Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (123 page)

“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.”