny's chair, and the time seemed long until he returned. 
 Never by any chance did the evening newspaper seem worth 
 
 35T 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 reading. Night after night, week after week, absolutely 
 nothing of interest in it. 
 
 Sometimes Jackson had social engagements — an evening 
 out, going to the play with Mrs. Jackson, what not frivo- 
 lous and annoying. It was dreadful then — only Adelaide, 
 the stupid little maid-servant, to talk to. 
 
 "Ah, here you are. Come in, Jackson. Sit you down — 
 make yourself comfortable. Is it raining again?" 
 
 "No, sir, lovely fine night — as mild as what we might 
 expect in May." 
 
 And the talk began. Often Jackson did too much of 
 the talking. When he got upon a narration of his service 
 with some of the highest families in the land, it was diffi- 
 cult to make him stop talking. 
 
 "Four years, sir. I remained in that situation — travel- 
 ling twice to the Continent with her ladyship — and never 
 a day's unpleasantness. In that establishment the servants, 
 sir, high and low, were treated like human beings." 
 
 "Quite so. Much more proper," and Lenny would gape 
 and look very vacant. 
 
 But then all at once some name uttered accidentally by 
 Jackson brought Lenny to life. 
 
 "St. Vincent! Major St. Vincent! Why, I know him, 
 Jackson ;" and Lenny's face lit up, and he chattered volubly. 
 "Tall dark man — gunner — R.H.A. ? The very man! I 
 used to meet him frequently one winter — oh, good gracious, 
 I don't care to say how many years ago. That winter I 
 used to train my horses over to Peterborough. It was only 
 an hour's journey from us — from my father's place, I 
 mean;" and Lenny paused and solemnly regarded his com- 
 panion. "Jackson, have I ever told you about my old home 
 — the place where I was born?" 
 
 "You have, sir, a many times." 
 
 "Oh, very good." For a moment Lenny looked crest- 
 358 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 fallen, but then he pulled himself together, and rattled on 
 again. He knew that if he hesitated, Jackson would again 
 start his twaddle about the servants' hall. 
 
 One evening in April when Jackson came for the usual 
 chat, he found Lenny staring at the newspaper and blinking 
 woefully. 
 
 "Oh, Jackson, I have had a most dreadful shock." 
 
 "Indeed, sir?" 
 
 "Yes;" and the newspaper shook in Lenny's hands. 
 
 "Very sorry to hear it, sir," said Jackson sympathet- 
 ically. "What might it be, sir?" 
 
 "The death of an old friend. . . . Really I don't feel 
 up to talk. I am overwhelmed." 
 
 Left to himself, Lenny continued to stare and blink 
 and tremble. What had upset him so grievously was the 
 brief report of a coroner's inquest on the body of a lady 
 who had committed suicide at a Brighton hotel. It ap- 
 peared that she had herself procured the poison; but there 
 was some attempt to show that she might have swallowed 
 it accidentally. Her maid said that the lady had been suf- 
 fering from sleeplessness, was in the habit of taking drugs, 
 and probably selected the wrong bottle by mistake. She 
 seemed just as usual overnight. But in the morning, when 
 the locked door of her room was forced open, she was 
 found dressed, sitting in a chair, stone dead. The jury 
 returned a verdict of death by misadventure; but no one 
 could really doubt that the poor lady had purposely killed 
 herself. 
 
 And the lady was Mrs. Fletcher. 
 
 Lenny did not for a moment believe that there had 
 been any accident or mistake, and wonder and pain filled 
 his mind. It was he who had driven her to her death. 
 She had never got over the disappointment; she had 
 struggled on year after year; but it was all no good — 
 
 359 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 she could not forget him; she could not be happy without 
 him. He felt remorse and grief as he recalled the manner 
 in which he had dealt with her. He had not even an- 
 swered that last letter of hers. He should at least have 
 done that — but at the time it seemed an impossible letter 
 to answer. She never reproached him — magnanimous si- 
 lence from her, whatever her friends said. There was al- 
 ways something fine, very fine, about Helen Fletcher. He 
 had treated her badly ; he ought to have married her ; it was 
 wrong not to marry her. 
 
 And why hadn't he married her? He recalled the 
 incidents of the few months during which they were an 
 engaged couple; and suddenly he was startled by the lu- 
 cidity, the penetrating insight, the clairvoyance that he had 
 exhibited. It had been his judgment of her temperament 
 and character that decided him to break off the match. He 
 had believed her to be neurotic, excitable, not quite health- 
 ily normal — well, this sad business, this appalling event, 
 proved the correctness of his judgment, proved it up to 
 the hilt. 
 
 He sighed heavily, and let the crumpled paper fall 
 from his hands. Seven, or was it eight years ago? And 
 by now, if he had married her, he would be a widower, 
 going about in black — winding up her estate, probably, 
 as executor and residuary legatee. But no, that was an 
 illogical thought. If he had married her, she would not 
 have done it. She might have worried him to death, but 
 she would never have killed herself. 
 
 He sighed again, and for a little while sat vacantly 
 gaping. 
 
 Then he thought of something very curious. Once he 
 had suffered extreme apprehension lest despair might drive 
 another woman to suicide. Strange that it should be Helen 
 Fletcher, concerning whom he never had the least dread, 
 
 360 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 who eventually gave this ghastly evidence of unquenchable 
 love. 
 
 The news had shaken him. All that evening, and nearly 
 all through the night, he thought of this dead woman who 
 had loved him. Next day and for many days it was the 
 same thing — he could think of nothing else. 
 
 He thought of her state of mind, of the horror of those 
 last hours, when the maid had left her and she sat alone, 
 steeling her heart to the terrific purpose; while all round 
 her, far and near, the world lay sleeping. She sat in her 
 chair, held the glass in her hand, raised it towards her 
 lips, put it down again. Perhaps the purpose wavered. 
 Perhaps she turned off all the lights, and stood for a little 
 while in darkness — taking a foretaste of death, trying to 
 measure the eternal darkness into which she intended to 
 hurl herself. He trembled and turned cold as he thought 
 of it. What must her state of mind have been when she 
 decided that the darkness outside her was no more appal- 
 ling than the darkness inside her, that the unknown was 
 less terrible than the known, that by no possibility could 
 death be worse than life? 
 
 In imagination he saw her just before the end, and just 
 after it. She sat immediately facing him — she was looking 
 at him — she had taken the fatal draught. A tinkling 
 crash as the glass fell, a contortion of the features, a weak 
 fluttering movement of the limbs — and she was sitting there 
 quite still, looking at him with widely distended blue eyes. 
 . . . It seemed painless — some doctor at the inquest said 
 it was painless. But in the supremely awful moment, when 
 the poison flashed through her veins, and like lightning 
 striking a tree tore the life out of her — suppose if the last 
 throb of conscious thought was one of agonized regret! 
 Too late then. . . . Her eyes were glazing, her whole 
 
 3fil 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 body was growing rigid — she had been quite stiff and cold 
 for several hours when they broke the door. 
 
 She was haunting him, in the broad daylight as well as 
 in the grey dusk. Suppose that he were to see her ghost. 
 Suppose she stepped forward out of the shadow by the 
 dressing-table, or lurked, hiding, waiting, in the darkness 
 of the other room. Suppose he heard her footsteps on the 
 stairs, her stiff cold hands fumbling at the door. If the door 
 slowly opened — if without opening it she came through the 
 door, — what could he say to her? Well, he would have 
 to say, "Helen, be reasonable. This has nothing to do with 
 me. Honestly, I cannot take the blame upon my shoulders. 
 All this was written in the stars thousands of centuries 
 before you and I ever met." . . . Yes, that was what 
 he would say. 
 
 No, he would say nothing. And why? Because his 
 tongue would be cleaving to the roof of his mouth, his long 
 front hair would be standing six inches high, his spine 
 would be freezing — he would be paralysed with fear. 
 
 The terror had returned to him — after a year's immunity. 
 And this second attack was ten times worse than the first. 
 It swept Mrs. Fletcher and her ghost a million miles away, 
 it wiped out all tender memories, it swallowed his whole 
 past. 
 
 It was the nightly comprehension of the infinite small- 
 ness of himself in relation to the infinite largeness of the 
 universe. It was the feeling of the darkness all round 
 us — measureless and invincible — while we ourselves are but 
 little sparks of light, like those fishermen's lamps on the 
 sea at Westchurch, so feeble a ray, so soon extinguished. 
 And the need of doing something, of struggling, of not 
 tamely submitting, overwhelmed him by its imperative 
 urgency. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 If this is our life, with that tremendous doom ever 
 creeping nearer to us, how can we waste it? How can 
 we refrain from filling it at least as full as lies in our power ? 
 Above all, if we have no religious faith to sustain us, if 
 we conscientiously believe that this is all, and that there 
 is absolutely nothing beyond it — then how can we squander 
 a moment from our poor little hoard of time? It seemed 
 to him that he could not afford the time required for eating, 
 much less for lying in bed and sleeping. 
 
 And now the nocturnal distress had fixed itself. It was 
 simply the fear of death and annihilation: the tremen- 
 dous sentence that men ignore till the hour of execution has 
 almost come. 
 
 And by day it was with him too, less powerful but more 
 precise. Truly he had never before thought of death as 
 something that concerned himself; and hr .apposed now 
 that his was a typical case. Probably none of the men at 
 the club ever thought of it. They ate and drank and 
 laughed as though they were immortal: every day they 
 saw others snatched from the sunlight, but they fancied 
 that the darkness would never touch them. He shuddered 
 as he remembered all the men who had been and now were 
 not — noisy plethoric Sir John Wilmington, gentle Enfield, 
 kind old Meldrew; that unhappy cripple Kindersley, dozens 
 and dozens of live men who used to nod and smile at him. 
 They had gone. That was what those who remained said 
 of them. 
 
 "Have you heard the news? Clarke-Talbot!" 
 
 "No, what about him?" 
 
 "He has gone, poor chap. Pneumonia. It snuffed him 
 out in less than a week." 
 
 The longest life is only a brief respite from this all- 
 embracing, all-devouring death. Then he began to count 
 his years. Why, the better part of the respite was over 
 24 363 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 already. Only twenty years younger than his father was 
 when he died; and they all said he had enjoyed a long 
 innings. 
 
 After a particularly devastating night he sat up in bed, 
 drinking hot tea, and hopelessly considering his sad plight. 
 He was hastening the catastrophe. If this nervous agita- 
 tion continued, he would not be alive by the end of next 
 week. And nobody seemed to care — that enhanced the 
 grimness of his tragedy. 
 
 Jackson had just brought in his clothes, and said 
 "Good-morning, sir," as though nothing unusual was hap- 
 pening; upstairs the earl was singing John Peel and can- 
 tering to and fro across the landing; outside in the streets 
 people were walking and driving, going about their ordinary 
 business. In all the wide world there was not a soul who 
 minded. 
 
 Nobody would help him. Ashford was an ass — couldn't 
 understand his case, never had understood it. Yet any 
 clever doctor — anyone really worthy of the name — ought to 
 be able to offer intelligent suggestions. 
 
 Then he had an inspiration. Dr. Searle! Searle — a 
 clever doctor, and the only person left who was still fond 
 of him. Dear old Searle! 
 
 He rolled over in the bed and rang the electric bell, went 
 on ringing it until Jackson appeared. 
 
 "Jackson, the telegraph forms! A telegram to go off 
 without an instant's delay;" and rapidly he wrote out his 
 message to Dr. Searle at Westchurch. 
 
 "Come to me immediately. I am in great trouble. 
 
 "Lenny Calcraft." 
 
 Searle arrived by the afternoon train; and Lenny, who 
 3G4 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 had gone to the station to meet him, ran along the plat- 
 form, and clasped him by both hands directly he alighted. 
 
 "Oh Searle — my dear, dear fellow — you have come. Oh, 
 how glad I am!" 
 
 'What's up, Lenny?" said Dr. Searle. "What's the 
 trouble ? Money ?" 
 
 "No. Health— can't you see it? My health's all 
 wrong." 
 
 "Oh, really?" And Searle adjusted his spectacles, and 
 looked very hard at Lenny. 
 
 Lenny's heart sank again. Searle had grown old and 
 stupid — he wore spectacles; he was played out, doddering. 
 But very soon Searle began to do him good. They dined 
 and went to a music hall together; and Searle spent the 
 night at Albert Street, sleeping on a camp bedstead in Len- 
 ny's room. 
 
 Next day he advised and arranged that Lenny should 
 go to the Isle of Wight, and stay for a month or so as a 
 paying guest with a doctor there. 
 
 Lenny was delighted by this idea. To be under the 
 same roof with one's medical adviser, to have him at one's 
 beck and call, to know that he was giving uninterrupted 
 care to the case — splendid! 
 
 "Oh, Searle, what a brick you are! You have made 
 me feel ten years younger." 
 
XXXVII 
 
 THE visit to the Isle of Wight doctor seemed to be a 
 triumphant success. After ten days Lenny felt an- 
 other man. He had almost ceased blinking and he 
 scarcely ever gaped. All that immense distress of vague 
 fear had gone; and he traced it now to one prime cause — 
 the shock produced in him by the news of Mrs. Fletcher's 
 death. 
 
 Dr. Grant, a widower with two daughters, lived in a 
 jolly little white-walled house at the foot of the downs and 
 not far from the sea — a quiet, secluded, peaceful spot. 
 The rules of this modest household were those of the simple 
 life: early to bed, early to rise; plain feeding, and as far 
 as Dr. Grant could induce it, lofty thinking. 
 
 Lenny took to it all, as he said himself, like a duck to 
 water. The milk puddings, the slices of mutton, and the 
 honest Cheddar cheese, were all delicious because they were 
 beneficial. And if at first he could have done with more of 
 these amiable allies, he soon understood that, innocent and 
 bland as they seemed, they were essentially similar to cer- 
 tain valuable medicines the efficacy of which vanishes when 
 they are taken otherwise than in small doses. He followed 
 his host's advice rigorously: he drank no wine, smoked very 
 little tobacco, and cheerfully tramped along the lanes with 
 either of Dr. Grant's daughters. 
 
 These were full-blown sandy young women, tanned and 
 freckled, as good as gold — and not in the slightest degree 
 exciting. Lenny had an intuitive knowledge that they said 
 
 36(5 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 their prayers regularly, and wore Jaeger next the skin. 
 Why not? Very sensible. Susan, the elder girl, managed 
 the house, wrote out her father's accounts, and kept his 
 books. Enid, the younger girl, played the piano, and was 
 fond of golf. He let her recite Chopin to him of an even- 
 ing while Susan made up the books in the surgery, but 
 he drew the line when she asked him to carry her golf 
 clubs. That is to say, he promised he would do it, but 
 never meant to. As soon as they got down to the course, 
 he hired a caddy, and when Enid handed him the bag of 
 idiotic implements he handed it to the caddy. 
 
 Miss Grant had no opponent and intended to play round 
 in solitary state, like old Reed. 
 
 "Why don't you play golf?" she asked. 
 
 "Because it would bore me unspeakably." 
 
 "How do you know? Have you ever tried?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You ought to take it up. It would do you good." 
 
 "Think so?" And Lenny became serious and thought- 
 ful. Then, after she had played two or three holes, he said 
 he would leave her to finish by herself. "I can see I am 
 putting you off, and I observe how much you have to say 
 to our expert friend here;" and he smiled at the caddy. "So, 
 as two is company and three is none, I'll stroll over the hill 
 to the sea." 
 
 But Miss Grant begged him to stay; and when he in- 
 sisted on going, she abandoned her game, and went with 
 him. 
 
 As they strolled away, Lenny rolled his head and shot 
 a sidelong and slightly roguish glance at his staunch com- 
 panion. Could it be that little freckle-face was beginning 
 to experience rather too tender feelings in regard to the 
 guest under her father's roof? He sincerely hoped not. 
 That wouldn't do at all. 
 
 367 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Then another explanation offered itself. If partiality 
 for his company was to be accepted as evidence of love, 
 then the other girl must be in love with him too; for she 
 had stuck to him yesterday as closely as Enid was doing 
 to-day. Could it be that their father had instructed them 
 not to allow the patient out of their sight? He believed 
 that he had hit the right nail on the head, and he was 
 delighted by the solicitude and attention of his host. It 
 gave him if possible a higher opinion of Dr. Grant than 
 he had hitherto entertained. It showed the man to be so 
 thoroughly conscientious — sparing no pains to earn his 
 money. 
 
 The last hour of the quiet evening always seemed espe- 
 cially pleasant to Lenny. It was then that he went into 
 the jolly parlour-surgery. The young ladies were gone to 
 bed, and the two men had a pipe and a talk together be- 
 fore turning in. 
 
 "How many pipes to-day?" Dr. Grant asked politely, 
 while Lenny was lighting up. 
 
 "This is my third — no, fourth. I swear it's not more 
 than my fourth." 
 
 "That's right. Don't overdo it." 
 
 "On my honour, I won't," said Lenny, with fervour. 
 
 The maid-servant brought in barley-water and glasses 
 on a brass tray; Dr. Grant moved about the room tidying 
 papers and putting away jars and bottles; and Lenny, 
 sitting cross-legged on a chair and lazily puffing out smoke, 
 watched him with childlike interest. He was perfectly 
 happy. He observed his host's sandiness and baldness, the 
 unfashionable cut of his trousers, the queer antiquated ap- 
 pearance of the jacket that he wore at this time of night — 
 a funny blue flannel garment, with the heraldic arms of a 
 college embroidered on the front, — a cherished relic of the 
 doctor's university days. But, however insignificant of 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 aspect or quaintly attired Dr. Grant might seem, he was 
 to Lenny's eye imbued with majesty and might. Lenny 
 watched him reverently and gratefully — as the man who 
 was expending skill and energy to cure him and make him 
 quite well again. 
 
 "Well," Grant used to say, still moving about and tidy- 
 ing, "how have you filled in the day?" 
 
 "Oh, I've been as jolly as a sandboy." 
 
 Then the doctor used to sit in a revolving chair near 
 his writing-table, and turn about from side to side; and 
 it seemed to Lenny that the more he revolved, the more 
 serious and absorbingly interesting he became. 
 
 Thus, one evening, swinging round at Lenny, he talked 
 very seriously indeed. 
 
 "Calcraft, it's three weeks since you came here." 
 
 "Yes— how time flies!" 
 
 The doctor turned to his desk and back again to 
 Lenny. 
 
 "Now, I have come to very definite conclusions about 
 your case." 
 
 "Have you?" And Lenny leaned forward over the back 
 of his chair. 
 
 "Yes. And I want to tell you — I want to impress on 
 you in the strongest manner my firm opinion that there's 
 nothing whatever the matter with you." 
 
 "Oh!" And Lenny gave a sigh of relief. "That's what 
 Ashford said." 
 
 "Well, I say it too." 
 
 "Searle always said it." 
 
 "We all three say it. I say it most emphatically;" and 
 Dr. Grant did a lot of revolving. "But of course I am 
 speaking of the present time. As to the future — the future 
 is in your own hands." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "You are well now. You can continue to keep well. 
 It all rests with you." 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 "Yes, we are all of us to a very large extent what we 
 make ourselves. May I take the liberty of speaking with 
 entire frankness?" 
 
 "Yes, I beg you to." 
 
 "Then I say very earnestly: Be a better man, Calcraft, 
 and you'll be a healthier man." 
 
 And Dr. Grant went on talking in this admonitory tone 
 for some time. It was very severe — but Lenny did not 
 mind. Indeed he brimmed over with grateful emotion. He 
 felt like an astound ingly virtuous boy at school who is being 
 caned, and who while smarting and tingling recognizes 
 that the punishment is inflicted for his ultimate good. All 
 who struggled to promote his welfare were friends, and 
 all who proved lukewarm and indifferent were enemies. 
 
 "By the way," said Dr. Grant, when their talk had 
 come to an end, and Lenny was lighting his bedroom candle, 
 "have you dipped into that book I advised you to read?" 
 
 "No not yet — but I intend to." 
 
 "I really think you might get something useful out of it." 
 
 "Do you mean to me personally?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. The writer is quite one of our tip-top men, 
 you know — anything a man of that calibre troubles to 
 write is worth looking at." 
 
 "Oh, I'll read it from cover to cover — I promise faith- 
 fully." 
 
 Lenny carried the candle upstairs and into his room, 
 where it seemed at first to make but a feeble spot of light. 
 But he looked at the surrounding shadows without the 
 faintest sense of discomfort. There were white curtains 
 above the bed and more at the windows — these flopping 
 gently as the soft air came through an open lattice; a Bible 
 
 370 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 and a bowl of primroses decorated the chest of drawers; 
 and the odour of lavender sprigs, laid by the elder Miss 
 Grant on top shelves of a cupboard, was clean and sweet. 
 The whole room seemed simple, homely, curatively kind. 
 Who could fail to sleep well in it — especially when you 
 lay down with the knowledge that in another room, close 
 by, you had a clinking fine doctor ready to jump up and 
 come if you called for him? 
 
 After this third week the daughters of the house became 
 less attentive than during the earlier part of his visit. 
 They did not offer their society for walks, but waited for 
 him to invite it — and sometimes even then courteously ex- 
 cused themselves. He was not a bit offended — he guessed 
 that their father had warned them it might now be con- 
 sidered boring. 
 
 He took the doctor's book out with him, and read it 
 during his solitary rambles. It was called The Temple 
 and its Guardian, and it did not greatly impress Lenny. 
 A mixture of ethics, psychology, and physiology, after the 
 modern fashion, it was written tersely and lucidly enough; 
 and the writer's message, if he had any, appeared to be 
 a warning against the dangers of selfishness. He said that 
 excessive selfishness was due to a loss of the sense of pro- 
 portion, and in its extremest manifestations it became akin 
 to insanity. 
 
 Very wise, no doubt, but very trite — certainly nothing 
 new. 
 
 However, politeness to Dr. Grant impelled Lenny to 
 skim through the volume. Fortunately the print was 
 large; and once or twice he was genuinely interested by 
 observing an exact parallelism between the thoughts of 
 the author and his own thoughts. There were certain 
 passages that absolutely echoed his often repeated n-lliv- 
 
 371 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 tions. For instance — through page after page the author 
 harped on the necessity of providing oneself with innocent 
 pursuits. Well, he himself had said the same thing dozens 
 of times. It had been for a long while a pet theory with 
 him. 
 
 But, reading on, he met a passage that seemed to extend 
 and widen the theory unexpectedly. This passage impressed 
 him. After he had closed the book, he remembered the sen- 
 tences almost verbatim: there was something enigmatical 
 about them; they seemed to possess a significance which he 
 could not master, but which haunted him — almost as if 
 they too contained a thought of his own, often felt, but 
 never expressed. 
 
 This was the gist of it: — "The entirely self-centred man 
 is always a man slowly killing himself — Lenny put these 
 words in mental italics. "If for no higher reason, every 
 wise man should keep alive numerous altruistic motives; 
 he should nourish them and stimulate them; and if op- 
 portunities do not present themselves, he should vigorously; 
 hunt for any means of self-sacrifice. . . . As an ex- 
 ample, bachelors do not usually live as long as married 
 men; yet no observer of the world would maintain that 
 bachelors really take less care of themselves. No, they are 
 always taking care of themselves, and it is the care that 
 shortens their lives. On the other hand, your married man 
 very likely toils incessantly ; he is always struggling to amass 
 money and spending it on his wife or his children; the 
 aim of his life is not his own comfort, but the comfort 
 of those he loves." 
 
 Lenny wondered if there were any truth in that? Right 
 or wrong, it certainly had no value for him. He could 
 not apply it to his own case for the best of all reasons — 
 because he was not himself a married man. He carried the 
 book home thoughtfully, feeling rather puzzled to under- 
 
 372 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stand how and why Dr. Grant had thought he would 
 like it. 
 
 His favourite saunter was up a cart-track, through sev- 
 eral gates, across a slope of bare down, and into a small 
 pine wood. The month of June had opened propitiously; 
 there had been no rain for several days; and here, among 
 these fragrant pines, the naked ground and the mossy banks 
 of a ditch were alike perfectly dry. Lenny used to sit and 
 lie here for hours. Through the tall stems of the trees, 
 looking from the shade to the sunlight, he had entrancing 
 glimpses of emerald sward, white hawthorns, and beyond 
 all the silvery sea. 
 
 And here it happened that he caught a far more tremen- 
 dous glimpse — a glimpse of the truth about himself. 
 
 He had been idly thinking of that book, The Temple 
 and its Guardian. The Temple of course was one's intel- 
 lect, or the spiritual, choicest part of one ; and the Guardian 
 was just oneself, — all the rest of one. And it behooved one 
 to guard the temple wisely, as well as jealously — and the 
 man said if one was too careful one made a mess of it. 
 
 Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, he asked himself 
 a question. Had he been less selfish than the bulk of man- 
 kind, or had he been just as selfish? And the answer 
 seemed to come from nowhere — like a terrific shell fired 
 from a ship below the horizon and bursting with incredible 
 clatter over his head: 
 
 He had been more selfish. 
 
 Could it be possible? Then what had become of his 
 early reputation, his uniquely magnificent fame? All the 
 world had bowed down to him as the most unselfish per- 
 son that ever breathed. In those days there had been plenty 
 of self-sacrifice; he had lived not for himself, but for oth- 
 ers — for one other, his father. And it occurred to him now 
 
 373 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 that throughout that bygone time, while he was trampling 
 on his own desires and inclinations, he had been wonder- 
 fully fit and hearty. 
 
 But after that time there had been very little self-sacri- 
 fice. None at all. He had considered himself only: the 
 single undeviating aim in every scheme, big or small, had 
 been self, nothing but self. He saw his past, from the be- 
 ginning of consciousness to the present reverie — and it was 
 all, all selfishness. Truly it was marvellous, almost mirac- 
 ulous, this glimpse of truth. 
 
 He was reclining on the dry bank just inside the wood; 
 and, folding his hands behind his head, he looked upward 
 through dark foliage at patches of blue sky, and thought 
 with his fullest capacity. He recognized this as a crisis — 
 perhaps the most important hour of his existence. He 
 had come to it without anticipatory instinct. But now 
 that it had come, instinct told him that he must exhaust 
 its utmost potentialities. The discipline of the last few 
 weeks, together with the agony of mind through which he 
 had recently passed; his physical condition at the moment; 
 the emptiness, the cleanness, the refining and bracing ef- 
 fects of sparse diet and cold baths — all these things had 
 combined to prepare the way for an introspective vision of 
 unsurpassable clearness. 
 
 His thought flashed like a searchlight, blazed like a 
 magnesium flare, flooded like a sunburst, to show him 
 himself and his life as they had really been. Oh, what a 
 wretch, what an utterly selfish wretch! 
 
 He turned on the mossy bank, lay face downwards, 
 and gave himself over to shame and grief. Monstrous 
 and incredible — but true: for more than half his life 
 he had been selfishness incarnate. Splendid at dawn, to 
 what a ruin had he degenerated before the fall of night! 
 And pity, warm and suffocating pity, mingled with his sor- 
 
 374 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 row. In the history of the solar system was there so black 
 a page — a degradation more heartrending? 
 
 And again he thought of the doctor's book. Never 
 had the world been ornamented with a nobler temple — 
 to begin with; and never had it seen so wicked a guardian. 
 Guardian ! A wallowing hog who had made of the beauti- 
 ful temple the dirtiest and most disgusting pig-sty ! 
 
 More than an hour went by, and he did not move. 
 Then he turned, sat up, and once again looked at the sky. 
 The passion of regret had passed; another, a slower 
 phenomenon, had begun. It was the building up after the 
 knocking down. Hope! Why should he despair? While 
 one breathes one may hope. He might still amend his 
 course, turn over a new leaf — of the remainder of life he 
 might make something less despicable than the large slice 
 of life that had gone. 
 
 And slowly there came the longing, the intensifying hope, 
 for better and higher things. He was thinking humbly and 
 piteously, with thoughts that were like prayers; but, grow- 
 ing and strengthening deep inside him, there seemed to be 
 what there had not been for such a miserably long time — 
 resolve. 
 
 Regeneration, a new birth, the glory of rising towards 
 the mountain peaks just when one has nearly fallen into 
 cavernous abysses! Kind acts, clean thoughts, days spent 
 for the good of one's brother men — oh, if it were possible! 
 
 Butterflies hovered, and were bright in the sunshine 
 and dark in the shade; now and then there came the clear 
 song of a lark, and always one could hear the humming 
 music of insect myriads. Lenny watched and listened with 
 tender interest, with welling sympathy, for all things large 
 br small. He would not for a thousand pounds have 
 crushed one of the ants who were toiling so bravely to 
 move the pine needles near his feet. Work, courage, obliv- 
 
 375 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ion of self — with these, ants and men may move mountains. 
 
 The hours glided away, and it seemed to him like a long 
 purification — Nature's revivifying bath. Blue sky, gentle 
 air, kindly earth — never before had he felt so close to ele- 
 mental joy. He sprawled upon the ground, patted it, ca- 
 ressed it. Here, like a child returned to the universal 
 mother, he lay on her breast, drawing comfort and peace. 
 
 Drawing hope, too. Regeneration — to achieve it should 
 be his purpose henceforth while the respite from the dark- 
 ness lasted. The longing for redemption and amendment 
 was intensely strong. There was reality now in all his 
 feelings — something that he himself understood to be in- 
 trinsically different from anything he had of late expe- 
 rienced: a current of emotion that seemed to run quietly 
 because of its depth and volume, whereas all recent fancies 
 were but as babbling torrents that leap and break at every 
 rock. 
 
 The day was nearly over when he emerged from the 
 pine wood. As he came down the cart-track to the lane, 
 he was thinking of religion. Religious faith is a potent 
 aid in sustaining altruistic motives. He had once believed. 
 Could he not believe again? 
 
 In sight of the white-walled house, he glanced at his 
 watch. Close on dinner-time! No luncheon and no aft- 
 ernoon tea — it was thirty years since he had voluntarily 
 missed a meal. 
 
 That night in the surgery Lenny talked to the doctor 
 as to a priest. He confessed himself. He was loud in 
 condemnation of the old life, and piteously plaintive while 
 pleading for encouragement in the fresh life. 
 
 He could not restrain his tears — scarcely attempted to 
 rio so. The tears were a part of the purifying process. 
 
 376 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He spoke of his doubts as well as of his hopes, and quoted 
 those saddest of w r ords — "It might have been." 
 
 "Calcraft," said the doctor, gently and kindly. "You 
 know another proverbial saying, the truest of all adages. 
 It is never too late to mend." 
 
 Lenny grasped the doctor's hand, shook it, clung to it, 
 and sobbed over it. 
 
 "Grant, you mean that — on your honour?" 
 
 "Of course I mean it — honour bright and shining." 
 
 "Oh, my dear Grant — oh how you rejoice me! Yes, yes, 
 I know now that the adage is true." 
 
 Upstairs in his sweet-smelling, homely room, Lenny did 
 one of those two things which he had guessed the Miss 
 Grants did regularly. He knelt by the bed and 
 prayed. 
 
 The lowly and humble attitude seemed entirely appro- 
 priate, beautifully symbolizing his spiritual state — meek, 
 fervent, trustful. The hardness of the floor seemed to 
 fortify him; the bed was an altar; and the perfume of lav- 
 ender was incense, mysteriously filling his bowed head with 
 strange virtues. 
 
 He prayed to Christ the Redeemer of mankind — to God 
 the Eternal Father — to the Holy, Blessed, and Glorious 
 Trinity, — for aid in his new and great endeavours. And 
 perhaps he was sub-consciously aware that he did not be- 
 lieve; but he did most sincerely feel that in a matter of 
 such transcendent importance he must not miss a single 
 chance — even an off chance. He knew that he was weak, 
 and he wanted to have everybody on his side. 
 
XXXVIII 
 
 HE was back again in London; and he continued to 
 deprive himself of alcohol, to eat sparingly, and to 
 think wholesomely. His desire for the new life 
 had increased rather than diminished. 
 
 Walking along Pall Mall one afternoon, he was startled 
 by seeing a very old friend. The friend had not seen him, 
 and for a moment Lenny felt a strong impulse to slink 
 round a corner into St. James's Square and thus avoid a 
 meeting. Yet, no; that would be unworthy: the sort of 
 thing he used to do, but must never do again. He wrestled 
 with the base inclination, and, conquering it, hurried after 
 his friend and accosted him. 
 
 "George, don't you know me? Wont you know me?" 
 
 It was George Verinder — the man who of all others he 
 had loved and respected — dear old George, grey-haired but 
 bright-eyed, erect, alert, energetic, looking like a grey- 
 haired boy. 
 
 "What! Calcraft! I should never have recognized you." 
 
 "Am I so changed?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know — it's such a long time since we met." 
 
 Verinder had not shaken hands, and he spoke coldly. 
 Nevertheless he reluctantly consented to be marched off 
 to Lenny's club for tea. 
 
 "Or anything else you prefer," said Lenny hospitably. 
 
 "Nothing but a cup of tea, thank you." 
 
 "Ah," said Lenny, "you are like me. You play light 
 with the whiskies-and-sodas." 
 
 378 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 George Verinder looked at him very coldly, and said 
 that he should not be able to linger over their tea. He 
 added that he was full of business just now. 
 
 They sat in one of the windows of the smoking-room; 
 and Lenny thought that George without his hat looked 
 even younger still. He was grey all over his neatly- 
 shaped head, but there did not seem to be a sign of bald- 
 ness; his dark eyes were extraordinarily bright, with 
 a glowing fire of virile strength behind them; his brown 
 fingers, drumming on the arm of a chair, seemed powerful 
 as little hammers — altogether he was a man bursting with 
 energy. And in Lenny affection was brimming upwards, 
 clamouring to get out. He yearned for a heart-to-heart 
 talk with this friend of his youth. 
 
 But Verinder's icy coldness froze him. He became nerv- 
 ous, and when the tea-tray arrived he proved an awkward 
 blundering host. 
 
 "Er — George — two lumps of sugar?" 
 
 "None, thank you." 
 
 "Oh, dear — now I have put sugar in both cups. I'll 
 ring for another cup." 
 
 "No, please don't. That will do excellently;" and 
 George took one of the cups, and gulped down the sweet- 
 ened tea. 
 
 Lenny sat blinking. He was struggling to be brave in- 
 stead of cowardly. This was a turning-point — now or 
 never he must begin the new life. If he could not live 
 up to his ideal during this slight test, how could he go 
 on hoping? He gaped once; then coughed and cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 "Er— George," he said huskily. "I call you George— 
 but you don't call me Lenny." 
 
 "No, don't I?" And Verinder smiled. 
 
 "Something has come between us, George. What is it?" 
 25 379 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Verinder looked at him questioningly, and remained silent. 
 
 "George, I wish you'd tell me." 
 
 "My dear fellow/' said Verinder carelessly, "it's ancient 
 history, not worth talking about." 
 
 "But I value your good opinion as much as ever — and 
 I see that I have forfeited it." 
 
 "Well, if you insist — you have." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "My dear chap, what is it that the French say? Tout 
 lasse, tout casse, tout passe. Years ago I heard things 
 about you that I denied. One thing I denied hotly. People 
 said that you never really divided your father's property 
 among your relations — and I said I knew you had done it, 
 because you told me so yourself." 
 
 "George," said Lenny earnestly, "when I told you, I 
 fully intended to do it. But in the end I found I couldn't. 
 I did do a good bit — but not all. I blame myself — I had 
 losses, I gambled on the Stock Exchange. Life is difficult." 
 
 "But I heard other things." 
 
 "Did you? . . . George, life is fearfully complex. 
 I am only now beginning to get a true view of its responsi- 
 bilities." 
 
 Verinder had got up; and, looking downward at Lenny, 
 his dark eyes softened. 
 
 "Yes. Life is full of responsibilities. I am just taking 
 some on my shoulders;" and he smiled, and his eyes glowed. 
 "And who the dickens am I that I should venture to judge 
 you? No doubt you meant well — even if you failed now 
 and then." And he held out his hand. "Good-bye, old 
 chap ; and good luck to you." 
 
 "George, sit down again. Spare me five minutes — by the 
 clock. You — you don't know what good it may do me." 
 
 Verinder laughed, almost in the old friendly way, and 
 
 380 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 resumed his chair; and Lenny asked a question that cer- 
 tainly belonged to the new life. 
 
 "Will you tell me about yourself, George?" 
 
 Verinder admitted that he had been lucky, especially 
 of late. An appointment had come to him just when he 
 most wanted it. 
 
 "And you are a general now," said Lenny. "How 
 grandly you have got on! Fancy! General Sir George 
 Verinder! They made you a K.C.B., didn't they?" 
 
 "Yes, they gave me a gold star to use as a chest plaster; 
 and, if I'm good, they say they'll give me a red sash to 
 keep my tummy warm," and Verinder laughed joyously. 
 
 "And you are happy, George?" 
 
 "My dear Lenny, I'm so happy that I feel as if I couldn't 
 contain so much happiness." 
 
 "That's splendid." 
 
 Then, throwing off reserve and speaking quite in the 
 old delightful way, Verinder told his friend that he was 
 going to be married on Thursday to the sweetest girl that 
 ever lived. And as he talked about her, the look in his 
 bold brave eyes was wonderful — so soft, so wistful, so chiv- 
 alrously kind. 
 
 "Lenny, what a thing love is! She's young, she's beau- 
 tiful — and yet my ugly mug hasn't frightened her. What 
 have I done to deserve it — what can I do to deserve it?" 
 And he sprang up lightly as a boy. "I really must toddle. 
 . . . It's on Thursday. Come and see us spliced." 
 
 "Will you really let me?" 
 
 "Yes, do come. . . . And I say — I'm giving a little 
 dinner to a few pals — only about a dozen of us — to-morrow 
 night. Come to that too." 
 
 "Delighted. . . . Then au revoir, dear old George." 
 
 "Ta, ta, old chap." 
 
 381 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny went to the bachelor dinner, in a private room of 
 a Regent Street restaurant; but he did not enjoy it. Al- 
 though George was extremely kind, doing him honour, and 
 making much of him, Lenny felt out of it. He could not 
 of course sit next to his host, who had a general on each 
 side of him, making three generals all of a row. 
 
 "Here's towards you," said George, drinking wine with 
 Lenny, and grinning quite affectionately. . . . "You 
 know, Calcraft and I began our soldiering together." 
 
 Yes, but Lenny had stopped, and George had gone on. A 
 grand career! And these were the friends he had made 
 in the course of it — they were his real friends, his normal 
 friends now. They all knew each other well, and they all 
 were very fond of George. 
 
 Lenny felt that they were essentially different from him, 
 and he from them. He looked at them all studiously, one 
 after another. Ten typical non-regimental officers. 
 
 These were the men of irrepressible activity, who get 
 seconded for all sorts of service, who cannot and will 
 not stay with a regiment. They are physically incapable 
 of sitting quietly in ante-room armchairs; they quickly 
 grow tired of perpetual cricket and polo; they become 
 slack in hunting petticoats, and even weary of killing 
 foxes ; — but they can hear guns firing, though it's half across 
 the world, and they rush headlong to the iron music that 
 they love. They make themselves pleasant enough when 
 you meet them at a little gathering like this; but they 
 would be rude to you, they would knock you down and 
 skip over you, if you got in their way — that is, if you 
 stood between them and danger. 
 
 George had picked them here and there, about the red 
 parts of the map, but the bond seemed quite as strong 
 as if they had all worn the same facings and badges. As 
 far as Lenny could understand, most of them had served 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 together in one of the Soudan campaigns. They talked 
 a lot about the Soudan, and lamented the absence of an- 
 other campaigner. 
 
 "It doesn't seem like home, without Bickers Darell." 
 
 "No, Bicky ought to have been here;" and they asked 
 George why Bicky wasn't there. "Didn't you know he 
 was in London? He turned up yesterday." 
 
 "Yes," said George, "I saw him this morning. I've 
 explained to Bicky." And Lenny heard what he said to 
 the general on his right. "Twelve, you know. We're 
 twelve. Bicky would have made us thirteen." 
 
 And Lenny felt still more out of it. He was the real 
 thirteenth. By snapping at an invitation uttered in a mo- 
 ment of expansive warmth, perhaps uttered almost in pity, 
 he had taken the seat of a guest who would have been a 
 million times more welcome than himself. 
 
 They drank George's health, very quietly and sedately. 
 But, observing how when they sat down again they pulled 
 their moustaches, frowned, or stared, Lenny surmised 
 that they felt strongly and were suppressing all emotional 
 demonstrations. 
 
 Then all at once they made a hideous noise. One of 
 them sang what he called The Song of the Desert Bri- 
 gades, and the rest joined in the chorus. And two of the 
 younger men stood on chairs, and at the end of the song 
 threw their glasses over their heads. 
 
 Lenny got away as soon as he could. He had never 
 attended a dinner-party where he felt so much out of it. 
 
 He went to the wedding next day, saw the guests, 
 listened to hymns and prayers; sat, knelt, and vvallu-d 
 in the midst of a joyous crowd, feeling absolutely alone. 
 He noticed that the company consisted of charming well- 
 bred people, and that on both sides of the church every- 
 body seemed fond and proud of the bridegroom. He 
 
IN COTTON WOOL, 
 
 watched the bride going up the aisle on her father's arm- 
 quite a young girl, with a veil through which her face 
 looked like a white flower seen in sunlight after rain, rather 
 misty and tremulous. He watched her, with raised veil, 
 coming down the aisle on her husband's arm. She and 
 George had eyes for nobody but each other; they were both 
 smiling; and they seemed to float, to sweep past, as if they 
 had become so light that they were blown along on the me- 
 lodious wind that had sprung up in the great church-organ. 
 
 And both during the divine service and at the subse- 
 quent reception, Lenny thought with wonder. Truly 
 wonderful ! Here was this fresh, radiant young girl giving 
 herself to George, and nobody — except George — seemed a 
 bit surprised. All these nice people handed her over to 
 him cheerfully. Her parents, who had brought her up, 
 fed her on milk puddings to improve her complexion, made 
 her do gymnastics for the good of her figure, and bathed her 
 in cold water to strengthen her nerves; — after all their 
 trouble and expense, as soon as she filled out big and 
 bloomed like a healthy white rose, her parents seemed per- 
 fectly willing to hand her over to George — to a man as 
 old as himself. Wonderful! Suppose such a thing were 
 happening to him instead of to George! 
 
 But the glamour of George's fame! It was his grand 
 career that had done the trick. Such an unbroken record 
 of success. The cross for valour; this, that and the other; 
 everything helps in building up a reputation! 
 
 The thought came inevitably — this ought to have 
 been Lenny's career. George and he started together — 
 and he, Lenny, was the most likely one at the beginning; 
 he was cock of the walk then; George looked up to him 
 and admired him; officers and men of that militia regiment 
 thought more of him than of George. Could he have 
 done all that George did ? Why not ? In that far-off time, 
 
 384 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 when he saw a pair of horses running away, he stopped 
 them — without hesitation. 
 
 Sadness, unavoidable sadness in these reflections. It 
 seemed to him that he was seeing his own life as it ought 
 to have been. 
 
 There w T as such a pressing mob all round the happy 
 pair that he had difficulty in getting at them to say fare- 
 well and wish them joy. 
 
 "Good-bye, Lady Verinder. Bon voyage! . . . Good- 
 bye, dear old George." 
 
 The grip of George's hammer-fingers made him wince 
 with pain. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 WHEN a middle-aged gentleman wishes to cancel all 
 the previous chapters of his history and to start 
 the next chapter in quite a different vein, the 
 first blank page is apt to stare at him very blankly in- 
 deed. 
 
 Lenny often considered possibilities, and many things 
 suggested themselves. How can one make oneself most 
 genuinely useful to one's country and one's fellow-men? 
 The regular army was not a possibility. Too late: he 
 was too old — the authorities wouldn't take him back. But 
 this Territorial scheme! Surely one could get something 
 to do on the Territorial establishment — find a nice round 
 hole where one would not prove to be a square peg? Lenny 
 felt that he would like to help the Secretary of State. 
 Or this Boy Scout movement, started in such a spirited 
 manner by that brave and brilliant fellow whose energy 
 was only surpassed by his fertility of resource. Lenny ad- 
 mired and would be pleased to assist the Cavalry General. 
 Or, best of all, there was the crusade of that most mag- 
 nificent of men, that eagle of war, that white-haired pala- 
 din! He still urged his beloved England to arm; he lifted 
 his voice, and no one listened; with tongue and with pen 
 he demonstrated the vital necessity of universal service, and 
 the stupid ungrateful world treated its hero as a person 
 with a bee in his bonnet. 
 
 Lenny felt drawn towards the Field Marshal. Oh, if 
 one could help him! Yet it seemed presumptuous to fancy 
 
 386 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 even for a moment that anybody else could succeed where 
 that thrice illustrious prince had failed. 
 
 On the other hand, there is such a thing as characteristic 
 persuasiveness, personal magnetism, individual charm — call 
 it what you will. Lenny remembered his success at the 
 East End — how he had talked to those lads, how they had 
 clustered round him and hung upon his words, what an 
 influence he had exerted in such a little while. Everybody 
 noticed it. 
 
 Suddenly he began to glow with enthusiasm. Why not? 
 He was in his bedroom, and he had been dressing very 
 slowly; but now he moved about more briskly, flung down 
 his collar, and marched into the front room. 
 
 Why not? One might go about the country in a van, 
 and unobtrusively entering sleepy little towns, descend from 
 the van at the market place — and fairly wake 'em up. One 
 could hire halls and give lectures — popular, catching, rous- 
 ing speeches. And it might be as well to have a magic lan- 
 tern. As he thought of it, he snapped his fingers. 
 
 "Now, my lads, I'll show you two pictures, and ask you 
 which you would like to be. Would you like to be this?" 
 Snap! And the operator would shove in his slide — picture 
 of a besotted lout sitting on an ale-house bench. "Or would 
 you like to be this?" Snap! Another slide — picture of 
 a smart young soldier in uniform. And a further idea — 
 not half a bad idea! One might get two jolly pretty girls 
 — two little musical comedy actresses; and dress 'em as 
 v'tvandieres, with a drum round each of their necks. Then 
 at the end of the lecture he would say, very simply, "That 
 is all of my talk. Let something else talk;" and the girls 
 would beat their drums and walk up and down the plat- 
 form in a coquettish and alluring fashion. Ber-r-r-ra-ra ! 
 Ber-r-r-ra-ra ! 
 
 "Now," he would say, loudly and firmly, "who's going 
 387 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 to follow the drum?" ... "I will, sir. ... I 
 will. . . . Me too, sir." . . . And he would come 
 down from the platform, march through the hall, with his 
 drummer-girls behind him; through the cheering crowd, out 
 into the open streets. 
 
 In imagination he saw this, and much more. He saw 
 a wide landscape sleeping in the sunlight, a white road 
 leading up a long hill, a vast procession trailing over 
 miles of down and valley — ploughmen are leaving their 
 horses, the hedgerow labourer drops his sickle, the water- 
 cress gatherer abandons basket and stream; — over the 
 brown stubble and through the green roots they are 
 running, to follow the faint beat of the distant drum. It 
 is Lenny — like the Pied Piper of Hamelin — emptying 
 the villages, just as he has emptied the towns; it is Lenny 
 drawing all England to the banners of the brave; it is 
 old Lenny doing what nobody else could do — he is making, 
 has very nearly made, a national army. 
 
 He might be able to do it — or again he might not. 
 All at once the idea struck him as childish, merely a day- 
 dream. It would be better to attack the problem quietly 
 — at any rate at first. One could prepare the mind of 
 the populace by writing newspaper letters, pamphlets, 
 even substantial books. But to write books one ought to 
 have a store of knowledge, and Lenny felt himself deficient 
 in erudition. One ought to be able to speak of the cohorts 
 of Rome, the armies of Grecian republics, the levee en 
 masse of — of — well, no consequence. However, one could 
 study the subject. 
 
 And he was fascinated by this idea of long days spent 
 in quiet concentrated study. He would sit here, using the 
 table or the book-rest, surrounded by learned volumes ; from 
 time to time Mrs. Jackson would bring him light refresh- 
 ment, and the last thing at night, finding him still at it, 
 
 388 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 she would very likely say, "I beg your pardon, sir; but 
 aren't you overdoing it?" And he would reply, quite gen- 
 tly, "No, Mrs. Jackson. One must not think of oneself, 
 when one is working for one's fatherland." 
 
 After luncheon he went round to the London Library, 
 and made inquiries about their system of lending books. 
 The Library clerks told him that he might either pay an 
 annual subscription, or become a life member by planking 
 down a lump sum. 
 
 "Oh — ah — I see. By the year — and leave off when- 
 ever I please; or stump up, and have the right for ever?" 
 
 The clerks had put him in a dilemma. If he did not 
 accept the life membership, it would seem that he secretly 
 doubted whether he would pursue his studious habits for 
 any length of time. On the other hand, it would be a pity 
 to waste so large a sum of money. 
 
 "Well — ah, I won't decide on the spur of the moment. 
 I'll go away and think about it." 
 
 He walked across St. James's Park, and went into the 
 Army & Navy Stores to buy some new pyjamas. 
 
 Presently he was upstairs in the hosiery department, talk- 
 ing confidentially to one of the salesmen. 
 
 "Hitherto I have had rather a dread of cotton, don't 
 you know. They say it strikes so cold. But I am now 
 altering nearly all my old customs, and it has occurred to 
 me that these woollen things are stuffy and oppressive — 
 especially in this warm weather. The fact is, I perspire 
 somewhat freely at night; so I thought " 
 
 Lenny paused. A young woman was standing quite close 
 and smiling at him archly. When he looked at her, she 
 came forward and shook hands. 
 
 "Mr. Calcraft, don't say that you have forgotten Joyce 
 Pemberton !" 
 
 "Is it likely?" and he beamed at her, and pressed her 
 389 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 nice soft little hand. Nevertheless he had indeed utterly 
 forgotten her. 
 
 "Folkestone!" she said, laughing. "You were so awfully 
 kind to mother and me." 
 
 "How is your mother? I hope she keeps her health." 
 
 "Very well, thank you. She's here somewhere. Come 
 and find her." 
 
 "Delighted! And then you must both let me give you 
 tea." 
 
 Going upstairs, Miss Pemberton glanced at Lenny slyly, 
 and after a mischievous laugh whispered "I don't believe 
 you really remember me;" and with her arm she lightly 
 pushed against his elbow. 
 
 Then it all came back to him. Folkestone — four years 
 ago — on the pier. He had made the acquaintance of the 
 young lady and her mamma, taken them for a drive, bought 
 theatre tickets, and so on. This Miss Pemberton was the 
 jolly flapper who pushed against him — arm to arm — in 
 such a friendly fashion, at the concert. He had liked it 
 then; and he liked it now. 
 
 While they passed from department to department, search- 
 ing for mamma, he scrutinized his lively little companion. 
 She was now grown-up, fully developed; yet there was 
 something of the flapper lingering — as if unwilling to re- 
 linquish all the seductive charms of adolescence, she had 
 her hair in a ball on her neck, and wore a short dress 
 that showed her ankles. And she herself was wonderfully 
 fresh and young, shedding all round her the healthy at- 
 mosphere of youth. Her mouth seemed hard — almost old 
 — when her face was in repose. But her mobile features 
 scarcely ever rested themselves. Great animation. 
 
 Soon mamma had been found, and they were all three 
 seated at a table in the refreshment room, enjoying their tea, 
 and chatting away most comfortably. 
 
 390 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "What a surprise," drawled Mrs. Pemberton. "When 
 Joyce said 'Here's Mr. Calcraft,' I said 'Never!' " 
 
 Mrs. Pemberton was a faded woman of forty-five, who 
 must once have been handsome, and who at the present 
 time wore rather too much powder on her nose. Obviously 
 she was quite common — not really a lady; but she had an 
 affectation of extreme refinement, speaking languidly and 
 drawlingly, and yet pronouncing her words with laborious 
 accuracy. However, she made herself very pleasant to 
 Lenny, treating him as though he was a trusted friend. 
 
 "Joyce," said Mrs. Pemberton, ";s stage-struck. I shall 
 try to keep her off the boards; but if it is her vocation, 
 what is one to do?" And she sighed. "Heigh-ho!" 
 
 Lenny noticed that she even pronounced the sigh. She 
 said "Heigh-ho" quite distinctly. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, smiling at her daughter, "Miss Pem- 
 berton may hit upon a more conventional vocation." 
 
 "Really," drawled the elderly lady, "you mustn't call 
 her Miss Pemberton. We haven't reached that yet. It 
 would make me feel so fearfully ancient;" and she gave a 
 thin laugh. "No, go on calling her Joyce." 
 
 Lenny had never called her Joyce; but he did so now 
 with pleasure. Joyce — such an unusual name, almost bi- 
 zarre, but somehow attractive! Sitting smiling, with his 
 head slightly on one side, he looked at the owner of the 
 odd name. 
 
 She had brown hair, with a reddish tinge in it; her eyes 
 were brownish, speckled with darker colour, very bright; 
 her teeth were good but large, especially the two middle 
 ones — and perhaps these big teeth occasioned the hard, al 
 most forbidding set of her mouth, when she firmly closed it. 
 Her lips were red and moist. 
 
 The two ladies permitted him to drive them home in a 
 taxicab, and he saw that their house was small and shabby 
 
 391 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 — the smallest house of a poor road between Earl's Court 
 and Hammersmith. Joyce volunteered the information that 
 mother let it furnished whenever she could secure a re- 
 sponsible tenant. 
 
 "We won't ask you in to-day," said Mrs. Pemberton 
 grandly. "But do please come and visit us soon." 
 
 Availing himself of this invitation, Lenny paid a visit 
 on the following afternoon, and another visit two days aft- 
 erwards. 
 
 His third visit was marred by the presence of an inti- 
 mate friend of the family, to whom Lenny took an instinct- 
 ive dislike. This young man — by name Yorke Browning — 
 was black-haired; and sallow-complexioned, except for his 
 chin, which showed the dark, bluish tints of an irrepres- 
 sible beard. He told Lenny that he had always been com- 
 pelled to shave twice a day. Further autobiographical notes 
 that he let fall were to the effect that he had been a so- 
 licitor's clerk, and had then gone on the stage, working 
 first "at the halls" and now "in the legitimate" — line, low 
 comedy. For the rest he was amiable, slangy, would-be- 
 facetious. 
 
 He talked to Joyce in a familiar chaffing manner that 
 Lenny considered objectionable. 
 
 "How's her High and Mightiness? How's Joycey- 
 poicey? I say, old girl, Sir Herbert Tree is putting up 
 Romeo and Juliet, and nobody knows who he's going to 
 get for his Juliet. P'raps you know, eh? Sure to be some- 
 one choice. Ha-ha! What rhymes with choice?" 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Yorke." 
 
 Lenny learned, after a little of this sort of conversation, 
 that Mrs. Pemberton had not been able to keep her daugh- 
 ter altogether off the boards. During the spring Miss 
 Joyce had been round the provinces, playing a small part in 
 a company of which Yorke Browning was a member; and 
 
 392 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 now, after attending some elocution classes, she pined for 
 an opportunity of essaying a big part before a London au- 
 dience. 
 
 "There," said Mrs. Pemberton languidly. "Do leave her 
 alone, Yorke;" and she turned to Lenny and sighed. 
 "Heigh-ho! What are we to do with this child, Mr. Cal- 
 craft?" 
 
 "Give the kid a chance," said Yorke Browning, with a 
 grin. "Let her have her matinee." 
 
 "Yes, thank you for nothing," said Joyce. "If you'll 
 pay the bill, we'll talk about it;" and her eyes flashed 
 angrily, and her mouth had that hard, almost cruel look. 
 
 "Oh, do leave her alone," drawled Mrs. Pemberton. 
 Then, again turning to the guest of honour, she spoke sigh- 
 ingly of a mother's cares. "When her father died she 
 was a little tot, Mr. Calcraft — and I was silly enough to 
 think she'd always be the same size. Heigh-ho! These 
 children! One day it is 'Mummy, do buy me a hoop.' 
 And next day — as it appears — it is 'Mother, will you un- 
 derstand that I'm old enough to know my own mind.' 
 Joyce has shot up like a giant's beanstalk, and she defies me. 
 I'm sure / don't know what to do with her." 
 
 Lenny felt an absurd inclination to say, "Lend her to 
 me for a fortnight;" but of course he said nothing of the 
 kind. He looked across the small room at Joyce, whose 
 features immediately relaxed. 
 
 "Mother," she said, rising and coming over to sit by 
 Lenny, "you're keeping Mr. Calcraft all to yourself, and 
 I don't call it a bit fair." 
 
 "Oh — ah — really — what?" Lenny rolled his head. 
 "Have I — ah — been neglectful?" 
 
 Mr. Yorke Browning plunged his hands in his pockets, 
 turned up his blue chin, and stared at the ceiling, lie 
 seemed to be at once amused, annoyed, and disgusted. 
 
 393 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 About three weeks after this, on an afternoon when Joyce 
 was out, Mrs. Pemberton and Mr. Browning sat at tea 
 together and had a very serious talk about her. 
 
 "Yorke," said Mrs. Pemberton, with much less drawl 
 than usual, "I don't quite like the way Joyce is going about 
 with Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 "Don't you?" said Yorke. "How d'you think / like 
 it?" And he laughed morosely. 
 
 "Well, although, as you know very well, I have never 
 countenanced your engagement " 
 
 Yorke laughed again. "Your not countenancing it 
 would have made a fat lot of difference to Joyce, I don't 
 think." 
 
 Mrs. Pemberton bridled, and called Yorke to order. 
 "That is scarcely respectful." 
 
 "I mean no disrespect," said Yorke. "You've always 
 been my friend. But, Mrs. Pemberton, we reap what we 
 sow. Your mistake with Joyce has been not bringing her 
 up strict enough." 
 
 "What can one do? My dear mother used to punish 
 me severely." 
 
 "And I wish you'd done the same for Joyce." 
 
 "The times are changed." 
 
 "Well then, Joyce is a product of the times. That's 
 just about her ticket." And Yorke laughed sardonically. 
 "But don't you fret, Mrs. Pemberton. Joyce isn't going 
 to come to any harm this journey. Joyce knows her way 
 about." 
 
 "I believe Mr. Calcraft is a man of large means; and, 
 of course, if one could be sure that his intentions are per- 
 fectly honourable " 
 
 "I'm sorry for him if they aren't." 
 
 "Yorke! You mean you'd avenge — you'd bring him 
 to book?" 
 
 394. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "No, I'd leave him to Joyce. There wouldn't be much 
 stuffing left when she'd done with him." 
 
 "Of course if he truly wishes to marry her!" 
 
 "I'm sorry for him if he does. I'm sorry for him either 
 way." 
 
 Mrs. Pemberton protested. She could not allow any- 
 body to adopt this tone when speaking of her daughter. 
 
 "Oh, come off the grass," said Yorke Browning, with 
 sudden irritability. "We're tiled in. If I mayn't speak 
 open now, when may I? For all you know, it's your fu- 
 ture son-in-law addressing you." 
 
 He had got up from his chair; and he walked about the 
 shabby little room, plunged his hands in his pockets, and 
 spoke openly. 
 
 "Imprimis, Joyce has got the devil's own temper. I 
 dessay you know that better than me. Her husband will 
 have to watch it, if he don't want his eyes clawed out. But 
 I don't know as Joyce ever intends to marry. It doesn't 
 come into her scheme of life." 
 
 "Yorke, how can you?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean the other thing either — that is, not 
 necessarily. Joyce is a product of the times — and her the- 
 ory is to spare expense. As to me I I'm not going to get 
 in her light. I've been hard hit by Joyce — I was fonder of 
 her than I've ever been of anybody; and you can't say but 
 what / played the straight game with her. But the up- 
 to-date position is this. I don't know if I'm engaged to 
 Joyce or not. I don't know if I want to be engaged, or 
 wouldn't rather be clean off with it. One thing — she isn't 
 going to fool me any more. There's plenty of fish in the 
 sea. She said to me, last Monday, 'Yorke, wait till you 
 can come and tell me you're earning big money — and we'll 
 talk then.' But I told her flat, 'Perhaps, when that day 
 comes, I'll carry my big money round the corner.' " 
 26 395 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Don't be hard on her, Yorke. She doesn't mean half 
 what she says." 
 
 "No, I hope she doesn't — nor a quarter of it. I tell 
 you, when Jo)'ce fairly lets fly, it's blood-curdling. You 
 wonder wherever she got the language from." 
 
 "She didn't get it from me," said Mrs. Pemberton. 
 
 "Not much ;" and Yorke laughed good-humouredly. "No, 
 the way I explain it is, that if ever Joyce hears a real 
 nasty bit in a play or a book — a bit that most people want 
 to forget as soon as possible — Joyce learns it by heart, and 
 stores it up for future use." 
 
 "Oh, no, you wrong her, Yorke. It's only her hot tem- 
 per. Her father was quick to " 
 
 "Did she ever give you the true particulars of why she 
 left the company in such a hurry? . . . No, I don't 
 suppose she did." 
 
 And Mr. Browning related how Joyce had "let fly" with 
 overpowering eloquence of invective at the leading lady; 
 and how when the manager tried to come to the rescue of 
 his ewe lamb, Joyce let fly at him also. "I tell you, it 
 made the scene shifters shiver." 
 
 "And — and did the manager ask Joyce — to go?" 
 
 "You bet." 
 
 "Heigh-ho!" said Mrs. Pemberton. "Joyce never told 
 me* but I confess I suspected it." 
 
 And although Yorke Browning, when speaking openly, 
 uttered such disparaging words about his sweetheart, they 
 were perhaps well within the mark. For, if Joyce was 
 truly a product of the times, she offered abundant evidence 
 that the times need mending. All that was feminine in 
 this young lady seemed to be the instinct that sex itself 
 is an asset, which may prove highly valuable or practically 
 
 396 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 valueless, in accordance with the clever or the foolish method 
 of its realization. 
 
 She firmly believed that nature had graced her person 
 with certain charms; but when she looked at them in the 
 glass, she was less like a maiden gladdened by the sight of 
 her beauty than like a merchant considering his stock in 
 trade. All this — the brown hair, the animated face, and the 
 shapely little figure — comprised what Joyce had to take to 
 market. 
 
 If fate was leading Lenny now, it had led him upon a 
 perilous path. Could he have guessed it, this sordid little 
 girl was the most dangerous, the most deadly dangerous 
 companion to him in his present mental condition. 
 
XL 
 
 OF an evening they often went to the play — upper 
 circle, morning dress. London was empty now, 
 with the dog days approaching, and one could al- 
 ways get seats at any theatre without the bother of booking 
 them in advance. 
 
 Before the play they used to dine at some unfashionable 
 restaurant where you were sure of a well-cooked dinner 
 and a sound bottle of champagne; and, seated at their table, 
 pleasantly hobnobbing together, they looked like a benev- 
 olent uncle and a bouncing schoolgirl niece. 
 
 "Joyce," and he would lean forward across the table, 
 "are you enjoying your little self?" 
 
 "So-so," said Joyce. 
 
 "Are you sorry that you have to put up with an old 
 fogey like me? I suppose that's what I really seem to 
 you?" 
 
 Joyce sipped her champagne, and smiled archly. 
 
 ''Now, now, Lenny — fishing, fishing! Always fishing 
 for compliments." 
 
 "But I don't catch many, Joyce," and he rolled his head 
 and blinked his eyes. "Please say that you might have had 
 to put up with a worse escort. Say 1 don't look absolutely 
 repulsive." 
 
 "Oh, you'd pass in a crowd;" and Joyce laughed mis- 
 chievously and tantalizingly. 
 
 In her simple little frock and common hat, with eyes 
 3m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Sparkling and cheeks flushed by the wine, she seemed to 
 him rather adorable. He pushed his foot further forward, 
 tacitly inviting her to touch him with her neat little ankles. 
 
 Of an afternoon they used to meet by appointment and 
 walk about the streets. Once he took her to a picture gal- 
 lery in Grafton Street; but Joyce was not amused. She 
 said, "If this is an exhibition, I prefer the shop windows." 
 
 During their second walk he bought her a yellow straw 
 hat with purple feathers. She stood stock still on the pave- 
 ment, admiring it, and he said "Joyce, let me buy it for 
 you as a present. Come inside." 
 
 She consented without demurring. Then, just as he was 
 leading her into the shop, he hesitated and became grave. 
 
 "But, I say, Joyce, do you think your mother will like 
 it?" 
 
 "I don't care whether she likes it or not. She won't have 
 to wear it." 
 
 "No, but I mean, do you think she'll approve of my ac- 
 tion in getting it for you?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'd better be on the safe 
 side — I won't tell her." 
 
 "What!" said Lenny, gratified. "A little secret between 
 you and me, eh?" 
 
 Joyce laughed gaily. "Yes. And I don't care how many 
 little secrets of the same kind. . . . That's only my 
 fun. Of course I shouldn't allow you to give me anything 
 else — at least not for ages." 
 
 Gradually she unfolded to him the bulk of her hopes and 
 ambitions. She wanted to be an actress, a great actress, 
 the most successful and highly paid actress of the hour. 
 
 "Believe me, Lenny, I feel it's in me. Yorke Browning 
 says so. He says I'm mimetic. Things make an impression 
 on me. What I've heard said I can say again. It's tem- 
 p'rament. I have the temp'rament." 
 
 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Well," said Lenny smiling, "I wouldn't be too sure 
 of that. Tm not an actor; but let me tell you a few 
 facts about the way the glamour of the theatre used to 
 influence me at one period — before I reviewed my opinions 
 and reformed them by the light of experience. I can 
 tell you " 
 
 "No. Another time;" and Joyce rattled on. "Be- 
 lieve me, Lenny, it's in me. I could be big — right up 
 there;" and she pointed towards the chimney-pots. 
 "Give me the chance, and I'll wipe the floor with some of 
 your seventy-quid-per-week veterans." She was always 
 slangy when she spoke of her art. "You mayn't credit 
 me with it, Lenny; but it's there — it's there all the time." 
 
 She would not encourage him to tell her his hopes and 
 ambitions; she did not evince the faintest interest in his 
 private affairs — with one exception. She drew him out on 
 the subject of ways and means, and finally learned the 
 exact figures of his annual income. 
 
 "How you do go on about what things cost!" she said 
 mockingly. "Talking of not being able to afford this and 
 that!" 
 
 "No more I can." 
 
 "If I were you, I'd afford anything I pleased; I'd never, 
 never stint myself. That's the value of having heaps of 
 money. And you know very well you're rolling in it." 
 
 "Indeed I'm not rolling in money. I haven't more than 
 fourteen hundred a year, all told." 
 
 "Gammon!" Joyce stopped short, and stared at him 
 incredulously. 
 
 "Gospel truth. Not a penny more than fourteen hundred 
 to rely on." 
 
 "Oh, that isn't much;" and Joyce pouted. "No — it 
 can't be called rolling." Her voice had become serious in 
 tone, and she walked on slowly; but then, brightening 
 
 A00 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 again, she spoke as gaily as usual. "Anyhow, there's a lot 
 of spending in fourteen hundred. I only wish mother and 
 I had half your complaint." 
 
 Lenny was not sorry to avail himself of the opportunity 
 for frankness, because the Bond Street and Piccadilly win- 
 dows were sometimes embarrassing to him. Joyce admiring 
 expensive jewellery was adorable. Lenny felt fascinated 
 while she stood with her little nose close to the plate-glass, 
 and her brown eyes staring at a seven thousand guinea tiara. 
 That was all right. But when it came to nick-nacks at 
 anything from forty shillings to twenty pounds, it began 
 to be troublesome. He had already bought her several 
 trifles; and now that she knew the state of his resources, 
 she would understand that he could not dash into every 
 shop and bring out everything that caught her fancy. 
 
 Yet here she was again — after the revelation, — with her 
 brown eyes glued on a small and vicious-looking sapphire 
 bangle. 
 
 "Come along, Joyce. . . . The, ah, odour of this 
 creosote pavement is most unpleasant — and the, ah, dust is 
 getting down my throat." 
 
 "Well, you are in a hurry!" 
 
 Thinking about it afterwards, he felt that she must have 
 her bangle — if it wasn't atrociously expensive. He went 
 back to the shop by himself, and came away with the bangle 
 in his pocket. He would make use of it by inducing her 
 to give him another treat. 
 
 It was a treat when she came to his rooms in Albert 
 Street, and she did not give him this treat too frequently. 
 
 "Joyce," he said, on the following afternoon, "come to 
 tea with me — at my own place. I have got something there 
 for you. A surprise!" 
 
 She beamed ; and then held up a finger warningly. "But 
 no rot!" And her mouth looked very hard and firm. "If 
 
 401 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 I do come, it's on the understanding you don't try any 
 nonsense." 
 
 What an idea! 
 
 He had told Mrs. Jackson to lay out tea-things for two 
 and to provide some cakes and fruits; and Joyce was 
 pleased with his delicacies. He left her in the front room; 
 and then, coming back, displayed the bangle case, but re- 
 frained from immediately handing it to her. 
 
 "Oh, I say, Lenny. Another present!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's too bad of you — and I told you not another for 
 ages. . . . Well, aren't I to have it?" 
 
 "Joyce, if you're pleased with it, you must give me a 
 kiss." 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 She was pleased with it, and he had his kiss. 
 
 But after tea she put the bangle down, pushed it aside, 
 and pouted. "It's all very well, Lenny — but, oh, if you 
 want to give me a real present — to make me really fond of 
 you — why don't you help me in my profession?" 
 
 "How could I?" 
 
 "Give me my chance." 
 
 And then Joyce sketched out what he might do for her. 
 No vast sums of money would be required. It would be 
 nothing to him — not a year's income, very likely, — if the 
 worst came to the worst, and the whole speculation failed. 
 He should let her have her matinee, and then when she 
 had made her hit, he should get her a good engagement by 
 investing capital in some new play. "It's done every day, 
 Lenny. Wagstaff always finances his own plays — that is, 
 gets somebody else to do it for him." 
 
 "My dear child," said Lenny, rather coldly. "This is 
 a large order." 
 
 "Is it?" And Joyce smiled languishingly. "There are 
 
 402 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 people who would be glad to do it for me — if I wasn't too 
 proud to let them. . . . Well, Lenny?" 
 
 "I'll think about it. I can't say any more." 
 
 Doubtless he was more or less thinking about it for the 
 rest of Joyce's visit, and when she was going he spoke 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "Joyce. If I ever did it " 
 
 "Did what?" 
 
 "What you suggested. If I ever did it, I should expect 
 you, young lady, to be very nice." 
 
 "Well, aren't I nice? Lots of people are good enough 
 to tell me I'm fairly nice." 
 
 "Yes, but to me personally." 
 
 "So I would be — but no rot." 
 
 She returned to the subject of her enterprising proposal 
 during subsequent visits, and once or twice she consented 
 to sit on his knee while they chatted about it. 
 
 "Joyce," he said, "don't tease me. You promised me a 
 kiss this afternoon." 
 
 "Yes, I'll keep my promise." 
 
 And he would have forcibly extracted a prompt fulfil- 
 ment of the promise. 
 
 But she held up her finger. "Lenny, you see that door. 
 If you can't behave yourself, I'll go straight through it." 
 
 "Oh, Joyce!" 
 
 "You must wait. . . . But don't sit with your tongue 
 out, like a dog waiting for a bone;" and she laughed. 
 "Though this is a case of 'Trust and Paid for!'" 
 
 "Joyce, I'm afraid you're a dreadful tease." And after 
 what he considered adequate delay, he appealed to her 
 plaintively. "May I kiss you now?" 
 
 "No. I said I'd kiss you — not you me. There's a great 
 difference. . . . Now!" And she lightly brushed his 
 cheek with her soft warm lips. "There. Good-bye. Many 
 
 403 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 thanks. I must be off." And she got up. "Go on think- 
 ing about it; and be an old dear in the end." 
 
 "Joyce, I can't let you go." He had grabbed at her hand, 
 and was endeavouring to detain her. "When you look at 
 me like that, I feel there's nothing I can refuse you." 
 
 Then she condescended to postpone her departure and 
 to sit on his knee again. 
 
 "Lenny," she said, "you will do it." And she told him 
 that she relied on him absolutely; she counted it as done 
 already; she would be heartbroken if he attempted to back 
 out. "Dear old boy, you're going to give little Joyce her 
 chance, and little Joyce is going to be very fond of you." 
 
 And it seemed to him that it wasn't a matter of going 
 to be, but of is; for she was really nice, giving him a fore- 
 taste of ineffable niceness, making him throb and thrill 
 quite in the grand old way. She continued to be utterly 
 adorable, and remained sitting on his knee, until something 
 unfortunate occurred. 
 
 This was the entrance of the stupid maid-servant, who 
 had come to fetch away the tea-things. 
 
 Joyce sprang up angrily; her brown eyes blazed, and 
 she startled Lenny with the vigour of the reproof that 
 she administered to the intruder. She said that Adelaide 
 ought to be ashamed of herself for so imprudently enter- 
 ing a sitting-room without first knocking at the door. "I 
 never heard of such a thing!" 
 
 Lenny had become cognizant of the fact that Mrs. Jack- 
 son, whose aspect habitually exhibited cheerfulness and sat- 
 isfaction, now looked at him glumly and distressfully. Pie 
 did not ask her what had caused this deterioration in her 
 appearance, but she explained it voluntarily. 
 
 She said that her husband had deputed her to speak to 
 him about "that young person." She said everybody had 
 
 404 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 noticed things, everybody was passing remarks about them. 
 Adelaide, after what she had actually seen — one chair serv- 
 ing the purpose of two chairs — well, Adelaide passed inev- 
 itable remarks. 
 
 "We aren't like Mr. Steers," said Mrs. Jackson. "Mr. 
 and Mrs. Steel perhaps wasn't as particular as we are — 
 but Mr. Jackson and myself have fought hard to keep up 
 the good name of the house. It's always been understood 
 by our gentlemen. . . . Why, the Earl himself, all the 
 time he was with us, never once done so. . . . And if 
 I may say it, sir, such an audacious little " 
 
 "That will do, Mrs. Jackson," Lenny raised his hand 
 impressively. "You may soon regret what you are say- 
 ing," and he blinked his eyes. "The young lady is going 
 to be my wife." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson candidly confessed her astonishment. 
 
 "Don't you think I'm wise?" asked Lenny anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, it's not for me to say, sir. . . . But I should 
 have thought, if you was marrying, you'd want one that 
 would make you comfortable like — not one that would call 
 for looking after." 
 
 "This is the one I want," said Lenny. "It is her youth, 
 as much as anything else, that has decided me to marry 
 her." 
 
 Truly he had made up his mind only that morning; 
 and Mrs. Jackson was the first person to hear of it. He 
 had not even told Joyce yet. 
 
XL! 
 
 HE had been thinking about the theatrical speculation, 
 and was feeling considerable repugnance to Joyce's 
 scheme, when this other notion presented itself. 
 
 Was it too late? Was he too old to marry? He might 
 have thought so till recently, but he did not think so now. 
 George Verinder and he were of the same age; and with 
 his own eyes he had seen George united to a delightful 
 young girl. 
 
 Then almost immediately it seemed to him as the solu- 
 tion of all his difficulties. This other young girl — as young 
 as George's girl — had been sent to him by destiny. It was 
 light in darkness, safety after doubt; it was the new life 
 taking the most beautiful of all conceivable forms. 
 
 Of course there were drawbacks. Where are there not? 
 Joyce's mother was common, her friends were common; 
 but, after all, one does not necessarily marry the mother 
 and the friends. He must remove her from those influences. 
 And, again after all, what the deuce does it matter? He 
 never was a snob; he never had harboured any rubbish 
 about class distinctions — he ought to consider himself thun- 
 dering lucky to secure a really nice girl, with or without a 
 pedigree. Hang pedigrees! A little hard cash wouldn't 
 have come amiss; but you can't have everything. As to 
 her childish ambitions — well, he would not of course allow 
 her to go on the stage. No, there must be an end to that 
 nonsense. He was opening up a far nobler prospect than 
 that. 
 
 406 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Dear little Joyce! She was virtuous — quite unassailably 
 so. Just a wee bit of a spitfire. How fiercely she spoke to 
 Adelaide! But that needn't frighten him. She would set- 
 tle down in her own home, with her own servants ; her petu- 
 lant humour would be banished by gentle influences, re- 
 fined society, and, above all else, love. What a thing love 
 is! George had said so — about his girl. 
 
 Lenny began to dream. Once again his thought streamed 
 boldly into the future; and, as used to happen years and 
 years ago, unseen things were- as real as things seen. 
 
 They would live somewhere in the country. Some tiny 
 little place without shops or pavements or traffic. A vil- 
 lage — a fishing village for choice. Perhaps just big enough 
 to contain some sort of club where the men of the neigh- 
 bourhood could assemble after dinner; and a golf course; 
 yes, a good golf course handy — not more than a mile or two 
 away. Is he too old to play golf? No; men of seventy 
 and eighty take it up. It is invigorating; it is a medicine — 
 the doctors say so. It keeps people alive. If he find him- 
 self unable to pick up the knack of it, he can still — like old 
 Reed — potter about the links; he can be blown at by the 
 wholesome sea air, be toned by the genial sunshine; he can 
 walk round after the men who are able to play, and come 
 back sharp-set to the snug little dinner with the dear little 
 wife waiting for him in the candle-light. 
 
 He could visualize it all most clearly — his long healthy 
 happy day; and if he did not also visualize the dear little 
 wife or wonder how she might be amusing herself while 
 he was on the links, she became vivid and strong when, 
 hastily throwing down her needlework, she tripped through 
 the parlour to the hall and welcomed him with a radiant 
 smile. 
 
 It was a warmly soothing dream that left behind it a 
 dominant idea. So dominant, indeed, that it shut out all 
 
 IM 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 minor mental processes. It was lord of his mind, and the 
 one great necessity now was to obey it with promptness. 
 He felt that his resolution to marry Joyce was something 
 which it would be as improper to question as it would be 
 impossible to shake. 
 
 Miss Pemberton's poorly furnished house did not possess 
 a telephone, so he sent a telegraphic message. 
 
 "Stay in for me this afternoon. I have important 
 news. Lenny." 
 
 A slatternly servant, ushering him into the shabby draw- 
 ing-room, told him that Mrs. Pemberton was out; and 
 he thought himself lucky to get Joyce all to himself. 
 
 She appeared at once, looking too sweet for words, just 
 as he had seen her in his dream. 
 
 "Well," she said, "have you made up your mind at 
 last?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, smiling at her. 
 
 She ran to him with outstretched hands. "Oh, you 
 dear! You perfect dear!" And she gave him a kiss, with- 
 out being asked for this favour. 
 
 "Joyce, my pretty one, let's sit down, and talk snugly. 
 I have been thinking about you ever since I saw you and 
 you were so nice to me. You are far too nice to waste 
 your life as an actress. So I've come to the conclusion 
 that, after all, you are not going on the stage." 
 
 "Not going on the stage! Indeed I am!" 
 
 "No. I have something better to offer you than that." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 He smiled at her fatuously. "My heart and hand." 
 
 Her cheeks had flushed, and the lines of her mouth grew 
 hard. 
 
 408 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Lenny, no rot. What d'you mean?" 
 
 "I mean to marry you;" and he opened his arms, with 
 the intention of clasping her to his breast. 
 
 Joyce gave him a violent push in the middle of his waist- 
 coat, and sprang away from him. 
 
 "Lenny, shut up. Don't play the fool about this;" and 
 she held up her finger warningly. "This is serious. I've 
 counted on you — solid as the Bible. I couldn't stand such 
 a disappointment. I'd never forgive you, if you backed 
 out." 
 
 "But my — my dear child! I — I'm not backing out; I'm, 
 ah, coming forward." 
 
 "Gammon! You're old enough to know better than 
 to talk such stuff." Her cheeks reddened still more, and 
 her eyes blazed. "Lenny, I'm not good-tempered when 
 people disappoint me — and if you make me angry, I shall 
 tell you what I think of you." 
 
 For a few moments she paced to and fro, as if struggling 
 to suppress excitement; and Lenny, with his mouth open, 
 watched her stupidly. He had been so completely under 
 the dominion of a fixed idea, that obstacles to its being con- 
 verted into accomplished fact really flabbergasted him. 
 Why should she be angry? — he could not understand what 
 was happening. 
 
 "Lenny — I won't believe it." She had relaxed the lines 
 about her lips, and she came to him cajolingly, and spoke 
 with affected kindness. "You wouldn't play such a trick 
 on your little Joyce — after she has trusted you, and shown 
 that she is just a little bit fond of you." 
 
 "Yes, and I'm enormously fond of you. Don't I prove 
 it by my proposal? And I'm ready — quite anxious — to tell 
 your mother the same thing." 
 
 For a little while longer she spoke in meek entreat j 
 
 409 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 'he begged him not to act the giddy goat, not to talk bosh, 
 iiot to evade the carrying out of what she declared was 
 a solemn bargain between them; but he could not reassure 
 her: he could only reiterate his explanation that the silly 
 theatrical scheme had been thrust into the remote back- 
 ground by the delightful connubial scheme. He could but 
 confess that his decision was unshakable. 
 
 And then Joyce let fly at him. 
 
 He heard then exactly what he seemed to the eyes of 
 this young person of the other sex. She was in a white 
 fury now, and vituperation poured from her with torrential 
 vigour. 
 
 "So be it," he muttered piteously. . . . "Ah, Joyce, 
 I take it — from this, ah, attack, that you would not under 
 any conditions care to marry me." 
 
 "Me — marry you?" And she laughed with bitter scorn. 
 "Sit down quiet on half of your beggarly fourteen hundred 
 a year? Me — who hopes and intends to be drawing her 
 hundred quid a week — yes, and more! But I wouldn't 
 marry you — no, not if you had millions a year." 
 
 "You, ah, certainly encouraged me to hope " 
 
 "Encouraged you ! I asked you to help me — and if you'd 
 done it like a man, I'd have put up with your slobbering 
 nonsense as part of the bargain. / wouldn't have backed 
 out — not till you turned me sick." 
 
 "Joyce, for pity's sake!" 
 
 He had lifted his hands to his head, and they sank again 
 feebly. Now he stretched them out, imploring her to stop. 
 
 "I kissed you, didn't I? And I let you paw me about — 
 though I wanted to call out for a basin. And now you 
 won't pay the price. But I'm to marry you. Why you 
 aren't like a man." 
 
 She was dreadful to see, clenching her fists, lashing her- 
 self into fiercer rage — a creature common as dirt, implac- 
 
 410 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ably base, compared with whom those jam girls at the Ef^ 
 End were gentle fairies. 
 
 "It's a hospital nurse you want — not a wife. Somebody 
 to dress you and keep you clean — and tie a napkin round 
 your neck when you eat your food." 
 
 To Lenny it sounded like doom speaking. It was the 
 unpitying voice of youth denouncing age. It was the noc- 
 turnal terror personified, and torturing him in broad day- 
 light. 
 
 "Joyce, don't — oh, please, don't go on." 
 
 "Marry you? Me!" 
 
 He raised his hands, with the gesture of some poor emas- 
 culate wretch whom bullies have attacked in savage violence, 
 and who is helpless beneath the cruel blows. 
 
 u Me!" And she gave a horrible laugh. "Look at me. 
 Put up with you! Why you're rotten — not half alive — 
 dead and decaying. Just something ugly left by the road- 
 side, because Death the Scavenger is too lazy to come and 
 clear you away." 
 
 And he took it all as real, believed it to be a genuine 
 and unbiased opinion — did not for a moment understand 
 that these were scraps which she had put together from 
 memory's store. 
 
 "Yes, that's right." 
 
 He felt dazed and shattered, and he was moving slowly 
 and heavily towards the door. 
 
 Joyce had rung the bell, and she Jointed at the door 
 theatrically. 
 
 He sat alone in his room, huddling himself in his big arm- 
 chair; and when the shadows deepened all about him, he 
 did not rouse himself to turn on the electric light. The 
 shadows were coming to him thick and fast; and he had 
 no spirit left to go on fighting them. 
 27 ill 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He told Mrs. Jackson that she was not to prepare any 
 dinner for him, and that he did not desire to see her hus- 
 band. He said that he was in trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson came to him during the evening and begged 
 him to take some soup or some sandwiches; but he replied 
 that he could not eat anything at all. 
 
 "I'm sorry to see you so low, sir. Shall I send Mr. 
 Jackson to fetch a doctor? You may have caught a chill." 
 
 "No," he said, in a dull, lifeless tone. "Doctors can't 
 help me." 
 
 "Then what is it, sir, that's troubling you? . . . Not 
 the young lady?" 
 
 "Yes. The match is broken off." 
 
 "Permanent, sir — or perhaps it's nothing but a little 
 tiff?" 
 
 "For ever." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson's honest face glowed with satisfaction. 
 "Then I do congratulate you now, if I wasn't able to this 
 morning. It's the best day's work you could 'a done." 
 
 "Think so?" said Lenny, in the same dull tone. 
 
 He was suffering from shock rather than from grief. 
 Two things had shaken him before this — the conversation 
 in Dryden's office, and the death of Mrs. Fletcher; but this 
 third thing, the scene with Joyce, had shaken him to his 
 foundations. He felt broken, done for, as if it was no use 
 trying to get over it. 
 
XLII 
 
 TIME was passing; but Lenny had ceased to count it. 
 Once or twice in the last twelve months he had been 
 greatly worried by hints that the Jacksons intended 
 before long to retire from business. What on earth would 
 happen to him then? He sounded Jackson on the possibility 
 of his retiring with them — that is, going wherever they 
 went, remaining under their care, enjoying their society 
 as a paying guest, if not as a lodger. But Jackson seemed 
 in doubt as to whether this could be managed. 
 
 The fact was that Lenny's habits would probably cause 
 trouble in any modest country household. Mrs. Jackson 
 and the maid had the greatest difficulty to get at his bed- 
 room and clean it before night fell. He got up fearfully 
 late, and often did not go out all day. He would half 
 dress himself and then meander from room to room; and 
 when Mrs. Jackson suggested fresh air, he told her that 
 there was nothing to tempt him into it. 
 
 "Have you given up your Turkish baths, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, I have. . . . But I don't know if one mightn't 
 do me good. I'll go to-morrow — perhaps." 
 
 He needed a strong stimulus to draw him out of doors; 
 but sometimes a newspaper advertisement would catch his 
 fancy, and then, after brooding over its promises, he roused 
 himself to definite effort. Thus, an advertisement about 
 "manicuring in the home circle" attracted him so much 
 that he sallied forth and procured a compact set of manicure 
 instruments. But this purchase kept him indoors for a 
 
 413 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 week. Hour after hour he sat polishing his nails, anoint- 
 ing them with pink paste, paring and tweaking them with 
 artful little curved nippers. 
 
 He was tired of the club; and would never have gone 
 to it if Mrs. Jackson had not driven him there. But at 
 intervals Mrs. Jackson became obdurate. She said the time 
 had come when she must and would give the two rooms a 
 thorough airing and cleaning, and Lenny submitted un- 
 willingly enough to this recurrent nuisance. 
 
 At the club, people were rude and uncouth — especially 
 one man. Lenny talked very little, but if he could secure 
 listeners he would still tell an anecdote: indeed he had one 
 story that he was quite fond of telling. It was a true 
 account of his experiences while a dentist applied local 
 anaesthesia to the lower gums and extracted two prodigious 
 stumps; and Lenny always wound up the story with the 
 same words. "Absolutely no pain — on my honour — from 
 start to finish. " 
 
 But one day the rude man — the enemy — said brutally, 
 "Can't you give that tale a holiday, Calcraft? Don't you 
 think we've heard enough about your false teeth?" And, 
 although the man plainly meant to be rude, not a soul took 
 Lenny's part and reproved him. 
 
 "They're not kind to me," Lenny thought, driving home 
 in his taxi. "They're hateful to me. They're a lot of 
 pigs." 
 
 When he walked a little way on warm afternoons, he 
 scrutinized the shop windows, vaguely searching for novel 
 articles that offered comfort or safety. In this manner 
 he bought, on different occasions, a leather pillow filled with 
 poppies to make him sleep; some sound-resisting mats for 
 the landing by his door; and a marvellous fire escape, which 
 he caused to be affixed to the window of his bedroom. The 
 
 414 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 maid-servant behaved very badly in regard to this apparatus. 
 When Lenny wished to see if it worked properly, she flatly 
 refused to be dropped down the canvas tube from the first 
 floor to the back yard; and he was so huffed with her that 
 he sent her to Coventry for two whole days. 
 
 The pillow of poppies was a failure. It did not make 
 him sleep, and yet he attributed to it certain puzzling, 
 almost inexplicable properties. It seemed to have a power 
 of wafting him from side to side of the bed, or rather to 
 give him the sensation of movement when he knew that 
 he had not really moved. 
 
 This, however, was only one of many strange sensations 
 that perplexed him as he lay between sleeping and waking. 
 Strange and wonderful sensations — some of them pleasing 
 and others distressing; but, good or bad, they possessed 
 a common quality of intimacy, even of sacredness. They 
 were a matter which he must not speak of to anyone. Above 
 all, instinct told him that they were to be kept from the 
 combined obtuseness and inquisitiveness of these doctors. 
 The doctors had proved useless — no more of their interfer- 
 ence for him! Whatever he suffered, he must support it 
 in silence. It must be kept as a mysterious secret shared 
 only by himself and his pillow. 
 
 His best sleep — his only true oblivion — came after the 
 early breakfast; and it was for this reason that he lay so 
 long abed. Surely an explanation simple enough for any- 
 body! But Mrs. Jackson was so dense that she never 
 seemed able to grasp it. 
 
 The reason why he dressed so slowly was also simple. 
 He could not dress without looking at himself in the three- 
 winged glass beneath the bedroom window; and yet, when- 
 ever he saw his reflection, it infallibly checked proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 415 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 He did not count time, but he recognized its abominable 
 work. The nasty northern light filled the looking-glass, 
 made it clear as crystal and merciless as a truth-telling girl. 
 
 While he lifted the first of his vests to put it over his 
 head, he saw the pitiable shrinkage of the once superb torso. 
 His collar bones showed distinctly; the glory of his massive 
 shoulders was all gone. With a sigh he turned away, 
 to put on the other vest and his flannel undershirt. 
 
 Then he would sink into a chair before the glass, and 
 study his face. He stared at the tarnished eyes and heavy 
 eyelids, at the grey hair, at the ugly stubble of beard that 
 seemed white and patchy. Sometimes there were blood- 
 shot veins in the eyes, and the lids appeared so ponderous 
 that one wondered how they were able to flutter up and 
 down with such rapidity. And his cheeks! Where was 
 the smooth polish, the graceful curve, the grand solidity? 
 It seemed that there was scarcely any flesh left upon the 
 cheek-bones. 
 
 And he would go on growing thinner and thinner; it 
 would be an unceasing progress — the transformation from 
 the live face to the grinning skull. 
 
 He thought, with a horror that every day renewed itself, 
 of our dependence on this bodily integument of bones, flesh, 
 and viscera. It is our house of life, in which we sit en- 
 throned, seeming omnipotent, immortal ; and yet if the house 
 falls, we are inexorably destroyed with it. 
 
 Terrible, most terrible law and doom — to watch the 
 body droop, decay, grow weak and fragile; to feel that we 
 depend on its force and endurance; to know that w T e cannot 
 escape from the approaching wreck. 
 
 He turned his head to right and to left, staring into the 
 winged glass, and seeing three sides of the perishable casket 
 that contained this divine but evanescent spark — the soul of 
 Lenny. 
 
 416 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 One afternoon when Mrs. Jackson had banished him from 
 Albert Street and he had been sleeping on a couch in the 
 club library, he woke with a start out of a bad dream, and 
 found the ordinarily quiet room full of excitement and com- 
 motion. 
 
 All the other sleepers had awakened; people were jump- 
 ing up; strangers were hurrying towards him. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he asked sulkily. 
 
 "Well, you gave such a groan that we were afraid you 
 were in a fit." 
 
 "Oh, no. I'm all right." 
 
 He assumed an odd kind of morose dignity, pulled him- 
 self together, and left the room. ' As he slowly descended 
 the marble staircase, his deportment exhibited both vacilla- 
 tion and truculence. In the hall people looked at him at- 
 tentively. 
 
 "Going home, sir? I've called a cab." The porter, hav- 
 ing come out of the glass box, was helping him on with his 
 overcoat. 
 
 "Er, ah, thank you, Collins. Yes, it is my wish to go 
 home." 
 
 Upstairs a member of the committee had gone into the 
 secretary's office, and was talking about him. 
 
 "That fellow Calcraft — they say he behaves so queerly, 
 don't you know. Have you observed anything?" 
 
 "No; but I've heard a lot." 
 
 And the secretary mentioned certain rather queer things 
 that Calcraft was said to have done. However, he did 
 not think there was anything to make a fuss about. 
 
 "He very rarely comes here. Several members have 
 given him the straight tip that he isn't wanted — and I 
 believe he understands that he bores them." 
 
 "Then you don't think it's necessary to do anything? 
 He's only a bore — not really offensive?" 
 
 417 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Oh, no — quite inoffensive. Merely a bore. And of 
 course he isn't the only one." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 And the committee-man and the secretary both laughed 
 good-humouredly. 
 
XLIII 
 
 LENNY did not go to the club again. He told Mrs. 
 Jackson that she must contrive to clean his rooms 
 one at a time, and not deprive him of both of them 
 together. Now and then he sent Jackson with a written 
 order to the club porter for the delivery of letters; but 
 the answer brought home by Jackson was nearly always 
 the same. "No letters at the club for Mr. Calcraft." 
 
 The world was rolling away from him: almost all of 
 its busy inhabitants had become callously indifferent to his 
 poor little pleasures, if not absolutely forgetful of his very 
 existence. And, alas, among those who neglected him was 
 the man Jackson. 
 
 Long since, Jackson had begun to shirk the evening talks, 
 and now he totally avoided them. When feebly tackled, 
 he made excuses. He apologized most respectfully, but 
 there was an unmistakable purpose and resolution about 
 it. It simply meant: No more Jackson to gossip and drink 
 whisky with. 
 
 So now, in the hours after dinner as well as in the hours 
 before it, Lenny was left quite alone. 
 
 One night when Jackson had cleared the dinner-table and 
 made his respectful adieux, he returned unexpectedly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir; but, you know, yesterday you 
 sent me to ask for letters — and you never mentioned it 
 again. Well, sir, I have to apologize for forgetting it, but 
 there was a letter for you." 
 
 419 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Was there, Jackson?" 
 
 Lenny was sitting in the big armchair, near the fire and 
 he did not look around. 
 
 "Here it is, sir," and Jackson laid the letter on the small 
 table by Lenny's chair. "Good-night, sir." 
 
 "Ah — er — thank you, Jackson. . . . Good- 
 night." 
 
 Lenny felt tired after a muddled and distressing sort 
 of day, and quite an hour passed before he turned from 
 the fire and picked up the letter. Throughout the day his 
 mind had been dull and confused — with something opaque 
 between him and the outside world, so that his thoughts 
 were all like prisoners in a prison. 
 
 He sat staring at the envelope. Her handwriting! He 
 would know it among a million hands. And he seemed to 
 hear her voice — remote, faint, but unmistakable. 
 
 "Lenny. . . . Lenny!" 
 
 He whispered her name. "Alma. . . . Alma!" 
 
 His mind brightened. That sound, reaching him from 
 a far-off voice, was like a sunbeam in a darkened place, a 
 breath of sweet pure air in a foul dungeon. And he heard 
 her voice once more — remote, but distinct enough for him 
 to catch the deepening note that used to stir him so pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 "Lenny. . . . My own Lenny." 
 
 A last call — the voice of his good angel! Lenny's blood- 
 shot eyes were suffused with the too ready tears. He 
 sniffed, wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat, and opened 
 the envelope. 
 
 Yes, her signature — no one else's. But, oh, how long! 
 A screed ! Four pages of it. What a task she had set him ! 
 His mind grew dull again. Nevertheless he settled to the 
 work, and read on and on, slowly and laboriously — without 
 skipping a sentence. 
 
 430 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Dear Lenny, — Perhaps this is one of the letters that 
 had better never have been written; but I cannot help 
 writing it. Burn it directly you have read it, and then 
 send me one line to say that you received it. I trust you 
 not to fail me in either of these requests. 
 
 "I have been ill; and while I was recovering, I often 
 thought of you. And I thought you must sometimes 
 think of me, and that it would be dreadful if, instead 
 of getting well, I had died without telling you things 
 that I want you to know — things that I believe you will 
 be glad to know." 
 
 He sighed, and slowly turned the first page. When 
 women get going with a pen, they seem to go splashing 
 along as if they are taking exercise, doing something for 
 the good of their health. 
 
 "I want you to know that I am happy, absolutely and 
 entirely happy. The past is as if it had never been; and 
 I look forward, as far as human eyes may see, without 
 doubt and without fear. So, dear Lenny, if you some- 
 times reproached yourself for causing me great pain, you 
 need not do so any longer. And that is the thing that 
 I believe you will be glad to know. 
 
 "I say it with a spirit of faith, though it may seem 
 impious: you made me descend into hell; and then, after 
 tasting more than the bitterness of death, I was lifted 
 into Heaven. For two years after you and I parted for 
 the last time, on the cruellest day of my life, I suffered 
 those torments of purgatory which alone could cle.m.e 
 me from sin. And then the saints took pity on me; the 
 saints interceding for me prevailed, and a miracle was 
 granted. At the end of those two dark years, a child « .is 
 born to me." . . . 
 
 431 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny thought about it dully and yet fretfully. "This 
 is all mighty fine, but what precisely is she getting at? 
 Surely she has not so fogged herself with religion, that now 
 
 she tries to make out that " He turned back the pages, 
 
 and slowly re-read enigmatic passages. Two years after- 
 wards! Oh, all right. The other idea would have been 
 rather too much of a joke. 
 
 . . . "My first baby was a boy, and my second 
 is a girl; and both are splendid children, like the children 
 of a young mother who had never sinned and never suf- 
 fered. Those wiser than myself " 
 
 "Oh, Lord," thought Lenny, "now we are going to have 
 the priests again." He plodded on with it wearily. 
 
 . . . "And in their father's face, I see a love that 
 nothing will ever take from me. He is happy too, and 
 that is the crown of my happiness. So think of me like 
 this, dear Lenny: as one who has no room in her heart 
 for a single unkind thought of you, who has forgotten 
 and forgiven, who, when praying for those she loves now, 
 is able to pray for someone that she loved a long time 
 ago." 
 
 He read it to the very end; and then placed it on the 
 table by his side. He felt completely fagged by the labour 
 of reading it. So Alma was happy. Capital! But he 
 could not rejoice with her; he could not in imagination see 
 her; he could not catch the real purport of her rigmaroling 
 message. Happy — yes, but why worry him about it? So 
 like a woman! 
 
 And, staring at the fire, he thought that there had been 
 too many women in his life. A mistake. Perhaps it was 
 the women that had tired him so infernally. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 For another hour he remained quiet and inert; then 
 he moved restlessly. He was again thinking of Alma's 
 letter. Why had she written to him? Vaguely he remem- 
 bered something in the letter — some bothering request. 
 What was it that she wanted him to do? . . . Oh, 
 yes. Burn the letter. Of course — common-sense. A 
 dashed silly letter to write — might cause one endless annoy- 
 ance. Suppose it fell into the hands of blackmailers? He 
 felt considerable indignation as he laid Alma's letter on top 
 of the glowing coals. 
 
 There! He watched it burn. A curious sound as the 
 heat twisted the paper — a sound like a remote voice whis- 
 pering his name; — then a bright flame, and then a little 
 smoke. And he thought, "Yes, how much that seems im- 
 portant ends in smoke!" 
 
 That night he was kept awake by the noise of the traffic. 
 It was the first time he had been thus disturbed, and he 
 recalled the assurances given to him by Jackson. The 
 landlord had emphatically declared that no one could hear 
 the traffic either of Bond Street or the Square. 
 
 Not hear it? What a monstrous wicked lie! What 
 a shocking, underhand proceeding! A stream of traffic 
 — a tremendous sea, rolling and crashing on a giant beach: 
 two seas, one on each side of him, with two pitiless tides, 
 setting north and south. 
 
 And in respites of quiet, when the tides ran low, this 
 other discomfort occasioned by sounds so faint that you 
 had to strain your ear to catch them! Whispering? Yes, 
 people whispering all about the silent house. There! Just 
 outside his door — two people intermittently whispering. But 
 who were the whisperers? 
 
 Suddenly he understood. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson plot- 
 ting mischief! And it seemed to him that for a long period 
 
 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 of time he had entertained shrewd suspicions as to the 
 faithfulness and integrity of these Jacksons. His landlord 
 was a rascal, and his landlady no better. When a man 
 has told you one thumping lie, he will tell you a devil's 
 procession of lies. 
 
 But what little game were they hatching out there? 
 Black treachery. It must be something very bad indeed 
 which people are afraid to speak of in their warm bed, 
 and can only whisper when they have crept downstairs 
 and stand upon a patent sound-resisting mat. 
 
 "All right, my friends. You may go on whispering till 
 you're blue with cold. A nod is as good as a wink to a 
 blind horse. Forewarned, forearmed. I'm ready for your 
 plots now;" and he smiled, and soon began to doze. He 
 had been strangely amused and more strangely calmed 
 by the thought of the night air blowing about the unpro- 
 tected legs of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. 
 
 Next day he felt exhausted; nevertheless some inchoate 
 necessity for action impelled him to attempt unusual toil. 
 But what? During his morning sleep he had somehow 
 lost the thread of the argument. 
 
 However, rather than do nothing at all, he recurred 
 to an old habit. This was the dragging out of the contents 
 of his despatch-box and a large tin deed-case. The leather 
 box held cheque-books, pass-books, his neglected account- 
 books, and so on; and the tin case was stuffed full of let- 
 ters and photographs — memorabilia or historical records 
 of immense interest. 
 
 In the afternoon he sat with a faded photograph in his 
 hand, vainly worrying himself as he strove to revive dim 
 memories. Who was this old chap, with the beaked nose, 
 the bushy eyebrows, and the generally familiar appearance? 
 It was someone that he had known very well. His colonel 
 when he was in the Guards? But was he, Lenny, ever 
 
 424. 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 in the Guards? Surely he had been a soldier — a distin- 
 guished soldier — a V.C.? Or was it the Navy? Which- 
 ever service it was, he had left it because he found the 
 life too hard. Doctors had advised him to be careful. 
 
 The effort to settle all this produced a dreadful muddled 
 discomfort. Then suddenly and quite unexpectedly he be- 
 gan to weep. He stared at the photograph with overflowing 
 eyes. "That was my father — my dear, dear father!" 
 
 But the doubt as to the cross for valour soon surged up 
 again. Surely he had in fact won it — by repelling a charge 
 of cavalry? Horses galloping at him furiously, and unaided 
 he had stopped them. Then, if so, w r here was the cross 
 itself — the iron or bronze ornament that he had worn, and 
 that soldier-friends used to speak of as "the coveted decora- 
 tion"? He could not find it. Not in the despatch-box 
 or the tin case — not anywhere. He hunted for it through 
 both rooms, and his suspicions of last night grew stronger. 
 These people — these Jacksons — were thieves. They had 
 stolen his decoration. 
 
 Presently he summoned Mrs. Jackson, and informed her 
 that he must give up the rooms and leave at once. He 
 did not accuse her of malpractices, because he had just 
 decided that it would be impolitic to do so. The need 
 now was to escape from the den of thieves; he could call 
 them to account afterwards. 
 
 "Have the kindness," he said, "to get the bill ready, 
 while I pack my things." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson naturally tried to dissuade him from such 
 a hasty and unanticipated departure; but he told her that 
 he had good reasons for going without another day's 
 delay. 
 
 "My reasons," he said, "are of a strictly private char- 
 acter — at any rate for the present. I will perhaps explain 
 them later on. . . . Now, send me all my trunks; and 
 
 425 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 if Jackson has a touch of gratitude or decent feeling, he will 
 come and help me pack." 
 
 Jackson was out, and therefore Lenny for a long while 
 received no better assistance than could be furnished by the 
 maid-servant. And he himself was impotent to make any 
 real progress. He emptied the wardrobes, piled the gar- 
 ments on the bed, but put scarcely anything in the trunks; 
 he carried things from room to room; he created an as- 
 tounding chaos in both rooms. 
 
 At about seven o'clock Jackson returned, and urged him 
 to renounce the idea of abandoning his comfortable quar- 
 ters. Mrs. Jackson also repeated her entreaties. But it 
 was all of no avail. Lenny must and would be off. 
 
 Jackson regretfully did the packing — a slow and diffi- 
 cult job, because Lenny interfered with him every moment, 
 and could not say which were the things he would take 
 away now and which were those that should be sent after 
 him. It was nearly ten o'clock before the packing was 
 completed and a four-wheeled cab stood at the door. 
 
 While Jackson was bringing down the last trunk, Lenny 
 talked to the cabman confidentially. He said that he was 
 going to seek for lodgings, and he asked the cabman to 
 aid him in finding them. They must be in a quiet street, 
 and thoroughly comfortable and respectable. 
 
 The cabman said it was rather late to look for lodgings. 
 However, after a devious and protracted drive, he pulled up 
 in the Marylebone Road, on the north side, between Baker 
 Street and the Great General Railway Station. 
 
 "This," he said, "seems quiet enough, sir. That long 
 garden in front!" 
 
 By night it was a sinister-looking house. — The ground- 
 floor windows screened with metal gauze, on which one 
 just discerned some large lettering; scarcely any illumina- 
 tion, merely a gleam of red firelight from the dark base- 
 
 426 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 ment and weak gaslight above the front door — no answer 
 for a considerable time to the tinkling front bell. 
 
 At last the door opened, and Lenny saw his new land- 
 lord — a very sinister-looking person, pallid, thin, ghoul- 
 like. 
 
 "What's your name?" asked Lenny. 
 
 "Well," and the man hesitated. "Well, my name's Field- 
 ing. And what may your name be?" 
 
 "My name is Leonard Calcraft. We have never met 
 before;" and hurriedly he explained his requirements. 
 
 Mr. Fielding said he must consult with "the wife"; and 
 a small, sallow, vixenish Frenchwoman came up the kitchen 
 stairs into the dirty hall. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Fielding, after discussing matters with 
 this woman, "the gentleman can have the top floor. It is 
 quiet as the grave." 
 
 Lenny instantly engaged it, and the landlord with the 
 Cabman carried up his trunks. 
 
 23 
 
XLIV 
 
 BY day the house had a wickedly forbidding aspect — 
 so meanly compressed, so closely shut, so silent — as 
 of an avaricious person who is hiding a secret. 
 
 Once there had been a dentist on the ground floor, and 
 his lettered sign was still decipherable, but he himself was 
 there no more; a dressmaker on the first floor and some 
 women on the floor above her had also gone. The house 
 was empty of guests now, except for the lodger on the top 
 floor. 
 
 July sunbeams pouring through shut windows of his 
 bedroom made the atmosphere oppressively warm, but he 
 did not mind that. On the contrary he liked the snug- 
 ness. The furniture consisted of wretched valueless things; 
 the empty trunks, standing piled in a corner, were thick 
 with dust; the whole room was sordid and ugly; — but 
 Lenny did not mind; indeed he observed nothing unusual, 
 nothing that he would have wished to see altered. 
 
 Lenny is insane. Night and day, lying in the bed, he is 
 at the mercy of his landlord and landlady. How long has 
 he lain like this? Impossible to say. Wisps of grey hair 
 hang over his bloodshot eyes; his beard is five or six inches 
 in length; altogether he looks immeasurably older than 
 when he made his precipitate flight from the good Jacksons. 
 Certainly he must have been here for many months — possi- 
 bly for years. He is neither dangerous nor troublesome; 
 
 428 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 the dominant idea being a desire that those on whom he 
 depends shall keep him quiet and make him comfortable. 
 
 His landlord, going in and out of the room, would say 
 blandly, "Traffic, sir? Oh, no, sir. No traffic now. We 
 stopped that, last March. Don't you remember? You 
 gave the order yourself. No more traffic to pass the door, 
 night or day, under any pretext whatever." 
 
 "That's right. That's right," said Lenny, with eager- 
 ness. "It is still my order. I must not be disturbed." 
 
 "No, sir. You shan't be disturbed." 
 
 Truly, he was an easy lodger, and an enormously, in- 
 credibly profitable one. 
 
 The landlord had soon possessed himself of all informa- 
 tion as to Lenny's antecedents; he had taken charge of 
 cheque-books, pass-books, and papers; he wrote a near clerkly 
 hand, and professed to be Lenny's authorized secretary and 
 man of business. 
 
 Just at first Lenny had shown occasional flashes of sus- 
 picion. Ages ago, waking at night, he saw the man and 
 the woman kneeling on the floor, and extracting the con- 
 tents of the treasured despatch-box. 
 
 "Hullo!" Lenny jumped up in bed, and protested. 
 "Don't touch that box. What are you doing?" 
 
 "Only making you comfortable, sir." 
 
 That always pacified him. 
 
 "Yes," said Lenny, sinking back on the pillows. "Yes, 
 make me comfortable." 
 
 By playing with the dominant idea, they could induce him 
 to accept all phenomena as natural and proper. He would 
 affix his signature to letters, to blank cheques, to anything 
 put before him with an announcement of benevolent inten- 
 tions. 
 
 "Here you are, sir. The wife and I have a plan of 
 
 ♦29 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 making you more comfortable. It will cost money. But 
 I suppose you don't grudge it?" 
 
 "No," said the lodger eagerly. "I do not grudge it." 
 
 "Very well. Sign this, please;" and a pen was put into 
 his hand by the man, while the woman held a writing-board 
 against his raised knees. 
 
 He signed letters without attempting to read them — 
 letters to his bankers, asking for his pass-book and another 
 cheque-book, instructing them to sell out English stock; 
 and letters to his stockbrokers, instructing them to buy 
 foreign bonds to bearer. 
 
 This, then, was the condition of Lenny when the July 
 sun shone upon his fastened windows and he dozed in the 
 stifling air. Alone, helpless, forgotten. 
 
 But it seemed that there was still one person in the 
 world who remembered Lenny, and felt uneasiness because 
 he had disappeared from human ken. She had waited a 
 long time for an answer to a letter; but no word from 
 Lenny ever came, and this silence was to her mind inex- 
 plicable. She brooded over the mystery; and then, looking 
 round and finding a staunch messenger, she sent him forth 
 with insistent commands to ascertain what had befallen 
 Lenny. 
 
 Lenny's address was not known by officials at the club, 
 but they gave the name of Lenny's bank; the bankers knew 
 Lenny's address, but because of their rules could not dis- 
 close it. They would, however, supply the name of Lenny's 
 stockbrokers; and the stockbrokers, after consideration, gave 
 the Marylebone Road address. 
 
 So now, to the disgust of Mr. Fielding and the wrath of 
 his little French shrew, a visitor stands at the hall door, 
 and asks to see their lodger. 
 
 "Oh," said Fielding, "he can't see anybody," 
 
 430 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But it was scarcely probable that this broad-faced reso- 
 lute visitor, having had so much trouble in hunting Lenny 
 to ground, would refrain from unearthing him. 
 
 "It's no use;" said Fielding. "I couldn't take the re- 
 sponsibility of letting you in." 
 
 "Then /'ll take all responsibility;" and with uncere- 
 monious brusqueness the visitor pushed Fielding aside, en- 
 tered the hall, and began opening doors. 
 
 Soon he had found his way to the top floor, and was 
 standing by Lenny's bedside, and looking down with pity 
 and dismay at his haggard face. 
 
 "Calcraft! Lenny! Don't you know me? I'm Gerald 
 Dryden." 
 
 Dryden came sadly down the stairs, to go out and bring 
 a doctor back with him. 
 
 The doctor said that of course Lenny was quite mad, 
 and also of course that he ought to be in an asylum. The 
 doctor said it seemed a shocking state of affairs, and he told 
 Mr. Fielding that it was a punishable offence to keep a 
 lunatic in such a manner. Indeed both he and Dryden 
 talked severely to Fielding, and asked many pointed ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "We knew he was an invalid." — This was the substance 
 of Fielding's replies under cross-examination. — "He was an 
 invalid when he come to us, but we never knew that he was 
 mad. He always talked sensible enough, and will now, if 
 you don't frighten him. . . . Oh, as to his money — 
 quite capable to manage it. . . . Of course we assisted 
 him, same as he requested us. . . . I'm sure we're 
 more like losers than gainers by having him here. He was 
 always borrowing money from us. Then he would pay us 
 something on account; and so it went on. But, unless I'm 
 very much mistaken, the account is all against him, and \\ ill 
 show a good balance in our favour. . . . No, I haven't 
 
 431 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 made up the account. Why should I ? The gentleman was 
 comfortable with us. He was very fond of my wife; yes, 
 very fond indeed. And she treated him like a sister; yes, 
 so she has." 
 
 Two hours later, when Dryden returned with a char- 
 woman to clean the room and a male nurse to guard the 
 patient, the landlord and landlady were gone — vanished 
 for ever; not to be traced now c~ afterwards by the police. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fielding had made their coup, and felt satis- 
 fied to retire modestly. 
 
 Next day Lenny was certified as insane and consigned 
 to an asylum on the outskirts of London. Dryden had 
 summoned Newall, the Westchurch solicitor; Newall in 
 his turn summoned Holway, the sufferer's brother-in-law; 
 and between them they completed all formalities and ar- 
 rangements with so much promptness as to be able to move 
 Lenny before nightfall. 
 
 He was perfectly amenable, at once embracing the no- 
 tion of a journey, and raving about the care that would 
 be taken of him. According to his view of the matter, 
 a marvellous carriage was to be brought to remove him 
 without sound or oscillation: one of these splendid new 
 inventions of science that permit a tired man to pass from 
 place to place, no matter what obstacles he may have to 
 encounter, without fatigue, without distress — in absolute 
 comfort. 
 
THE St. James's Street club was full for the luncheon- 
 hour, and Holway and his three guests had just 
 seated themselves at a table in a corner of the 
 coffee room. 
 
 First of all they talked about their food, and then later 
 they talked about the business that had drawn them to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Let me see," said Holway hospitably, "cold lamb and 
 salad for you, Dr. Searle ! But won't you begin with some 
 fish or chicken? . . . Mr. Newall, you said minced 
 veal! And, Dryden, pressed beef! Yours was the pressed 
 beef, eh? And now what about wine?" 
 
 Mr. Henderson, the head-waiter, hovered attentively and 
 offered some choice brands; but the little party showed 
 simple tastes and would not fairly test the capacity of the 
 club cellars. 
 
 "Well now, here we are," said Holway; "and I propose 
 to tell you exactly how we stand." 
 
 Holway's square head had become snowy white, and the 
 whiteness of his hair enhanced the redness of his cheeks ; his 
 stubby figure seemed as solid as ever; and he still spoke 
 with the rustic Midland accent, but his power of language 
 had so greatly increased that one might guess at efforts for 
 education and culture late in life. Altogether he looked 
 what he was, an able, honest, and successful old chap. He 
 
 m 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 had become a member of Parliament, and could afford to 
 join London clubs that he scarcely ever used. 
 
 "We shall never see that blackguard Fielding again," 
 he went on firmly. "We shall never recover a penny of 
 the money." 
 
 Then they all spoke of the Marylebone Road landlord. 
 He was known to the police; he had served a term of im- 
 prisonment for forgery ; the Frenchwoman was not his wife ; 
 and so on. Dr. Searle said he thought the bank and the 
 stockholders were very much to blame. Mr. Newall said 
 that there could be no redress against them. 
 
 Holway observed that they might talk for a week, but 
 the facts would be unchanged. This scoundrel had con- 
 verted the bulk of Calcraft's fortune into readily negotiable 
 securities, and had got clean away with it; only a compara- 
 tively small sum remained — certainly not enough to yield 
 an annual interest that would maintain Calcraft at the 
 suburban asylum. 
 
 In these sad circumstances Holway had decided that 
 the only possible course would be to sink the whole of 
 Calcraft's remaining capital in the purchase of an annuity, 
 which might provide just sufficient to keep Calcraft at a 
 large semi-public institution in the north of England. 
 
 Searle immediately said he knew something about this 
 institution. It bore an excellent fame. 
 
 "You've heard of it? Good. Well, then," Holway went 
 on in businesslike tones, "I believe that's the thing — the great 
 thing is to secure his future. For the doctors all say that, 
 though he can't get back his reason, he may live for a 
 number of years — when once he is safe and comfortable. 
 . . . By the by, what are you all going to have for 
 pudden'?" And he turned and beckoned a waiter. "Attend 
 to me, please. I don't come here often — and I'll be glad if 
 you'll attend to me when I do come." 
 
 434 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Dryden chose apple tart; Dr. Searle took some innocent 
 blanc-mange; Mr. Newall, the hard man of law, had a 
 creamy meringue; and, while eating these sweets, they con- 
 tinued to talk of Lenny. 
 
 "The doctor for the insurance company," said Holway, 
 "employed an expression that I didn't understand. He 
 said Calcraft's whole life had been a long preparation for 
 madness. What did that mean? Do you suppose he had 
 any secret vices?" 
 
 "No," said Searle, warmly, "certainly not. ... I 
 knew him better than anybody" — Searle's eyes glowed softly 
 behind his spectacles — "and there was no one I was more 
 genuinely fond of." 
 
 "I," said Dryden, "was very fond of him — in the begin- 
 ning." For a moment he paused, then added stoutly, "And 
 so was my wife." 
 
 "He had good impulses," said Newall. 
 
 "The only time I met Calcraft," said Holway, "he im- 
 pressed me very favourably — something winning in his 
 manner; and I was grateful for what he did for Mrs. 
 Holway. ... By the way, one of you said this was the 
 poor fellow's club. Is that correct?" 
 
 "Yes," said Dryden. 
 
 "Yes," said Newall. "He always wrote from here. He 
 was proud of belonging to it." 
 
 And they glanced down the room, admiring its vast size 
 and elegant proportions, its rich crimson walls and golden 
 columns. It was full now to overflowing — a long perspec- 
 tive of happy lunchers; with the sunlight from the tall win- 
 dows falling on bald heads, flashing in dish covers, striking 
 fire out of cut-glass bottles. Jaws moving, tongues wag- 
 ging, knives clattering — and in all the long room, from end 
 to end of it, there was no member who missed Lenny, no 
 member who regretted Lenny. 
 
 435 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 But Henderson the head-waiter, hovering and supervising, 
 had heard a familiar name, and with humble apology he 
 joined in the talk. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir; but were you speaking of our 
 Mr. Calcraft?" And Henderson ventured to say how 
 much the club servants liked Mr. Calcraft. "There wasn't 
 one of us who didn't feel sorry. ... It was a pleasure 
 to wait on him. There wasn't hardly a gentleman in the 
 club that we of the staff was so fond of." 
 
 "There," said Searle triumphantly. "Everybody who 
 knew him liked him. You couldn't help liking him." 
 
 Downstairs in the smoking-room, while they drank their 
 coffee, Holway and Dryden sat together on a sofa and 
 talked of children. Searle and Newall had asked for the 
 August ABC guide, and were looking up a new fast train 
 to Westchurch. 
 
 "How many have you?" asked Dryden. 
 
 "Nine," said Holway, and he chuckled. 
 
 "I have only two," said Dryden, with a pride that aped 
 humility. 
 
 "And how old do you think my youngest is?" said Hol- 
 way. "You'd never guess from the look of me. Seven 
 years of age!" 
 
 "My youngest isn't two — and you'd scarcely credit it, 
 but she talks almost fluently. She said to me this morning, 
 'Daddy.'" . . . 
 
 Newall and Searle were going. It was time for the little 
 party to break up — they were all of them busy men, and 
 each had work to do. 
 
 "Yes," said Holway, as they came out into the hall to 
 get their hats, "very sad, all this. But I'm sure we've 
 acted for the best. I don't see what else we could have 
 done. I think there is no question he will be properly 
 treated up there." 
 
 435 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 And for a minute Holway and Dryden lingered near the 
 weighing machine — that velvet seat on which Lenny used 
 once to sit enthroned, and feel himself the central figure of 
 the whole palace. 
 
 "Well, I must be off. Hope we may meet again;" and 
 Holway sighed, and spoke philosophically. "How curious 
 it is — these hours when men meet, as we have met to-day, 
 to wind up another man's life for him! It is like putting 
 the word Finis to a book that you haven't written yourself 
 — that you have not even read. I always feel it like that. 
 And scarcely a week passes that I haven't got to do it. 
 You know — somebody's funeral ; somebody going to have 
 a critical operation; somebody broken down in the midst of 
 an apparently prosperous career, and ordered to chuck every- 
 thing for a rest cure. Next week the trouble is nearer 
 home. My third boy threatened with cataract ! His mother 
 and I are taking him to Weisbaden. That is my job next 
 week. . . . Good-bye!" 
 
XLVI 
 
 IT was an autumn afternoon, with ripe perfumes in the 
 air, and a sunlight so generous and golden that it even 
 softened and gave beauty to such ugly things as mad- 
 house walls. 
 
 The huge stone building comprised many blocks ; cloisters 
 and halls intervening, the high roof of the chapel at one 
 end, the tower and chimneys of the laundry at the other. 
 Just now there had been a clanging summons of bells, and 
 out of the cloisters processions of patients came trooping 
 to take their daily exercise. Each procession kept to itself — 
 twenty or thirty patients, conducted by two or three attend- 
 ants; tramping, plodding, shuffling round and round the 
 extensive enclosure, past lawns and shrubberies, up and 
 down gravel paths, in the shade of trees, in the warmth of 
 the sun; but never permitted to go within sight and sound 
 of the space that was reserved for the airing and recreation 
 of the dangerous lunatics. 
 
 These had a garden to themselves; and truly they were 
 painful to see and hear — terrible ghosts of men dancing and 
 hooting, — an inferno, all grey and vague in the shadow of 
 the building, behind iron rails and a sunk fence. 
 
 But the open grounds were peaceful and pretty; with 
 flower beds, sundials, terraces — everything that reasonable 
 people could ask for. On one of the lower terraces there 
 were, positively, benches. 
 
 "Forgive me if I fall out of rank." A procession coming 
 along this terrace had reached the benches, and a tall 
 
 438 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 bearded man was addressing the warder in charge. "But, 
 ah, may I sit down? I am excessively tired." 
 
 "And may I sit down too? , . . I feel tired. 
 . . . We are all tired." 
 
 The warder called a halt, and the benches were imme- 
 diately occupied. 
 
 Lenny had been fortunate enough to secure the best 
 bench — the one that gave him the charming view over the 
 wide moorland. He looked out across miles and miles of 
 purple heather to the distant horizon, where the sky was 
 faintly stained with the smoke of factory towns; and he 
 thought the prospect restful and pleasing; but he grunted 
 in dissatisfaction when another patient, Mr. Ross, came and 
 sat on the bench beside him. 
 
 "Ah! Exactly what I was requiring." Lenny picked 
 up a bit of stick, and with the jagged stump of it began to 
 push back the flesh round his finger nails. "Manicuring 
 myself," he murmured contentedly. "Manicuring! Gives 
 a fascination— sign of good birth also." But soon he was 
 prodding so fiercely that he tore his fingers, and the blood 
 flowed. 
 
 "Hurrah!" Each time that the little spurt of blood ap* 
 peared, Mr. Ross laughed and crowed and clapped his hands 
 with childlike glee. 
 
 Then an attendant saw what was happening, and snatched 
 the stick away angrily. 
 
 "How often have you been told not to <lo it? You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 Lenny's nether lip drooped, and he looked at the at- 
 tendant piteously. 
 
 "Do you want to be punished once more?" 
 
 "No;" and Lenny burst into tears. "No — please." 
 
 "Very well. Then mind what I tell you — don't you 
 touch those nails again." 
 
 439 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 Lenny looked ruefully at the bleeding hands, and then 
 whispered to his companion. 
 
 "That man is a beast to me." 
 
 "He is a beast to everybody;" and Mr. Ross spoke with 
 increasing rapidity. "But I intend to free myself from his 
 tricks. The air must be cleared of all such vermin. Verb, 
 sap. I talk Latin, Greek, and all other dead languages. 
 No matter ! But how are they generated — these pests, these 
 Jacks-in-office, and petty tyrants dressed in a little brief 
 authority? From and by a gas — nothing else. But what 
 gas? Give me its chemical formula in plain terms. That 
 is my secret. Suffice it, that I can generate discharges of a 
 potent counter-agent. Bang! Fizz! I'll blow them to 
 Jerusalem, and further. When will this happen? That 
 is my secret. Suffice it — But you are not listening to 
 me." 
 
 "No," said Lenny. 
 
 "Why don't you listen to me," said Mr. Ross, with 
 incipient rage, "when I am talking to you?" 
 
 "Because you do not interest me." 
 
 Mr. Ross was becoming furious; but Lenny displayed a 
 dignity greater than had ever been possible to him when 
 sane. He looked at his offended friend calmly and steadily, 
 and he spoke coldly and firmly. 
 
 "You talk about yourself, and therefore your conversa- 
 tion can possess no interest to anybody but yourself. You 
 are conversationally a bore." 
 
 "Why am I a bore?" Lenny's outraged companion had 
 sprung up, and was foaming. "Why am I a bore?" 
 
 Lenny smiled, and shrugged his lean shoulders. "Because 
 you are an incurable egotist." 
 
 "I am not incurable — I am going to be discharged next 
 month;" and, overcome by resentment and fury, Mr. Ross 
 clenched his fists and used them wildly. 
 
 440 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 "Help!" cried Lenny. "Murder! . . . Murder!" 
 
 They were promptly separated by two warders, who 
 at first seemed inclined to be severe with Mr. Ross. But 
 the other lunatics told tales. "Mr. Calcraft insulted him. 
 . . . Yes, he did. . . . He teased him." 
 
 A doctor came along the terrace, and the attendants gave 
 their report — report adverse to Lenny. "He's always teas- 
 ing them. There's no harm in Mr. Ross, if he isn't teased." 
 
 The doctor, after reflection, spoke sternly. 
 
 "Mr. Calcraft, you are in a bad mood to-day. You were 
 restless and fussy this morning — and I warned you. Now 
 I shall send you to bed. . . . Take him up to bed." 
 
 "I won't go," said Lenny. 
 
 "Then it will be the punishment ward." 
 
 "Then I will go to bed — but I insist on being carried 
 there." Three warders were about him, and he swung an 
 arm round the nearest neck. All this excitement had been 
 rather too much for Lenny's nerves; he passed swiftly into 
 a fit of frenzied exaltation, and became noisier and noisier. 
 "Yes — to bed! It is my order too. Carry me to my bed — 
 my jolly bed. Tuck me up and make me comfortable. 
 . . . Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Fall in there, palanquin-bearers! 
 March. . . . Oh, this is movement without oscilla- 
 tion." He seemed to think that he was being carried, al- 
 though in truth the warders were roughly hustling him 
 along the paths. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" 
 
 "Less noise." 
 
 "No, more noise! Sound the Emperor's trumpets." 
 
 "Will you stop that row?" 
 
 "Yes — silence! Dead silence while the Emperor passes. 
 On your faces — prostrate yourselves. Your Emperor passes 
 from his garden to his bed." 
 
 And he was quiet till they came to the entrance of Block 
 B — a porch like the mouth of a railway tunnel; a long 
 
 441 
 
IN COTTON WOOL 
 
 stone passage, scarcely penetrated by the sunshine, and 
 closed in by darkness. Here, near the entrance, Lenny saw 
 a maid-servant, and began to shout and fight. 
 
 "Shut up, I tell you. . . . Now we shall have a job 
 with him. . . . Run away, miss." 
 
 "Ah, delicate houri — sylph of the honey lips — my favourite 
 slave ! Your Emperor passes from the garish sunlight to the 
 soothing dark, but you may follow," 
 
 The hoarse shouting voice struck out terrific echoes as 
 the struggling group grew dim, and dimmer. 
 
 "Follow. . . . Follow. . . . Follow." 
 
 A last echo; a gleam of artificial light as a door opened 
 and shut. Then silence and darkness. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY