lift my brother George right down a whole flight of stairs with a
single kick?"
Ignatius' face clouded.
"George! That reminds me. Cyprian said you said I was like George."
"Oh! I didn't mean him to repeat that."
"Well, he did," said Ignatius moodily. "And the thought was agony."
"But I only meant that you and George were both always playing the
ukulele. And I hate ukuleles."
Ignatius' face cleared.
"I will give mine to the poor this afternoon. And, touching Cyprian ...
George said you said I reminded you of him."
She hastened to soothe him.
"It's only the way you dress. You both wear such horrid sloppy clothes."
Ignatius folded her in his arms once more.
"You shall take me this very instant to the best tailor in London," he
said. "Give me a minute to put on my boots, and I'll be with you. You
don't mind if I just step in at my tobacconist's for a moment on the
way? I have a large order for him."
III
THE STORY OF CEDRIC
I have heard it said that the cosy peace which envelops the bar-parlour
of the Anglers' Rest has a tendency to promote in the regular customers
a certain callousness and indifference to human suffering. I fear there
is something in the charge. We who have made the place our retreat sit
sheltered in a backwater far removed from the rushing stream of Life.
We may be dimly aware that out in the world there are hearts that ache
and bleed: but we order another gin and ginger and forget about them.
Tragedy, to us, has come to mean merely the occasional flatness of a
bottle of beer.
Nevertheless, this crust of selfish detachment can be cracked. And
when Mr. Mulliner entered on this Sunday evening and announced that
Miss Postlethwaite, our gifted and popular barmaid, had severed her
engagement to Alfred Lukyn, the courteous assistant at the Bon Ton
Drapery Stores in the High Street, it is not too much to say that we
were stunned.
"But it's only half an hour ago," we cried, "that she went off to meet
him in her best black satin with the lovelight in her eyes. They were
going to church together."
"They never reached the sacred edifice," said Mr. Mulliner, sighing and
taking a grave sip of hot Scotch and lemon. "The estrangement occurred
directly they met. The rock on which the frail craft of Love split was
the fact that Alfred Lukyn was wearing yellow shoes."
"Yellow shoes?"
"Yellow shoes," said Mr. Mulliner, "of a singular brightness. These
came under immediate discussion. Miss Postlethwaite, a girl of
exquisite sensibility and devoutness, argued that to attend evensong in
shoes like that was disrespectful to the Vicar. The blood of the Lukyns
is hot, and Alfred, stung, retorted that he had paid sixteen shillings
and eightpence for them and that the Vicar could go and boil his head.
The ring then changed hands and arrangements were put in train for the
return of all gifts and correspondence."
"Just a lovers' tiff."
"Let us hope so."
A thoughtful silence fell upon the bar-parlour. Mr. Mulliner was the
first to break it.
"Strange," he said, coming out of his reverie, "to what diverse ends
Fate will employ the same instrument. Here we have two loving hearts
parted by a pair of yellow shoes. Yet in the case of my cousin Cedric
it was a pair of yellow shoes that brought him a bride. These things
work both ways."
* * * * *
To say that I ever genuinely liked my cousin Cedric (said Mr. Mulliner)
would be paltering with the truth. He was not a man of whom many men
were fond. Even as a boy he gave evidence of being about to become what
eventually he did become--one of those neat, prim, fussy, precise,
middle-aged bachelors who are so numerous in the neighbourhood of St.
James Street. It is a type I have never liked, and Cedric, in addition
to being neat, prim, fussy and precise, was also one of London's
leading snobs.
For the rest, he lived in comfortable rooms at the Albany, where
between the hours of nine-thirty and twelve in the morning he would
sit closeted with his efficient secretary, Miss Myrtle Watling, busy
on some task the nature of which remained wrapped in mystery. Some
said he was writing a monumental history of Spats, others that he
was engaged upon his Memoirs. My private belief is that he was not
working at anything, but entertained Miss Watling during those hours
simply because he lacked the nerve to dismiss her. She was one of those
calm, strong young women who look steadily out upon the world through
spectacles with tortoiseshell rims. Her mouth was firm, her chin
resolute. Mussolini might have fired her, if at the top of his form,
but I can think of nobody else capable of the feat.
So there you have my cousin Cedric. Forty-five years of age, forty-five
inches round the waist, an established authority on the subject of
dress, one of the six recognised bores at his club, and a man with the
entrée into all the best houses in London. That the peace of such a
one could ever be shattered, that anything could ever occur seriously
to disturb the orderly routine of such a man's life, might seem
incredible. And yet this happened. How true it is that in this world
we can never tell behind what corner Fate may not be lurking with the
brass knuckles.
* * * * *
The day which was to prove so devastating to Cedric Mulliner's bachelor
calm began, ironically, on a note of bright happiness. It was a Sunday,
and he was always at his best on Sundays, for that was the day on
which Miss Watling did not come to the Albany. For some little time
back he had been finding himself more than usually ill at ease in Miss
Watling's presence. She had developed a habit of looking at him with
an odd, speculative expression in her eyes. It was an expression whose
meaning he could not read, but it had disturbed him. He was glad to be
relieved of her society for a whole day.
Then, again, his new morning-clothes had just arrived from the tailor's
and, looking at himself in the mirror, he found his appearance
flawless. The tie--quiet and admirable. The trousers--perfect. The
gleaming black boots--just right. In the matter of dress, he was a man
with a position to keep up. Younger men looked to him for guidance.
To-day, he felt, he would not fail them.
Finally, he was due at half-past one for luncheon at the house of Lord
Knubble of Knopp in Grosvenor Square, and he knew that he could count
on meeting there all that was best and fairest of England's aristocracy.
His anticipations were more than fulfilled. Except for a lout of a
baronet who had managed to slip in somehow, there was nobody beside
himself present at the luncheon-table below the rank of Viscount: and,
to complete his happiness, he found himself seated next to Lady Chloe
Downblotton, the beautiful daughter of the seventh Earl of Choole, for
whom he had long entertained a paternal and respectful fondness. And so
capitally did they get on during the meal that, when the party broke
up, she suggested that, if he were going in her direction, which was
the Achilles statue in the Park, they might stroll together.
"The fact is," said Lady Chloe, as they walked down Park Lane, "I feel
I must confide in somebody. I've just got engaged."
"Engaged! Dear lady," breathed Cedric reverently, "I wish you every
happiness. But I have seen no announcement in the _Morning Post_."
"No. And I shouldn't think the betting is more than fifteen to four
that you ever will. It all depends on how the good old seventh Earl
reacts when I bring Claude home this afternoon and lay him on the
mat. I love Claude," sighed Lady Chloe, "with a passion too intense
for words, but I'm quite aware that he isn't everybody's money. You
see, he's an artist and, left to himself, he dresses more like a
tramp cyclist than anything else on earth. Still, I'm hoping for the
best. I dragged him off to Cohen Bros. yesterday and made him buy
morning-clothes and a top-hat. Thank goodness, he looked positively
respectable, so...."
Her voice died away in a strangled rattle. They had entered the Park
and were drawing near to the Achilles statue, and coming towards them,
his top-hat raised in a debonnair manner, was a young man of pleasing
appearance, correctly clad in morning-coat, grey tie, stiff collar, and
an unimpeachable pair of sponge-bag trousers, nicely creased from north
to south.
But he was, alas, not one hundred per cent correct. From neck to ankles
beyond criticism, below that he went all to pieces. What had caused
Lady Chloe to lose the thread of her remarks and Cedric Mulliner to
utter a horrified moan was the fact that this young man was wearing
bright yellow shoes.
"Claude!" Lady Chloe covered her eyes with a shaking hand. "Ye Gods!"
she cried. "The foot-joy! The banana specials! The yellow perils! Why?
For what reason?"
The young man seemed taken aback.
"Don't you like them?" he said. "I thought they were rather natty. Just
what the rig-out needed, in my opinion, a touch of colour. It seemed to
me to help the composition."
"They're awful. Tell him how awful they are, Mr. Mulliner."
"Tan shoes are not worn with morning-clothes," said Cedric in a low,
grave voice. He was deeply shaken.
"Why not?"
"Never mind why not," said Lady Chloe. "They aren't. Look at Mr.
Mulliner's."
The young man did so.
"Tame," he said. "Colourless. Lacking in spirit and that indefinable
something. I don't like them."
"Well, you've jolly well got to learn to like them," said Lady Chloe,
"because you're going to change with Mr. Mulliner this very minute."
A shrill, bat-like, middle-aged bachelor squeak forced itself from
Cedric's lips. He could hardly believe he had heard correctly.
"Come along, both of you," said Lady Chloe briskly. "You can do it over
there behind those chairs. I'm sure you don't mind, Mr. Mulliner, do
you?"
Cedric was still shuddering strongly.
"You ask me to put on yellow shoes with morning-clothes?" he whispered,
the face beneath his shining silk hat pale and drawn.
"Yes."
"Here? In the Park? At the height of the Season?"
"Yes. Do hurry."
"But...."
"Mr. Mulliner! Surely? To oblige me?"
She was gazing at him with pleading eyes, and from the confused
welter of Cedric's thoughts there emerged, clear and crystal-like,
the recollection of the all-important fact that this girl was the
daughter of an Earl and related on her mother's side not only to
the Somersetshire Meophams, but to the Brashmarleys of Bucks, the
Widringtons of Wilts, and the Hilsbury-Hepworths of Hants. Could he
refuse any request, however monstrous, proceeding from one so extremely
well-connected?
He stood palsied. All his life he had prided himself on the
unassailable orthodoxy of his costume. As a young man he had never gone
in for bright ties. His rigidity in the matter of turned-up trousers
was a byword. And, though the fashion had been set by an Exalted
Personage, he had always stood out against even such a venial lapse as
the wearing of a white waistcoat with a dinner-jacket. How little this
girl knew the magnitude of the thing she was asking of him. He blinked.
His eyes watered and his ears twitched. Hyde Park seemed to whirl about
him.
And then, like a voice from afar, something seemed to whisper in his
ear that this girl's second cousin, Adelaide, had married Lord Slythe
and Sayle and that among the branches of the family were the Sussex
Booles and the ffrench-ffarmiloes--not the Kent ffrench-ffarmiloes but
the Dorsetshire lot. It just turned the scale.
"So be it!" said Cedric Mulliner.
* * * * *
For a few moments after he found himself alone, my cousin Cedric had
all the appearance of a man at a loss for his next move. He stood
rooted to the spot, staring spellbound at the saffron horrors which
had blossomed on his hitherto blameless feet. Then, pulling himself
together with a strong effort, he slunk to Hyde Park Corner, stopped a
passing cab, and, having directed the driver to take him to the Albany,
leaped hastily in.
The relief of being under cover was at first so exquisite that his mind
had no room for other thoughts. Soon, he told himself, he would be safe
in his cosy apartment, with the choice of thirty-seven pairs of black
boots to take the place of these ghastly objects. It was only when the
cab reached the Albany that he realised the difficulties which lay in
his path.
How could he walk through the lobby of the Albany looking like a ship
with yellow fever on board--he, Cedric Mulliner, the man whose advice
on the niceties of dress had frequently been sought by young men in
the Brigade of Guards and once by the second son of a Marquis? The
thing was inconceivable. All his better nature recoiled from it. Then
what to do?
It is characteristic of the Mulliners as a family that, however sore
the straits in which they find themselves, they never wholly lose their
presence of mind. Cedric leaned out of the window and addressed the
driver of the cab.
"My man," he said, "how much do you want for your boots?"
The driver was not one of London's lightning thinkers. For a full
minute he sat, looking like a red-nosed sheep, allowing the idea to
penetrate.
"My boots?" he said at length.
"Your boots!"
"How much do I want for my boots?"
"Precisely. I am anxious to obtain your boots. How much for the boots?"
"How much for the boots?"
"Exactly. The boots. How much for them?"
"You want to buy my boots?"
"Precisely."
"Ah," said the driver, "but the whole thing is, you see, it's like
this. I'm not wearing any boots. I suffer from corns, so I come out in
a tennis shoe and a carpet slipper. I could do you them at ten bob the
pair."
Cedric Mulliner sank dumbly back. The disappointment had been numbing.
But the old Mulliner resourcefulness stood him in good stead. A moment
later, his head was out of the window again.
"Take me," he said, "to Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley
Fields."
The driver thought this over for a while.
"Why?" he said.
"Never mind why."
"The Albany you told me," said the driver. "Take me to the Albany was
what you said. And this here is the Albany. Ask anyone."
"Yes, yes, yes. But I now wish to go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas...."
"How do you spell it?"
"One 'n'. Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road...."
"How do you spell _that_?"
"One 'g'."
"And it's in Valley Fields, you say?"
"Precisely."
"One 'v'?"
"One 'v' and one 'f'," said Cedric.
The driver sat silent for awhile. The spelling-bee over, he seemed to
be marshalling his thoughts.
"Now I'm beginning to get the whole thing," he said. "What you want to
do is go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields."
"Precisely."
"Well, will you have the tennis shoe and the carpet slipper now, or
wait till we get there?"
"I do not desire the tennis shoe. I have no wish for the carpet
slipper. I am not in the market for them."
"I could do you them at half-a-crown apiece."
"No, thank you."
"Couple of bob, then."
"No, no, no. I do not want the tennis shoe. The carpet slipper makes no
appeal to me."
"You don't want the shoe?"
"No."
"And you don't want the slipper?"
"No."
"But you do want," said the driver, assembling the facts and arranging
them in an ordinary manner, "to go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas,
Marigold Road, Valley Fields?"
"Precisely."
"Ah," said the driver, slipping in his clutch with an air of quiet
rebuke. "Now we've got the thing straight. If you'd only told me that
in the first place, we'd have been 'arf-way there by now."
* * * * *
The urge which had come upon Cedric Mulliner to visit Seven, Nasturtium
Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields, that picturesque suburb in the
south-eastern postal division of London, had been due to no idle whim.
Nor was it prompted by a mere passion for travel and sightseeing. It
was at that address that his secretary, Miss Myrtle Watling, lived: and
the plan which Cedric had now formed was, in his opinion, the best to
date. What he proposed to do was to seek out Miss Watling, give her his
latch-key, and dispatch her to the Albany in the cab to fetch him one
of his thirty-seven pairs of black boots. When she returned with them
he could put them on and look the world in the face again.
He could see no flaw in the scheme, nor did any present itself during
the long ride to Valley Fields. It was only when the cab had stopped
outside the front garden of the neat little red-brick house and he had
alighted and told the driver to wait ("Wait?" said the driver. "How
do you mean, wait? Oh, you mean wait?") that doubts began to disturb
him. Even as he raised his finger to press the door-bell, there crept
over him a chilly feeling of mistrust, and he drew the finger back
as sharply as if he had found it on the point of prodding a Dowager
Duchess in the ribs.
Could he meet Miss Watling in morning-clothes and yellow shoes?
Reluctantly he told himself that he could not. He remembered how often
she had taken down at his dictation letters to the _Times_ deploring
modern laxity on matters of dress: and his brain reeled at the thought
of how she would look if she saw him now. Those raised brows ... those
scornful lips ... those clear, calm eyes registering disgust through
their wind-shields....
No, he could not face Miss Watling.
A sort of dull resignation came over Cedric Mulliner. It was useless,
he saw, to struggle any longer. He was on the point of moving from the
door and going back to the cab and embarking on the laborious task
of explaining to the driver that he wished to return to the Albany
("But I took you there once, and you didn't like it," he could hear
the man saying) when from somewhere close at hand there came to his
ears a sudden, loud, gurgling noise, rather like that which might have
proceeded from a pig suffocating in a vat of glue. It was the sound of
someone snoring. He turned, and was aware of an open window at his
elbow.
* * * * *
The afternoon, I should have mentioned before, was oppressively warm.
It was the sort of afternoon when suburban householders, after keeping
body and soul together with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mealy
potatoes, apple tart, cheddar cheese and bottled beer, retire into
sitting-rooms and take refreshing naps. Such a householder, enjoying
such a nap, was the conspicuous feature of the room into which my
cousin Cedric was now peering. He was a large, stout man, and he lay in
an arm-chair with a handkerchief over his face and his feet on another
chair. And those feet, Cedric saw, were clad merely in a pair of mauve
socks. His boots lay beside him on the carpet.
With a sudden thrill as sharp as if he had backed into a hot radiator
in his bathroom, Cedric perceived that they were black boots.
The next moment, as if impelled by some irresistible force, Cedric
Mulliner had shot silently through the window and was crawling on all
fours along the floor. His teeth were clenched, and his eyes gleamed
with a strange light. If he had not been wearing a top-hat, he would
have been an almost exact replica of the hunting-cheetah of the Indian
jungle stalking its prey.
* * * * *
Cedric crept stealthily on. For a man who had never done this sort of
thing before, he showed astonishing proficiency and technique. Indeed,
had the cheetah which he so closely resembled chanced to be present,
it could undoubtedly have picked up a hint or two which it would have
found useful in its business. Inch by inch he moved silently forward,
and now his itching fingers were hovering over the nearer of the two
boots. At this moment, however, the drowsy stillness of the summer
afternoon was shattered by what sounded to his strained senses like G.
K. Chesterton falling on a sheet of tin. It was, as a matter of fact,
only his hat dropping to the floor, but in the highly nervous state
of mind into which he had been plunged by recent events it nearly
deafened him. With one noiseless, agile spring, remarkable in one of
his waist-measurement, he dived for shelter behind the arm-chair.
A long moment passed. At first he thought that all was well. The
sleeper had apparently not wakened. Then there was a gurgle, a heavy
body sat up, and a large hand passed within an inch of Cedric's head
and pressed the bell in the wall. And presently the door opened and a
parlour-maid entered.
"Jane," said the man in the chair.
"Sir?"
"Something woke me up."
"Yes, sir?"
"I got the impression ... Jane!"
"Sir?"
"What is that top-hat doing on the floor?"
"Top-hat, sir?"
"Yes, top-hat. This is a nice thing," said the man, speaking
querulously. "I compose myself for a refreshing sleep, and almost
before I can close my eyes the room becomes full of top-hats. I come in
here for a quiet rest, and without the slightest warning I find myself
knee-deep in top-hats. Why the top-hat, Jane? I demand a categorical
answer."
"Perhaps Miss Myrtle put it there, sir."
"Why would Miss Myrtle strew top-hats about the place?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you mean, Yes, sir?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Another time, think before you speak. Remove the hat, Jane,
and see to it that I am not disturbed again. It is imperative that I
get my afternoon's rest."
"Miss Myrtle said that you were to weed the front garden, sir."
"I am aware of the fact, Jane," said the man with dignity. "In due
course I shall proceed to the front garden and start weeding. But first
I must have my afternoon's rest. This is a Sunday in June. The birds
are sleeping in the trees. Master Willie is sleeping in his room, as
ordered by the doctor. I, too, intend to sleep. Leave me, Jane, taking
the top-hat with you."
The door closed. The man sank back in his chair with a satisfied grunt,
and presently he had begun to snore again.
* * * * *
Cedric did not act hastily. Bitter experience was teaching him the
caution which Boy Scouts learn in the cradle. For perhaps a quarter
of an hour he remained where he was, crouching in his hiding place.
Then the snoring rose to a crescendo. It had now become like something
out of Wagner, and it seemed to Cedric that the moment had arrived
when action could safely be taken. He removed his left boot and,
creeping softly from his lair, seized one of the black boots and put
it on. It was a nice fit, and for the first time something approaching
contentment began to steal upon him. A minute more, one little minute,
and all would be well.
This heartening thought had just crossed his mind when with an
abruptness which caused his heart to loosen one of his front teeth
the silence was again broken--this time by something that sounded like
the Grand Fleet putting in a bit of gunnery-practice off the Nore. An
instant later, he was back, quivering, in his niche behind the chair.
The sleeper sat up with a jerk.
"Save the women and children," he said.
Then the hand came out and pressed the bell again.
"Jane!"
"Sir?"
"Jane, that beastly window-sash has got loose again. I never saw
anything like the sashes in this house. A fly settles on them and down
they come. Prop it up with a book or something."
"Yes, sir."
"And I'll tell you one thing, Jane, and you can quote me as having
said so. Next time I want a quiet afternoon's rest, I shall go to a
boiler-factory."
The parlour-maid withdrew. The man heaved a sigh, and lowered himself
into the chair again. And presently the room was echoing once more with
the Ride of the Valkyries.
It was shortly after this that the bumps began on the ceiling.
They were good, hearty bumps. It sounded to Cedric as if a number of
people with large feet were dancing Morris dances in the room above,
and he chafed at the selfishness which could lead them to indulge
in their pleasures at such a time. Already the man in the chair had
begun to stir, and now he sat up and reached for the bell with the old
familiar movement.
"Jane!"
"Sir?"
"Listen!"
"Yes, sir."
"What is it?"
"It is Master Willie, I think, sir, taking his Sunday sleep."
The man heaved himself out of the chair. It was plain that his emotions
were too deep for speech. He yawned cavernously, and began to put on
his boots.
"Jane!"
"Sir?"
"I have had enough of this. I shall now go and weed the front garden.
Where is my hoe?"
"In the hall, sir."
"Persecution," said the man bitterly. "That's what it is, persecution.
Top-hats ... window-sashes ... Master Willie.... You can argue as much
as you like, Jane, but I shall speak out fearlessly. I insist--and the
facts support me--that it is persecution.... Jane!"
A wordless gurgle proceeded from his lips. He seemed to be choking.
"Jane!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Look me in the face!"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, answer me, Jane, and let us have no subterfuge or equivocation,
Who turned this boot yellow?"
"Boot, sir?"
"Yes, boot."
"Yellow, sir?"