THE MYSTERIOUS MR COTTON.

Otago Witness, Issue 4031, 16 June 1931, Page 73

THE MYSTERIOUS MR COTTON.

By the late Katharine Tynan.

In Cherryfield Western everybody knew everybody else. This perhaps was due to. the charming personality of Mrs Saintsbury, who was Lady of the Manor. Cherryfield is not very far from London, and a good many Londoners thought it worth while to take a goodish train journey, morning and evening, and a conveyance which would cover the intervening miles between the station and that delightful high-lying plateau, in order to sleep in the pure, reviving air. Perhaps it was the air of Cherryfield, as well as Mrs Saintsbury’s influence, which made the little community on the whole so amiable. One or two sourfaced people had complained that, owing to Mrs Saintsbury, the society of Cherryfield was very mixed, but Cherryfield had no use for sour-faced people. Mrs Saintsbury had descended from an Elizabethan poet and something of his radiance still lay about her, making her beautiful in age as she had been in youth.

There w’as no. shams or pretences at Cherryfield. Everyone knew that Mr So-and-So was a solicitor, and Mr So-and-So a stockbroker or a manufacturer, without thinking them a penny the ■worse, though there were retired old soldiers and admirals and people with historic names as well among the residents. °

No one at all possible was left out of the social life of Cherryfield, and there were very few impossible. Into this life came the mysterious Mr Cotton. He w’as a small, pale man, with an eager, apologetic expression. His eyes jumped at you when he met you, and one lively young lady had said that Mr Cotton’s eyes protruded like the eyes of lobsters. She added that she was sure Mr Cotton had murdered his wife and buried her under the hearthstone. “My dear,” Mrs Saintsbury had said —she always laughed at Marcia Trentham’s wild sallies—Marcia was really a very good-natured girl. Mr Cotton had taken a delightful small cottage that had been empty some time. TJie former owners, an artist husband and his w’ife, had filled the little place wdth all manner of flowers and bulbs. When Mr Cotton came to Cherryfield the bulbs were in full splendour, but it was cold March weather. Mrs Saintsbury, who had passed him in her car once or twice, thought he looked cold. Someone had said he kept no servant.

Mrs Saintsbury had grown up at Cherryfield, and the place was dear to her. She was Mr Cotton’s landlord as well as being Lady of the Manor. She did not like to see the little man cold, so one day—much sooner than she -would have called in the ordinary course of things—her car stopped at the little gate at Mayfield. She opened the gate and went in. She noticed that the little house was not being well kept. The curtains were awry at the windows, and the weeds were pushing up between the bulbs.

Mr Cotton w’as poor, she said to herself, and felt sorry for him. She thought she could introduce the question of weeding. She had more gardeners than she had use for, for she never dismissed a servant if she could help it. Her knock on the door was answered by a shuffling footstep. And Mr Cotton looked out. There w’as a cold north light on his face, which looked rather frightened Mrs Saintsbury said to herself that he was younger than she had thought. He should not shuffle about in that way. It W’as only later that her still quick eyes perceived that he w’as wearing ignominious carpet slippers. He invited her to come in.

There was a miserable fire in the grate, and the room had an air of discomfort. Mrs Saintsbury bright eyes, roving about, rested on the table heaped w’ith papers. She knew enough to recognise some of them as printer’s proofs. She felt suddenly excited. Mr Cotton must be an author. They had no authors in the little community; no person of any intellectual distinction, although sometimes people bearing well-known names camo to visit her at the Manor House. She’* often wished that some of them would settle down near her; her intellectual interests of Cherryfield were very limited. “ You are an author, Mr Cotton ? ” she said with quick interest, and a memory of Charles Cotton who was surely known to her starry ancestor. His eyes leapt at her as though they might fall out. “ My profession is literature,” he said stiltedly, looking about him as though he might find some hole to run into. “ But how charming, Mr Cotton,” sho said. “ I am so interested in writers and artists. I do not think I know your work ? ” “ Yet it is a household w’ord,” Mr Cotton said in a sepulchral voice.

Mrs Saintsbury felt that she had made a mistake. She felt she ought to have known Mr Cotton’s work. But.there was so much she could not keep pace with nowadays, and the society of Cherryfield ran mainly to golf and tennis and bridge parties. Books were very seldom discussed, and when the bridge party or the tea party talked about a book it was usually something that Mrs Saintsbury neither knew nor wanted to know*. She must’ ask somebody what Mr Cotton had written.

She glanced at the low fire. It was very nearly tea time and there was no sign of any preparation for tea. Her protecting interest was awakened for Mr Cotton. She was not going to have her only author frozen at his work. Her mind ran on to the things she might do for Mr Cotton.

“ Could you leave all this,” indicating the heaped table, “and come home with me to tea? lam going to be alone this afternoon, and it will be a great pleasure. And would you think it a great liberty if I should send in Mrs Hammond, who lives opposite your gate, to make up the fire for you, and have all comfortable when you come back? She is a very good woman, and she has been employed about this house. She tidied up periodically for your predecessors, who were artists, and couldn’t be expected to know when they were uncomfortable.” “ That would be very kind,” said Mr Cotton. “ You see, I didn’t know where to look for anyone, and I have been trying to do for myself, and doing very badly.”

Ho was really pathetic, Mrs Saintsbury felt. She had an idea he looked rather underfed, and as though he did not get enough fresh air. She was going to set things right for him. She had always set things right for people in her Manorship, whether they liked it or not.

“ Well, come along now,” she said, getting up brisk and bustling. “ But you will want to change your slippers.” “ If you will give me a few moments,” said Mr Cotton.

“ I’ll just go across and see Mary,” Mrs Saintsbury said. “ You will find me in the car when you are ready.” Mr Cotton had spruced himself up a bit when he joined her. He looked very small and pale huddled in his overcoat. Mrs Saintsbury, who had spartan ways, wished she had had the saloon instead of the open car. She was fond of saying that, like Queen Victoria, she never felt the cold.

Before they started Mrs Hammond went across to Mayfield. She stopped to speak. “ I’ll have everything nice for you, sir,” she said. “ I have thought you weren’t doing very well for yourself. Anything to cook for your dinner? But there, you needn’t tell me, I’ll find out!” “ I think you must have Mrs Hammond,” Mrs Saintsbury said as they drove off. “ She is such a good creature and she’ll take care of you. You’ll find us all very kind neighbours, though we are not intellectual, you know, not quite up to your level.” Mr Cotton murmured something. He was as frightened as a rabbit. Mrs Saintsbury said to herself. It was wonderful how modest sueh gifted people could be.

In the comfortable chair by the splendid wood fire in the drawing room of the Manor House, Mr Cotton thawed out of his coldness. The room was beautiful, hung witli old chintz, the air sweet with the early violets and lilies of the valley, and hyacinths of which there was a great profusion. Nothing could be pleasanter than the room, which had the feeling of being lived in by someone wise and gracious.

.Air Cotton thawed. He ate great quantities of buttered toast and tea-cake. The Manor House teas were famous, and Mr Cotton did full justice to this one. Mrs Saintsbury said to herself that he must have had no lunch. She knew what happened to men when they were left to themselves. She felt she could trust Mary Hammond, who was as dominant as herself in a way. Alary would “ do ” for Air Cotton whether he would or not, and would see that Alayfield did not go to rack and ruin. Air Cotton’s future might be left in Alary’s competent hands. The author was very shy. It was not easy to get him to talk about his work or the work of his contemporaries, although apparently he had a very wide knowledge of them. Airs Saintsbury was eager to hear about the famous people she had not met, and there Air Cotton was willing to talk. Apparently he knew them in their houses and domestic relations. “A very nice man,” he would say with emphasis, “ and a charming wife. Such lovely children.” He discussed the very nice men and women and their pursuits, and the books they had written, with evident knowledge. It was only after he had gone back in Airs Saintsbury’s car that she. began to realise that he had not told her very much after all. He had gone from one to another, not resting long enough to give her any intimate touches, except in a few cases. Poor little man; he was very shy. He hardly did justice to himself. His conversation had been what Airs Saintsbury called in her own mind, sketchy. She would not admit a vague sense of disappointment. Someone had said that Airs Saintsbury always believed what she wished to believe. Anyhow, she was quite pleased and proud of Air Cotton. “ A distinguished literary man, my dears,” she would say to her circle, and was not deterred when the circle knew nothing and cared less about Air Cotton. His work was probably above their

heads. They were in the main Philistines, as one/or two of Mrs Saintsbury’s distinguished friends had called them. They looked at Air Cotton with some awe when they met him, but it was awe mingled with contempt. He had not come within their range of reading. One or two of the men had suggested cheerfully that the fellow might be a poet. The word in their mouths was the last expression of contempt. As time went by, Airs Saintsbury got no nearer discovering what Air Cotton wrote, or even what he thought. But his knowledge of famous people was undoubted. He was always at home there and ready to talk, and Cherry field, which would have despised him as a writer, began to respect him as a friend of the great.

When illustrious names fell from his lips his face assumed a dignity not naturally belonging to it. His eyes saw the people he was describing. Thejluke, such a good man, and the charming duchess; of course she belonged to the charming so-and-so’s —and the children. The boys took after their father in their love of cricket. It was impossible to doubt his rapt interest in these distinguished friends. Even Cherryfield began to be impressed, and Air Cotton had more invitations than he could accept. But he never gave himself airs, as someone said. He was unfailingly nice to everybody.

Once or twice some inhabitant >f Cherryfield had boasted of Air Cotton to someone of the outside world. No one had ever heard of Air Cotton. He must write under another name, someone had said; and that suggestion had been taken for a definite statement. Cherryfield knew it possessed a distinguished person who moved in the highest circles. It was not greatly concerned about what Air Cotton did write, or did not write. He had responded to the kind treatment and the good air. After a year he was hardly recognisable for the little pale, frightened man who had come to Mayfield. . He had put on flesh, and he had learned a certain assurance. He was properly cared for now. Airs Hammond saw to it that his linen was all it ought to be, and his clothes kept carefully. Everyone liked him. He was so unassuming, and he was exceedingly polite. He had really been an acquisition to Cherryfield. Someone had said that to Airs Saintsbury, and she had agreed with a certain eagerness. She had an odd feeling about the little man which she could not define. She liked hi i, but sometimes—she was honest with herself, though she would not for worlds say it to anyone else —he bored her. She had never got at the secret of his pseudonym, and the information he was always willing and eager to impart had become a little flat and stale; not wholly satisfying. But she still liked him, and the sense of being his protector made his claim upon her. She said to someone that she thought Air Cotton’s work must be very personal. He was always readj' to take up the cudgels if his important friends were attacked. It was strange in so meek a man. Once or twice he had almost given offence by his defence of some politician or other person of whom a hostile opinion had been expressed. He stuttered in his excitement at such times. “He is such a good man,” she would say, “ such a nice man, a charming fellow when you meet’him.”

Once Airs Saintsbury had intervened. One of the gentlemen under discussion was a many times divorced peer. “Aly dear Air Cotton,” she said, “ you should have some sense of the value of your adjectives.” She was rather sorry afterwards. Air Cotton had looked abashed. She was good natured to the verge of tolerance, but Cherryfield was’more and more impressed. “ Wonderful where that fellow had gone! ” some of the men said.

There was no one he didn’t know. He had moved in the very highest circles, apparently. It must be dull for him at Cherrvfield.

Air Cotton was quite established when one of Airs Saintsbury’s distinguished friends visited the Alanor House. He was Sir Charles Alarriott, who had been Ambassador at Rome, Vienna, and Paris. Air Cotton had been eager in his description of Sir Charles Alarriott. when his name had come up at Airs Saintsbury’s dinner table. She had • not noticed that Air Cotton became silent when she took part in the conversation. Air Cotton was invited to meet Sir Charles Alarriott, but he was unfortunately indisposed, and was keeping the house for a few days. He wrote as an afterthought that he meant to spend a few days in bed, but meeting Airs Hammond one of those days, Airs Saintsbury learned that he had gone up to town. She mentioned him to Sir Charles Alarriott, who had said: “ Cotton, Cotton—no, I haven’t met anyone called Cotton, but those writing people multiply beyond counting.” “ But he knows you, Charles,” Airs Saintsbury has said. 13 Alone know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows,” the ambassador said lightly, and passed on ttJ another subject. Airs Saintsbury did not mention this incident to her friends and acquaintances at Cherryfield, who were not always in her confidence.

She had come somehow to have a pitying, half-alarmed feeling for her protege. It was almost as though there was something to conceal, to hide from the eyes of otlier people. She had asked him once or twice when she might see a book of his, and he had answered evasively, looking from side to side, as though he sought a refuge from her eyes

—the eyes were very kind and the thoughts behind them. There might be reasons why Air Cotton chose to keep his anonymity. He had improved wonderfully, but he always had an alarmed look when anyone new came into the circle.

One thing amused her, and in a sense pleased her. He was a little bit contemptuous of the neighbours. “No brains, no brains,” he would say. On the other hand he fully appreciated Airs Saintsbury, but after some time, when Mr Cotton’s references to distinguished people began to pall, she became aware of a certain emptiness in him and in them. They were mere skeletons.

She was slow in acknowledgiiig-dhese things to herself, and she really liked the little man. His admiration for her shone out by his depreciation of the other people about Cherryfield. Her instincts of protection were strong towards Air Cotton. She felt that the people to whom he was occasionally haughty might be glad if they could see him overthrown. His haughtiness was absurd taken in conjunction with his personality, which was naturally meek. She was going to stand by him. She was rather nettled one day when Mr Tompkins, who was a blatant, redfaced commercial man, having a business not far from the Strand, commented cynically in her presence on their literary celebrity.

“ I can’t find any one who has heard of him,” Air Tompkins said. “I really believe he is taking us all in, Airs Saintsbury.”

She was definitely annoyed. “ You had better go and ask Alessrs Briscoe and Johnson,’ she said, mentioning the name of’a distinguished firm of publishers. Her still keen eyes had caught at the name on some parcels addressed to Air Cotton. There were such parcels littering his workroom to which she had been admitted. When she had had doubts sometimes as to Air- Cotton’s being a writing man she had remembered those parcels. “ You had better go and ask Alessrs Briscoe and Johnson,” she had said, and thought no more of it. But Air Tompkins had taken her at her word. He had an office not far from Alessrs Briscoe and Johnson, and a few days later he met-Alrs Saintsbury' on his way home from the She stopped her car to speak to him, and he accepted a lift. As they went along he said: “ I’ve got at the root of your mystery, Airs Saintsbury. I went, as you told me, to the office of Alessrs Briscoe and Johnson and asked for Air Cotton. They told me he was down here and only' came up to town occassionally. The man I talked to was a nice chap, and evidently had time on his hands. I asked him about Air Cotton’s literary labours, taking care not to give the little man away. They told me that Air Cotton worked on their ‘ Famous Alcn and Women,’ finding out all about them, mainly from other works of the sort. That, it seems is the sum total of our friend’s literary achievements.”

Air Tompkins was not triumphant. Airs Saintsbury turned and looked at him. She could not have told why she felt so much pity for Air Cotton. “ Aly dear Air Tompkins,” she said earnestly, “ I want you to be silent about this. We’ve no right to pry into Air Cotton’s private affairs. As a matter of fact there was no deception about it at all. He never said he wrote, he never even said he knew all those people. I blame myself. I jump to conclusions naturally, and I concluded, seeing all those piles of manuscript and books, that Air Cotton was a literary man. In so far as he deceived us, I believe he deceived himself. He lives in that society of famous and distinguished people. Really lives in it, don’t you see? They are all real to him.” She was pleading hard, and Air Tompkins felt bewildered but touched.

“ He is a lonely’ little beggar,” he said “ He hasn’t even got a dog.”

Air Tompkins had a hearty Airs Tompkins and a large and healthy family. “He shouldn’t give himself airs, though,” he said reffectively. “ Don’t you see, he thinks he knows all these people? ” Airs Sainsbury said. “ I wouldn’t turn him out of that world for anything. You see, it means everything to him. I think it must be my fault that he gives himself airs, as yarn say, but perhaps it was not. You see, if you live with distinguished people it may’ take yarn intolerant of the rest of the world.”

“ Quite so, quite so,” said ATr Tompkins, not wholly following, but still willing to agree. They were within sight of his comfortable red brick house. “Well, I am sure I don’t want to give the little beggar away,” he said. “So mum’s the word—and here is my hand upon it, ma’am.”

Air Cotton must have heard of that visit of Air Tompkins’s to Alessrs Briscoe and Johnson, for he slipped away’ quietly, having paid his quarter’s rent in full and having settled with all his tradespeople. He left no address behind, and the letter which Airs Saintsbury wrote to him care of Alessrs Briscoe and Johnston remained unanswered. Perhaps he is still, to this day, being a famous literary’ and social man to one or another small and simple community. —Weekly Scotsman.