The Philanderers written by A.E.W. Mason

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The click of the door-handle roused Clarice. She saw that the room was
empty, and, drawing a breath of relief, started out of her chair.
Standing thus she heard Drake's footsteps descending the stairs, and
after a pause the slamming of the hall-door. Then she went to the
fireplace and knelt down close to it, warming her hands at the blaze.

'The degradation of it!' she whispered.

CHAPTER VII

Bit by bit she sought to reconstruct the scene, piecing it together out
of Drake's words; but somehow that scene would not be reconstructed. She
gradually found herself considering Drake's words as a light thrown upon
the man who spoke them, rather than as the description of an actual
incident. The humiliation which she experienced made her shrink with a
certain repulsion from her recollections of Gorley and dwell instead upon
the contrasting tones in Drake's voice, the contrasting expressions upon
his face when he spoke to her and when he merely narrated his story. In
the first instance gentleness had been the dominant characteristic, in
the second indifference; and that very indifference, while it repelled
her, magnetised her thoughts.

Something indeed of the same process which had caused that appearance of
indifference in Drake was now repeating itself in Clarice. Drake was
superseding Gorley in her mind. She struggled against the obsession and
morbidly strove to picture to herself the actual execution: the black
troops ranged in a clearing before the smouldering village, looking up at
one figure--Gorley's--spinning on a rope. But even upon that picture
Drake's face obtruded. She thrust out her hands to keep it off, as though
it was living and pressing in upon her; for a moment she tried to conjure
up Gorley's face, but it was blurred--only his form she could see
spinning on a rope, and Drake beneath it, his features clear like an
intaglio and firm-set with that same sense of duty which had forced him
sternly to recount to her the truth that afternoon. She recurred to her
recent habit of comparing him with Mallinson. She had a vision of
Mallinson, with the same experience to relate,--if that were
imaginable--fidgeting through evasions, grasping at any diversion she
might throw out for him to play with.

But what if Drake's frankness, outspoken to the point of cruelty, sprang
from an indifference to her? Clarice had seen a good deal of Drake
lately. She caught herself almost smiling at the idea, softening at its
palpable falsity. In a last effort at resistance she fixed her thoughts
on the cruelty, the callousness, in his method of narration, and began to
feel herself on solid ground. She was consequently inspired to run over
all that he had said, in order to make her footing yet firmer, and at the
outset she was brought to a check. Why had she never questioned him upon
the matter before? he had asked. Clarice stopped and asked the question
of herself. At the beginning of their acquaintance certainly there had
always been others by, but afterwards there had been opportunities
enough. But by that time, what with her father's and Mrs. Willoughby's
hostility, she had begun to suspect that Drake was in some way implicated
in the mystery. Was it because she was afraid to know it for certain that
she had refrained? She recalled her letter to him written last Monday,
and how she had crossed out 'importance' and substituted 'interest.' Was
this knowledge important to her, really important, bearing issues in the
future? It could only be important, she realised, if she set great store
upon her acquaintanceship with Drake. Drake, in fact, had achieved
something of a triumph, though quite unknown to himself, for he had
compelled Clarice Le Mesurier to abandon the consideration of his
attitude towards her in favour of a search after the state of her
feelings towards him.

She was still engaged in the search when the clock struck six, and,
rousing herself brusquely, she rang the bell for the lamps to be brought.

At that moment Mrs. Willoughby had just finished telling to Fielding the
story which Drake had told to Clarice.

'So that's what Drake was referring to on Sunday,' said Fielding.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Willoughby.

'What in the world made you attack him in that way, if you didn't want
Clarice to suspect?'

'The fact was, I was a fool, I suppose. I just put my head down and
charged. But what I want your advice upon is this, ought Clarice to be
told now--before things go further?'

'No, no!' said Fielding. He saw the curtain descending precipitately upon
his comedy before the climax was reached, and he added quite sincerely,
'I like Drake. I don't see why he shouldn't have a run for her money.'

Mrs. Willoughby looked doubtful for a moment, and then she said, 'Very
well.' She hesitated for a second: 'I think I like him too.'

CHAPTER VIII

This was by no means the last occasion upon which Mrs. Willoughby thought
it prudent to take counsel with Fielding concerning the affairs of her
friend. Nor was Fielding in any degree backward to respond with his
advice. He developed, in fact, an interest in their progress quite
disproportionate to his professed attitude of the spectator in the
stalls. Mrs. Willoughby lived at Knightsbridge, in a little house, of
which the drawing-room overlooked the Park close to the barracks, and he
found it very pleasant to sit there of an afternoon and discuss in a cosy
duet the future of Clarice.

The subject, besides, had the advantage of inexhaustibility. On the one
side Fielding ranged the suitors, or those whom he considered such; on
the other the vagaries of the girl. Playing these forces off not merely
against each other, but against themselves as well--for, as he pointed
out, there was no harmony in the separate camps--he evolved an infinite
number of endless complications. There was consequently no end to the
discussion, not even when Clarice was argued through the marriage
ceremony. For that point Fielding took to represent the one o'clock in
the morning of a carnival ball; then the fun really begins, though decent
people have to go away.

Mrs. Willoughby was, as ever, staunch in her defence, though a
recollection of Clarice's tearful visit with Conway's arrival for a
climax prompted her now and again to laugh in the midst of it.

'You mistake thoughtlessness for tricks,' she said. 'Clarice is only a
child as yet.'

'She has a child's capacity for emotion, I admit,' corrected Fielding,
'but a woman's knowledge of its use. The combination is deplorable.'

Fielding inquired about Drake, and was told that he had not been
seen lately. 'It looks as if he was declining in favour,' Mrs.
Willoughby added.

'Not necessarily. The man's busy--there's a company coming out.'

'A solid one?'

'Likely to be, since Drake handles it. I am thinking of taking shares.'

Mrs. Willoughby was surprised. Fielding seemed to her the last man
calculated by nature for dabbling in stocks.

'You!' she exclaimed. Fielding nodded assent.

'Then don't do it,' Mrs. Willoughby flashed out vigorously. 'Don't think
of it. Oh, I know those men in the City! Their friends get ruined, and
they--well, I mustn't say anything against them, because my husband was
one of them, poor dear,--but they move into larger offices. Mr. Drake has
been asking you to join him?'

'He hasn't done anything of the sort. I heard of the matter through quite
an independent channel. However, I am not ruined yet, and the company
won't be floated for another four months. And, after all, it's my money.'

Mrs. Willoughby became quiet.

'Well,' she said, and she derived some satisfaction from the thought, 'at
all events Clarice has dropped talking about him.'

Fielding laughed.

'That means that it's Mallinson's turn on the roundabout and
nothing more.'

'Sidney Mallinson has been refused.'

'Refused! When?'

'On the Sunday we lunched at Beaufort Gardens.'

'Oh!'

Fielding was silent for a moment. He was thinking that he had met
Mallinson of late with unusual frequency here at Mrs. Willoughby's house.

'But are you sure?' he asked.

'Certain; he told me so himself. Clarice told me too the day after.' Mrs.
Willoughby began again to laugh. 'She would have prevented him if she
could, but apparently he tried to take her by storm.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Fielding. 'On the Sunday afternoons you say? Then I was
to blame, I am afraid, for I gave him precisely that advice on the Sunday
morning. Of course, I never thought that he would take it.'

Fielding met Sidney Mallinson again and again at the house in
Knightsbridge. He was invited to dinner, but so was Mallinson, and the
latter had confidential talks with Mrs. Willoughby. He dined with some
friends at the Savoy and went on in a comfortable frame of mind to a
concert; there Mrs. Willoughby joined them, so did Mallinson, and the
couple sat side by side and conversed through a song. 'The height of bad
taste,' commented Fielding in an access of irritation. The fellow was
spoiling his comedy by relinquishing his part. He drew Mallinson aside as
they passed through the hall.

'You seem to see a good deal of Mrs. Willoughby?'

'Yes, we generally pair off together.'

Fielding dropped plump among the coarse sensations of the ordinary human.
He wanted to kick Mallinson, and to kick him hard. He saw with an
anticipatory satisfaction the glasses flying off the supercilious
gentleman's nose, and felt the jar at the end of his boot as it dashed
into the coat-tails. The action would have been too noticeable, however,
and he only said, 'What a very _bourgeois_ thing to do!'

Mallinson's air of complacency vanished as he heard the offensive term
levelled against himself. He did not, however, on that account change
his attitude towards Mrs. Willoughby. Fielding found him at the house a
few days later, and proceeded to sit him out. The contest drove Fielding
to the last pitch of exasperation, for, apart from the inherent
humiliation of the proceeding, Mrs. Willoughby was directly encouraging
Mallinson to stay.

Mallinson at last was suffered to leave, and Mrs. Willoughby, instead of
resuming her seat, walked across to the window and scrutinised intently
the passers-by.

'That creature visits you pretty often, it appears,' said Fielding.

'Does he?' she asked. 'He comes to me for the sake of consolation,
I suppose.'

'And makes love to you for the sake of contrast. He tells me you
generally pair off together when you meet. Pair off!' and he grimaced
the phrase to show how little he minded it. 'It'll be "keeping
company" next.'

Mrs. Willoughby gave a little quiet laugh. Her back was towards him, so
that he could not catch her expression, but she seemed to him culpably
indifferent to the complexion which Mallinson had given to their
friendship.

'It's rather funny,' she said, 'though I can't help feeling sorry for
him.'

'I saw that you were sorry for him,' Fielding interrupted.

'But he pretends,' Mrs. Willoughby went on, ignoring the interruption
with complete unconsciousness--'he pretends to himself that I am Clarice.
He talks to me as if I were. He called me "Clarice" the other day, and
never noticed the mistake, and that's not my name, is it?' She turned to
him quite seriously as she put the question.

'No,' replied Fielding, 'your name's Constance,' and he dwelt upon the
name for a second.

'Yes--Constance,' said Mrs. Willoughby thoughtfully. 'It sounds rather
prim, don't you think?'

'Constance,' Fielding repeated, weighing it deliberately. 'Constance--no,
I rather like it.'

'Clarice shortens it to Connie.'

'Does she indeed? Connie--Constance.' Fielding contrasted the two names,
and again, 'Constance--Connie.'

Mrs. Willoughby's mouth began to dimple at the corners.

'Although one laughs,' she proceeded, 'it's really rather serious about
Mr. Mallinson. He told me once the colour of my eyes was--'

'Do you let him talk to you about the colour of your eyes?' Fielding was
really indignant at the supposition.

'He didn't ask my permission,' Mrs. Willoughby said penitently. 'But it
isn't a thing people ought to do. He said they were gray, and they
aren't, are they?' She turned her face towards him.

'Gray? Of course not,' said Fielding, and starting from his chair, he
approached Mrs. Willoughby at the window to make sure.

'Clarice's are, I know, but I am certain mine aren't.' She held up her
face towards the light, and the remark was pitched as a question.

'Yours,' said Fielding, examining them, 'Neptune dipped them in the sea
at six o'clock on an August morning.'

Mrs. Willoughby moved away from the window precipitately. 'So, if Mr.
Mallinson is so fond of Clarice,' she said, 'that he sees her in
everybody one can't help pitying him.'

Mrs. Willoughby, however, for a short time subsequently was not seen in
the company of the discarded lover, and Fielding inferred with
satisfaction that her pity was taking a less active form. He was roused
to a perception that his inference was false one night at the opera.

Mrs. Willoughby was present with Mr. Le Mesurier and Clarice. Percy
Conway he hardly reckoned, counting him at this time, from his constant
attendance, rather as an item of Clarice's toilette; and Fielding took
care to descend the staircase after the performance in close proximity to
the party.

'And how's Mr. Mallinson?' he asked of Mrs. Willoughby, not without a
certain complacency in his voice.

'Oh, poor boy!' she replied with the tenderest sympathy, 'he's in
bed, ill.'

'Ill?' asked Clarice quickly. 'You don't mean that.'

'Yes. I'm so concerned. He wrote to tell me all about it.'

Fielding looked displeased, and much the same expression was to be seen
on the face of Clarice. Mrs. Willoughby was serenely unconscious of the
effect of her words.

'I heard that he was in bed,' interposed Conway carelessly. 'But
apparently he has got something to console himself with.'

'Yes. He wrote to me about that too,' said Mrs. Willoughby. 'Fancy,
Clarice! He has inherited quite a good income. An uncle or somebody left
it to him.'

Clarice expressed an acid satisfaction at the news. She dropped behind
with Fielding.

'You didn't know that Mr. Mallinson was ill?' she asked. 'Did none of his
friends know except Connie?' and then there was a perceptible accent of
pique in her voice.

Fielding did not answer the question immediately. He had been brought of
a sudden to the vexatious conclusion that Mrs. Willoughby was a coquette
just like the rest of her trivial sex--no better, indeed, than the girl
at his side, whose first anxiety was not as to whether Mallinson was
seriously ill, but why he wrote the information to Mrs. Willoughby. He
felt that Mrs. Willoughby had no right to trifle with Mallinson. The poor
fellow had already suffered his full share of that kind of experience.

Miss Le Mesurier repeated her question impatiently, and Fielding suddenly
realised that Miss Le Mesurier's pique might prove useful in setting
matters right. He determined to encourage it.

'None that I'm aware of,' he replied. 'Mrs. Willoughby, of course, would
be likely to know first.'

'Why?'

'Haven't you noticed? They have struck up a great friendship
lately--always pair off together, you know.'

Miss Le Mesurier's lips curled at the despicable phrase, but she blamed
Mrs. Willoughby for the fact which it described, not Sidney Mallinson.
His attitude she could understand, and make allowance for; it had been a
despairing act prompted by an instinct of self-preservation to rid
himself of the hopeless thought of her. An unsuccessful act too, for the
poor fellow had broken down. She had no doubts as to the origin of his
illness, and overflowed promptly with sympathy. Her resentment against
Mrs. Willoughby none the less remained.

Driving homewards she asked her, 'Why didn't you tell me before that Mr.
Mallinson was ill?'

'My dear, I never gave a thought to it until I saw Mr. Fielding. The
illness isn't serious,' and Mrs. Willoughby laughed, with peculiar
heartlessness thought Clarice. They were, however, not thinking of the
same individual.

Mrs. Willoughby, Clarice, and Fielding in consequence suffered some such
change in their relative positions as is apt to take place amongst the
European Powers. Poor Mrs. Willoughby, in the innocent pursuit of her own
ideas, had suddenly roused two former friends into a common antagonism.
These friends, besides, had much the same grounds for resentment as the
Powers usually have, for Mrs. Willoughby's conduct was a distinct
infringement of rights which did not exist. Clarice and Fielding drew
perceptibly nearer to one another; they exchanged diplomatic
_pourparlers_. Fielding found a great deal to praise in Mallinson, and
Clarice had a word or two to say upon the score of widows. She was
doubtful whether they ought ever to re-marry. Fielding kept an open mind
on the subject, but was willing to discuss it. On the particular point,
however, whether this widow was to marry Mallinson they were both
uncompromisingly agreed, and were only hindered from an armed
demonstration by the suspicion that the sinner to the overawed would
merely laugh at it. On the whole Fielding deemed it best to address a
friendly remonstrance to Mrs. Willoughby in the interests of Clarice. He
suggested that she should see less of Sidney Mallinson.

'But I have no grounds for slamming my door in his face,' she answered
plaintively. 'You see, Clarice has refused him, and really he's very
sweet and polite to me.'

Fielding pointed out with the elaborate calmness of intense exasperation
that there could be no finality in a refusal given by Miss Le Mesurier.
Mrs. Willoughby replied that they had differed before in their views of
Clarice, and that the point he mentioned was one upon which Mr. Mallinson
must be left to judge for himself. 'Exactly,' said Fielding with
emphasis, 'he should be left to judge for himself,' and was for marching
off with colours flying. But Mrs. Willoughby could not refrain from
declaring that the unprecedented interest which Mr. Fielding took in his
friend Mr. Mallinson had raised that friend to a very different position
in her esteem from that which he had held before.

The combat was renewed more than once, but with no different result, and
upon the same lines. Mrs. Willoughby received his attacks with a patient
humility, and rushed out to catch him a flout as he was retiring.
Finally, however, she shifted her position, and became the aggressor. She
suggested that Fielding was really in love with Clarice, and trying to
gain favour with her by bringing an admirer back to her feet. Fielding
was furious at the suggestion, and indignantly repudiated it. She ignored
the repudiation, and quietly insisted in pointing out the meanness of
such a system of making love. The unfortunate gentleman's dignity
constrained him to listen in silence, for he felt that he would have
spluttered had he opened his lips. The only course open to him was a
retreat with a high head, and he declared that it was no longer possible
for him to continue a discussion which he had begun as much in her true
interests as on behalf of justice and her particular friend Miss Le
Mesurier, and went home. By return of post he received a pen-and-ink
drawing of himself and Clarice 'pairing off.' He was figured in the
costermonger's dress, with his arm tucked under the girl's, and her hat
on his head.

Meanwhile Mallinson was still in bed, completely ignorant of the battle
which had been waged for the possession of him.

Fielding thought more than once of calling at his flat, since his
determination had been sharpened rather than overcome by the victories of
Mrs. Willoughby. He was more than ever convinced that Mallinson ought to
have a fair chance with Miss Le Mesurier--an equal chance with Drake. The
name of Drake made him pause. Miss Le Mesurier knew everything there was
to be known about Mallinson, but there were certain facts in Drake's
history of which she was ignorant. The question sprang into his mind,
'Could Mallinson have a fair chance unless she was made acquainted with
those facts?' Fielding knew Members of Parliament who had been returned
over the heads of residents in the constituency because they entered it
too late for the electors to become intimate with their defects. Drake's
career might provide an analogy unless Clarice was told. He argued to
convince himself that he felt she ought to be told, but he could not
bring himself to the point of telling. He decided finally upon an
alternative which would, he imagined, secure his purpose, while relieving
him of the responsibility. He would tell Mallinson of the Gorley episode,
for the rival surely had a right to know. Whether Clarice was to be
informed or not, Mallinson should be allowed to judge.

Fielding assured himself of the justice of his intention for the space of
two days without putting it into execution, but on the third he chanced
to meet Conway, and was given the information that Mallinson's inherited
income amounted to a thousand pounds. The news decided him. Under these
circumstances Mallinson certainly ought to know. He jumped into a hansom
and drove down to South Kensington.

Mallinson was still in bed, but sufficiently recovered to write up his
diary. The book lay upon the counterpane open, but as Fielding was
introduced into the room, its author shut it up and tucked it under his
pillow. It was kept entirely for his own perusal, a voluminous record of
sensations ranging from a headache to a fit of anger, without the mention
of an incident from cover to cover.

'I hear you have had a touch of bronchitis,' said Fielding.

'Something more than a touch, I can tell you. I have been rather ill.
However, I am going to get up to-morrow.'

Fielding found it difficult to come to the point of his visit.

'You must have found it dull.'

'Not very. I can always interest myself. Drake came to see me yesterday.'

'Drake! How did he know? Conway told him, I suppose.'

'No, Miss Le Mesurier told him.'

'Miss Le Mesurier?' he asked.

'Yes. Are you surprised?' The question was put with some resentment.

'That she told him? No, I expect she sent him.' A smirk upon the
invalid's face showed he shared the thought.

'By the way,' Fielding continued, 'talking of Miss Le Mesurier, did you
ever meet a man called Gorley?'

'No. There was a Gorley who was engaged to her. Is that the man?'

'Yes. I heard rather a strange story about him. He went out to Africa,
you know.'

Mallinson lifted himself on his elbow.

'Africa,' he said slowly. 'Yes, I heard that. Why do you mention him?'

'Oh, I thought perhaps you might have known the man, that's all.
He's dead.'

Fielding spoke with a studied carelessness, looking anywhere except at
Mallinson.

'Dead,' repeated Mallinson in the same tone, but his heart was beginning
to race, and he lifted himself higher into a sitting position. 'Gorley
was a relation of Mrs. Willoughby, I believe.'

'A kind of cousin.'

There was silence between the men for a second or two. Mallinson was
recalling what Mrs. Willoughby had said that evening at Beaufort Gardens,
when Mr. Le Mesurier pressed her to meet Stephen Drake at lunch.

'So Gorley died in Africa,' he remarked. 'Where? Do you know?'

'Yes; at Boruwimi.'

Mallinson started. Fielding glanced at him involuntarily, and their
looks crossed.

'A strange story, you said. Suppose you tell it me. It will while away
some of my time.'

Fielding lit a cigarette and related the story. At the end of it
Mallinson lay back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Once or twice
Fielding spoke to him, but he did not hear. He was not thinking: the
knowledge that the secret to be discovered was his to use was as a sense
in him. He felt it pulsing through his veins and throbbing at his heart.
Mrs. Willoughby was forgotten. It had been after all but a fictitious
fancy which he had conceived for her, a fancy fostered in the main as
balm for his self-respect after his refusal by Clarice.

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered he called upon Miss Le Mesurier,
confident that his hour and opportunity had come. Drake, however, had
reported to Clarice on the condition of Mallinson, and her sympathy had
in consequence to a great extent evaporated. Bronchitis was not of the
ailments which spring from a broken heart, and she was inclined to hold
it as a grievance against him that she had been so wastefully touched
with pity. Her sympathy disappeared altogether when with little
circumlocution he broached the subject of the Boruwimi expedition, and
dropped a mention of Mrs. Willoughby's relative. There was something at
the back of it, he hinted.

Clarice wondered whence he had got his information, but made no effort to
check him. She stood looking out of the window while he retold her the
story of Gorley's death. It became more unreal to her than ever; for
while his account was correctly given, as Mrs. Willoughby had given it to
Fielding, it lacked the uncompromising details which Drake himself had
furnished. Her recollection of these details made the man who had given
them stand out in her thoughts.

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