Tommy and Co.

“I shouldn’t be surprised myself a bit if something came of it with Bridget. She’s a dear girl, Bridget – so genuine.”

“Well, I think myself, dear, if it’s anyone, it’s Gladys. I should be so glad to see poor dear Gladys settled.”

The unmarried kept their thoughts more to themselves. Each one, upon reflection, saw ground for thinking that Joseph Loveredge had given proof of feeling preference for herself. The irritating thing was that, on further reflection, it was equally clear that Joseph Loveredge had shown signs of preferring most of the others.

Meanwhile Joseph Loveredge went undisturbed upon his way. At eight o’clock in the morning Joseph’s housekeeper entered the room with a cup of tea and a dry biscuit. At eight-fifteen Joseph Loveredge arose and performed complicated exercises on an indiarubber pulley, warranted, if persevered in, to bestow grace upon the figure and elasticity upon the limbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered steadily, and had done so for years, and was himself contented with the result, which, seeing it concerned nobody else, was all that could be desired. At half-past eight on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Joseph Loveredge breakfasted on one cup of tea, brewed by himself; one egg, boiled by himself; and two pieces of toast, the first one spread with marmalade, the second with butter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Joseph Loveredge discarded eggs and ate a rasher of bacon. On Sundays Joseph Loveredge had both eggs and bacon, but then allowed himself half an hour longer for reading the paper. At nine-thirty Joseph Loveredge left the house for the office of the old-established journal of which he was the incorruptible and honoured City editor. At one-forty-five, having left his office at one-thirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the Autolycus Club and sat down to lunch. Everything else in Joseph’s life was arranged with similar preciseness, so far as was possible with the duties of a City editor. Monday evening Joseph spent with musical friends at Brixton. Friday was Joseph’s theatre night. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he was open to receive invitations out to dinner; on Wednesdays and Saturdays he invited four friends to dine with him at Regent’s Park. On Sundays, whatever the season, Joseph Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had his regular hours for reading, his regular hours for thinking. Whether in Fleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the Thames, or in the Vatican, you might recognise him from afar by his grey frock-coat, his patent-leather boots, his brown felt hat, his lavender tie. The man was a born bachelor. When the news of his engagement crept through the smoky portals of the Autolycus Club nobody believed it.

“Impossible!” asserted Jack Herring. “I’ve known Joey’s life for fifteen years. Every five minutes is arranged for. He could never have found the time to do it.”

“He doesn’t like women, not in that way; I’ve heard him say so,” explained Alexander the Poet. “His opinion is that women are the artists of Society – delightful as entertainers, but troublesome to live with.”

“I call to mind,” said the Wee Laddie, “a story he told me in this verra room, barely three months agone: Some half a dozen of them were gong home together from the Devonshire. They had had a joyous evening, and one of them – Joey did not notice which – suggested their dropping in at his place just for a final whisky. They were laughing and talking in the dining-room, when their hostess suddenly appeared upon the scene in a costume – so Joey described it – the charm of which was its variety. She was a nice-looking woman, Joey said, but talked too much; and when the first lull occurred, Joey turned to the man sitting nighest to him, and who looked bored, and suggested in a whisper that it was about time they went.

“‘Perhaps you had better go,’ assented the bored-looking man. ‘Wish I could come with you; but, you see, I live here.’”

“I don’t believe it,” said Somerville the Briefless. “He’s been cracking his jokes, and some silly woman has taken him seriously.”

But the rumour grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain recital of fact. Joey had not been seen within the Club for more than a week – in itself a deadly confirmation. The question became: Who was she – what was she like?

“It’s none of our set, or we should have heard something from her side before now,” argued acutely Somerville the Briefless.

“Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and forget the supper,” feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called the Babe. “Old men always fall in love with young girls.”

“Forty,” explained severely Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of Good Humour, “is not old.”

“Well, it isn’t young,” persisted Johnny.

“Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl,” thought Jack Herring. “Somebody for you to play with. I often feel sorry for you, having nobody but grown-up people to talk to.”

“They do get a bit stodgy after a certain age,” agreed the Babe.

“I am hoping,” said Peter, “it will be some sensible, pleasant woman, a little over thirty. He is a dear fellow, Loveredge; and forty is a very good age for a man to marry.”

“Well, if I’m not married before I’m forty – ” said the Babe.

“Oh, don’t you fret,” Jack Herring interrupted him – “a pretty boy like you! We will give a ball next season, and bring you out, if you’re good – get you off our hands in no time.”

It was August. Joey went away for his holiday without again entering the Club. The lady’s name was Henrietta Elizabeth Doone. It was said by the Morning Post that she was connected with the Doones of Gloucestershire.

Doones of Gloucestershire – Doones of Gloucestershire mused Miss Ramsbotham, Society journalist, who wrote the weekly Letter to Clorinda, discussing the matter with Peter Hope in the editorial office of Good Humour. “Knew a Doon who kept a big second-hand store in Euston Road and called himself an auctioneer. He bought a small place in Gloucestershire and added an ‘e’ to his name. Wonder if it’s the same?”

“I had a cat called Elizabeth once,” said Peter Hope.

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

“No, of course not,” agreed Peter. “But I was rather fond of it. It was a quaint sort of animal, considered as a cat – would never speak to another cat, and hated being out after ten o’clock at night.”

“What happened to it?” demanded Miss Ramsbotham.

“Fell off a roof,” sighed Peter Hope. “Wasn’t used to them.”

The marriage took place abroad, at the English Church at Montreux. Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge returned at the end of September. The Autolycus Club subscribed to send a present of a punch-bowl, left cards, and waited with curiosity to see the bride. But no invitation arrived. Nor for a month was Joey himself seen within the Club. Then, one foggy afternoon, waking after a doze, with a cold cigar in his mouth, Jack Herring noticed he was not the only occupant of the smoking-room. In a far corner, near a window, sat Joseph Loveredge reading a magazine. Jack Herring rubbed his eyes, then rose and crossed the room.

“I thought at first,” explained Jack Herring, recounting the incident later in the evening, “that I must be dreaming. There he sat, drinking his five o’clock whisky-and-soda, the same Joey Loveredge I had known for fifteen years; yet not the same. Not a feature altered, not a hair on his head changed, yet the whole face was different; the same body, the same clothes, but another man. We talked for half an hour; he remembered everything that Joey Loveredge had known. I couldn’t understand it. Then, as the clock struck, and he rose, saying he must be home at half-past five, the explanation suddenly occurred to me: Joey Loveredge was dead; this was a married man.”

“We don’t want your feeble efforts at psychological romance,” told him Somerville the Briefless. “We want to know what you talked about. Dead or married, the man who can drink whisky-and-soda must be held responsible for his actions. What’s the little beggar mean by cutting us all in this way? Did he ask after any of us? Did he leave any message for any of us? Did he invite any of us to come an see him?”

“Yes, he did ask after nearly everybody; I was coming to that. But he didn’t leave any message. I didn’t gather that he was pining for old relationships with any of us.”

“Well, I shall go round to the office to-morrow morning,” said Somerville the Briefless, “and force my way in if necessary. This is getting mysterious.”

But Somerville returned only to puzzle the Autolycus Club still further. Joey had talked about the weather, the state of political parties, had received with unfeigned interest all gossip concerning his old friends; but about himself, his wife, nothing had been gleaned. Mrs. Loveredge was well; Mrs. Loveredge’s relations were also well. But at present Mrs. Loveredge was not receiving.

Members of the Autolycus Club with time upon their hands took up the business of private detectives. Mrs. Loveredge turned out to be a handsome, well-dressed lady of about thirty, as Peter Hope had desired. At eleven in the morning, Mrs. Loveredge shopped in the neighbourhood of the Hampstead Road. In the afternoon, Mrs. Loveredge, in a hired carriage, would slowly promenade the Park, looking, it was noticed, with intense interest at the occupants of other carriages as they passed, but evidently having no acquaintances among them. The carriage, as a general rule, would call at Joey’s office at five, and Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge would drive home. Jack Herring, as the oldest friend, urged by the other members, took the bull by the horns and called boldly. On neither occasion was Mrs. Loveredge at home.

“I’m damned if I go again!” said Jack. “She was in the second time, I know. I watched her into the house. Confound the stuck-up pair of them!”

Bewilderment gave place to indignation. Now and again Joey would creep, a mental shadow of his former self, into the Club where once every member would have risen with a smile to greet him. They gave him curt answers and turned away from him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him there alone, standing with his hands in his pockets looking out of window. Peter was fifty, so he said, maybe a little older; men of forty were to him mere boys. So Peter, who hated mysteries, stepped forward with a determined air and clapped Joey on the shoulder.

“I want to know, Joey,” said Peter, “I want to know whether I am to go on liking you, or whether I’ve got to think poorly of you. Out with it.”

Joey turned to him a face so full of misery that Peter’s heart was touched. “You can’t tell how wretched it makes me,” said Joey. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel so uncomfortable as I have felt during these last three months.”

“It’s the wife, I suppose?” suggested Peter.

“She’s a dear girl. She only has one fault.”

“It’s a pretty big one,” returned Peter. “I should try and break her of it if I were you.”

“Break her of it!” cried the little man. “You might as well advise me to break a brick wall with my head. I had no idea what they were like. I never dreamt it.”

“But what is her objection to us? We are clean, we are fairly intelligent – ”

“My dear Peter, do you think I haven’t said all that, and a hundred things more? A woman! she gets an idea into her head, and every argument against it hammers it in further. She has gained her notion of what she calls Bohemia from the comic journals. It’s our own fault, we have done it ourselves. There’s no persuading her that it’s a libel.”

“Won’t she see a few of us – judge for herself? There’s Porson – why Porson might have been a bishop. Or Somerville – Somerville’s Oxford accent is wasted here. It has no chance.”

“It isn’t only that,” explained Joey; “she has ambitions, social ambitions. She thinks that if we begin with the wrong set, we’ll never get into the right. We have three friends at present, and, so far as I can see, are never likely to have any more. My dear boy, you’d never believe there could exist such bores. There’s a man and his wife named Holyoake. They dine with us on Thursdays, and we dine with them on Tuesdays. Their only title to existence consists in their having a cousin in the House of Lords; they claim no other right themselves. He is a widower, getting on for eighty. Apparently he’s the only relative they have, and when he dies, they talk of retiring into the country. There’s a fellow named Cutler, who visited once at Marlborough House in connection with a charity. You’d think to listen to him that he had designs upon the throne. The most tiresome of them all is a noisy woman who, as far as I can make out, hasn’t any name at all. ‘Miss Montgomery’ is on her cards, but that is only what she calls herself. Who she really is! It would shake the foundations of European society if known. We sit and talk about the aristocracy; we don’t seem to know anybody else. I tried on one occasion a little sarcasm as a corrective – recounted conversations between myself and the Prince of Wales, in which I invariably addressed him as ‘Teddy.’ It sounds tall, I know, but those people took it in. I was too astonished to undeceive them at the time, the consequence is I am a sort of little god to them. They come round me and ask for more. What am I to do? I am helpless among them. I’ve never had anything to do before with the really first-prize idiot; the usual type, of course, one knows, but these, if you haven’t met them, are inconceivable. I try insulting them; they don’t even know I am insulting them. Short of dragging them out of their chairs and kicking them round the room, I don’t see how to make them understand it.”

“And Mrs. Loveredge?” asked the sympathetic Peter, “is she – ”

“Between ourselves,” said Joey, sinking his voice to a needless whisper, seeing he and Peter were the sole occupants of the smoking-room – “I couldn’t, of course, say it to a younger man – but between ourselves, my wife is a charming woman. You don’t know her.”

“Doesn’t seem much chance of my ever doing so,” laughed Peter.

“So graceful, so dignified, so – so queenly,” continued the little man, with rising enthusiasm. “She has only one fault – she has no sense of humour.”

To Peter, as it has been said, men of forty were mere boys.

“My dear fellow, whatever could have induced you – ”

“I know – I know all that,” interrupted the mere boy. “Nature arranges it on purpose. Tall and solemn prigs marry little women with turned-up noses. Cheerful little fellows like myself – we marry serious, stately women. If it were otherwise, the human race would be split up into species.”

“Of course, if you were actuated by a sense of public duty – ”

“Don’t be a fool, Peter Hope,” returned the little man. “I’m in love with my wife just as she is, and always shall be. I know the woman with a sense of humour, and of the two I prefer the one without. The Juno type is my ideal. I must take the rough with the smooth. One can’t have a jolly, chirpy Juno, and wouldn’t care for her if one could.”

“Then are you going to give up all your old friends?”

“Don’t suggest it,” pleaded the little man. “You don’t know how miserable it makes me – the mere idea. Tell them to be patient. The secret of dealing with women, I have found, is to do nothing rashly.” The clock struck five. “I must go now,” said Joey. “Don’t misjudge her, Peter, and don’t let the others. She’s a dear girl. You’ll like her, all of you, when you know her. A dear girl! She only has that one fault.”

Joey went out.

Peter did his best that evening to explain the true position of affairs without imputing snobbery to Mrs. Loveredge. It was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have accomplished it successfully. Anger and indignation against Joey gave place to pity. The members of the Autolycus Club also experienced a little irritation on their own account.

“What does the woman take us for?” demanded Somerville the Briefless. “Doesn’t she know that we lunch with real actors and actresses, that once a year we are invited to dine at the Mansion House?”

“Has she never heard of the aristocracy of genius?” demanded Alexander the Poet.

“The explanation may be that possibly she has seen it,” feared the Wee Laddie.

“One of us ought to waylay the woman,” argued the Babe – “insist upon her talking to him for ten minutes. I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”

Jack Herring said nothing – seemed thoughtful.

The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the editorial offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, and borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett. Three days later Jack Herring informed the Club casually that he had dined the night before with Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gave Jack Herring politely to understand that they regarded him as a liar, and proceeded to demand particulars.

“If I wasn’t there,” explained Jack Herring, with unanswerable logic, “how can I tell you anything about it?”

This annoyed the Club, whose curiosity had been whetted. Three members, acting in the interests of the whole, solemnly undertook to believe whatever he might tell them. But Jack Herring’s feelings had been wounded.

“When gentlemen cast a doubt upon another gentleman’s veracity – ”

“We didn’t cast a doubt,” explained Somerville the Briefless. “We merely said that we personally did not believe you. We didn’t say we couldn’t believe you; it is a case for individual effort. If you give us particulars bearing the impress of reality, supported by details that do not unduly contradict each other, we are prepared to put aside our natural suspicions and face the possibility of your statement being correct.”

“It was foolish of me,” said Jack Herring. “I thought perhaps it would amuse you to hear what sort of a woman Mrs. Loveredge was like – some description of Mrs. Loveredge’s uncle. Miss Montgomery, friend of Mrs. Loveredge, is certainly one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. Of course, that isn’t her real name. But, as I have said, it was foolish of me. These people – you will never meet them, you will never see them; of what interest can they be to you?”

“They had forgotten to draw down the blinds, and he climbed up a lamp-post and looked through the window,” was the solution of the problem put forward by the Wee Laddie.

“I’m dining there again on Saturday,” volunteered Jack Herring. “If any of you will promise not to make a disturbance, you can hang about on the Park side, underneath the shadow of the fence, and watch me go in. My hansom will draw up at the door within a few minutes of eight.”

The Babe and the Poet agreed to undertake the test.

“You won’t mind our hanging round a little while, in case you’re thrown out again?” asked the Babe.

“Not in the least, so far as I am concerned,” replied Jack Herring. “Don’t leave it too late and make your mother anxious.”

“It’s true enough,” the Babe recounted afterwards. “The door was opened by a manservant and he went straight in. We walked up and down for half an hour, and unless they put him out the back way, he’s telling the truth.”

“Did you hear him give his name?” asked Somerville, who was stroking his moustache.

“No, we were too far off,” explained the Babe. “But – I’ll swear it was Jack – there couldn’t be any mistake about that.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Somerville the Briefless.

Somerville the Briefless called at the offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, the following morning, and he also borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett.

“What’s the meaning of it?” demanded the sub-editor.

“Meaning of what?”

“This sudden interest of all you fellows in the British Peerage.”

“All of us?”

“Well, Herring was here last week, poring over that book for half an hour, with the Morning Post spread out before him. Now you’re doing the same thing.”

“Ah! Jack Herring, was he? I thought as much. Don’t talk about it, Tommy. I’ll tell you later on.”

On the following Monday, the Briefless one announced to the Club that he had received an invitation to dine at the Loveredges’ on the following Wednesday. On Tuesday, the Briefless one entered the Club with a slow and stately step. Halting opposite old Goslin the porter, who had emerged from his box with the idea of discussing the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, Somerville, removing his hat with a sweep of the arm, held it out in silence. Old Goslin, much astonished, took it mechanically, whereupon the Briefless one, shaking himself free from his Inverness cape, flung it lightly after the hat, and strolled on, not noticing that old Goslin, unaccustomed to coats lightly and elegantly thrown at him, dropping the hat, had caught it on his head, and had been, in the language of the prompt-book, “left struggling.” The Briefless one, entering the smoking-room, lifted a chair and let it fall again with a crash, and sitting down upon it, crossed his legs and rang the bell.

“Ye’re doing it verra weel,” remarked approvingly the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just fitted for it by nature.”

“Fitted for what?” demanded the Briefless one, waking up apparently from a dream.

“For an Adelphi guest at eighteenpence the night,” assured him the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just splendid at it.”

The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with journalists was that if you did not watch yourself, you fell into their ways, drank his whisky in silence. Later, the Babe swore on a copy of Sell’s Advertising Guide that, crossing the Park, he had seen the Briefless one leaning over the railings of Rotten Row, clad in a pair of new kid gloves, swinging a silver-headed cane.

One morning towards the end of the week, Joseph Loveredge, looking twenty years younger than when Peter had last seen him, dropped in at the editorial office of Good Humour and demanded of Peter Hope how he felt and what he thought of the present price of Emma Mines.

Peter Hope’s fear was that the gambling fever was spreading to all classes of society.

“I want you to dine with us on Sunday,” said Joseph Loveredge. “Jack Herring will be there. You might bring Tommy with you.”

Peter Hope gulped down his astonishment and said he should be delighted; he thought that Tommy also was disengaged. “Mrs. Loveredge out of town, I presume?” questioned Peter Hope.

“On the contrary,” replied Joseph Loveredge, “I want you to meet her.”

Joseph Loveredge removed a pile of books from one chair and placed them carefully upon another, after which he went and stood before the fire.

“Don’t if you don’t like,” said Joseph Loveredge; “but if you don’t mind, you might call yourself, just for the evening – say, the Duke of Warrington.”

“Say the what?” demanded Peter Hope.

“The Duke of Warrington,” repeated Joey. “We are rather short of dukes. Tommy can be the Lady Adelaide, your daughter.”

“Don’t be an ass!” said Peter Hope.

“I’m not an ass,” assured him Joseph Loveredge. “He is wintering in Egypt. You have run back for a week to attend to business. There is no Lady Adelaide, so that’s quite simple.”

“But what in the name of – ” began Peter Hope.

“Don’t you see what I’m driving at?” persisted Joey. “It was Jack’s idea at the beginning. I was frightened myself at first, but it is working to perfection. She sees you, and sees that you are a gentleman. When the truth comes out – as, of course, it must later on – the laugh will be against her.”

“You think – you think that’ll comfort her?” suggested Peter Hope.

“It’s the only way, and it is really wonderfully simple. We never mention the aristocracy now – it would be like talking shop. We just enjoy ourselves. You, by the way, I met in connection with the movement for rational dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequenting Bohemian circles.”

“I am risking something, I know,” continued Joey; “but it’s worth it. I couldn’t have existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very careful. Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with anti-vaccination and who never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the great authority on centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week as Lord Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, and started a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some difficulty at first. She wanted to send out paragraphs, but I explained that was only done by vulgar persons – that when the nobility came to you as friends, it was considered bad taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you, with only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not wish for. I don’t myself see why the truth ever need come out – provided we keep our heads.”