The most popular member of the Autolycus Club was Joseph Loveredge. Small, , clean-shaven, his somewhat longish, soft, brown hair parted in the middle, strangers fell into the error of assuming him to be younger than he really was. It is on record that a leading lady novelist—accepting her at her own estimate—irritated by his polite but firm refusal to allow her entrance into his own editorial office without appointment, had once boxed his ears, under the impression that he was his own office-boy. Guests to the Autolycus Club, on being introduced to him, would give to him kind messages to take home to his father, with whom they remembered having been at school together. This sort of thing might have annoyed anyone with less sense of humour. Joseph Loveredge would tell such stories himself, keenly enjoying the jest—was even suspected of inventing some of the more improbable. Another fact tending to the popularity of Joseph Loveredge among all classes, over and above his , his wit, his genuine , and his never-failing fund of good stories, was that by care and he had succeeded in remaining a bachelor. Many had been the attempts to capture him; nor with the passing of the years had interest in the sport shown any sign of . Well over the and distempers so dangerous to youth, of staid and sober habits, with an ever-increasing capital invested in sound securities, together with an ever-increasing income from his pen, with a tastefully furnished house overlooking Regent’s Park, an excellent and cook and house-keeper, and relatives mostly settled in the Colonies, Joseph Loveredge, though inexperienced girls might pass him by with a contemptuous , was recognised by ladies of maturer as a prize not too often before the eyes of spinsterhood. Old foxes—so we are assured by kind-hearted country gentlemen—rather enjoy than otherwise a day with the hounds. However that may be, certain it is that Joseph Loveredge, confident of himself, one presumes, showed no particular disinclination to the chase. Perhaps on the whole he preferred the society of his own sex, with whom he could laugh and jest with more freedom, to whom he could tell his stories as they came to him without the trouble of having to turn them over first in his own mind; but, on the other hand, Joey made no attempt to avoid female company whenever it came his way; and then no cavalier could render himself more agreeable, more unobtrusively . Younger men stood by, in of the ease with which in five minutes he would establish himself on terms of friendship with the brilliant beauty before whose gracious coldness they had stood shivering for months; the daring with which he would tuck under his arm, so to speak, the prettiest girl in the room, smooth down as if by magic her hundred prickles, and tease her out of her overwhelming sense of her own self-importance. The secret of his success was, probably, that he was not afraid of them. Desiring nothing from them beyond companionableness, a reasonable amount of for his jokes—which without being exceptionally stupid they would have found it difficult to withhold—with just sufficient information and intelligence to make conversation interesting, there was nothing about him by which they could lay hold of him. Of course, that rendered them particularly anxious to lay hold of him. Joseph’s lady friends might, roughly speaking, be divided into two groups: the unmarried, who wanted to marry him to themselves; and the married, who wanted to marry him to somebody else. It would be a social disaster, the latter had agreed among themselves, if Joseph Loveredge should never .
“He would make such an excellent husband for poor Bridget.”
“Or Gladys. I wonder how old Gladys really is?”
“Such a nice, kind little man.”
“And when one thinks of the sort of men that are married, it does seem such a pity!”
“I wonder why he never has married, because he’s just the sort of man you’d think would have married.”
“I wonder if he ever was in love.”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t mean to tell me that a man has reached the age of forty without ever being in love!”
The ladies would sigh.
“I do hope if ever he does marry, it will be somebody nice. Men are so easily deceived.”
“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 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 in, to grace upon the figure and upon the limbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered , and had done so for years, and was himself 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, 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 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 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 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,’ 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 grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain of fact. Joey had not been seen within the Club for more than a week—in itself a deadly . 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 Peter Hope, editor and part 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 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 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 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 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 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 , 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 . 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 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 answers and turned away from him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him there alone, 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 boys. So Peter, who hated mysteries, stepped forward with a air and clapped Joey on the shoulder.
“I want to know, Joey,” said Peter, “I want to know whether I am to go on you, or whether I’ve got to think poorly of you. Out with it.”
Joey turned to him a face so full of 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 . Or Somerville—Somerville’s 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 , getting on for eighty. 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 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 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 , so , 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 it makes me—the mere idea. Tell them to be patient. The secret of 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 to Mrs. Loveredge. It was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have it successfully. Anger and indignation against Joey gave place to pity. The members of the Autolycus Club also experienced a little 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 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 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 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 , and proceeded to demand particulars.
“If I wasn’t there,” explained Jack Herring, ............