'I don't want you to tell the world!' Rathbone answered back with equal sharpness, and still holding Melville's wrist, ignoring the last few people leaving the room, looking at the lawyer and his client curiously. 'I meant you to tell me so I can understand the battle I am supposed to be fighting. I don't need you to tell me that blackening Zillah Lambert's name, with or without justification, will not help you. But with the truth, I may be able to reach a settlement out of court. It wouldn't be victory, but it would be a great deal better than any other alternative facing you now.'
'I know nothing to her detriment,' Melville insisted. 'Do you think I am being noble and letting her family sue me without a word in my defense? Is that what you imagine?' There seemed to be a brittle ring of amusement in him, as if the idea were funny.
'I don't know what to think.' Rathbone half turned as the last woman went out of the doors and the usher looked at him enquiringly. 'But if there is nothing about Zillah, then I must conclude that Sacheverall is right and it is something to do with you.'
He had longed to read an answer, a vulnerability or a fear in Melville's eyes which would give him the clue he needed, but there was nothing. Melville remained staring at him with a blank, defiant despair.
'Is there someone else you love?' Rathbone guessed. 'It doesn't excuse you, but it would at least explain-to me, if no one else.'
'There is no one else I wish to marry,' Melville replied. 'I have already told you that.' He gave a little shiver. 'There is no purpose in your asking me, Sir Oliver. I have nothing to tell you which can help. The only truth of the matter is that I never asked Zillah to marry me. I have no intention of ever marrying anyone.' There was a curious bleakness in his eyes as he said it, and a momentary pull at his lips. 'It was arranged without consulting me and I was foolish enough not to realize that all the chatter was taken to be sufficient notification. I was blind, I fully acknowledge that; naive, if you like.' His chin came up. 'I admit to carelessness of her feelings because I did not think of her as more than a friend I cared for dearly. It did not cross my mind that she felt otherwise. That was clumsy, looking back with the clarity of hindsight. I will not make that error again.'
'That's not enough,' Rathbone said bitterly.
'That is all there is.' A self-mockery filled Melville's eyes. 'I could say I had suddenly discovered madness in my family, if you like, but since it is not true, it would be impossible to prove. They'd be fools to believe me. Any young man could say that to escape an engagement if no proof were required.'
'Except that it would disqualify him from all future engagements as well,' Rathbone pointed out. 'And possibly other things. It is not a tragedy one would wish upon anyone.'
The irony vanished from Melville's face, leaving only pain behind. 'No, of course it isn't. I did not mean to make light of the affliction of madness. It is just that this whole situation invites the thought of farce. I am sorry.'
'It won't feel like farce when the jury finds against you and awards costs and damages,' Rathbone replied, watching Melville's expression.
'I know,' Melville answered in little above a whisper, looking away. 'But there is nothing I can do except employ the best lawyer there is and trust in his skill.'
Rathbone grunted. He had done his utmost, and it was insufficient. He let go of Melville's arm and stood up. The ushers were waiting. 'You know where to find me if you should change your mind or think of anything at all which may be useful.'
Melville rose also. 'Yes, of course. Thank you for your patience, Sir Oliver.'
Rathbone sighed.
At first Rathbone decided to go home and have a long, quiet evening turning the case over in his mind to see if he could discover something which had so far eluded him. But the prospect was unpromising, and he had been in his study only half an hour, unable to relax, when he abandoned the whole idea and told his manservant that he was going out and did not know when he would be back.
He took a hansom all the way to Primrose Hill, where his father lived, and arrived just as the shadows were lengthening and the sun was going down in a limpid sky.
Henry Rathbone was at the far end of the long lawn staring at the apple trees whose gnarled branches were thick with blossom buds. He was a taller man than his son, and leaner, a little stooped with constant study. Before his retirement he had been a mathematician and sometime inventor. Now he dabbled in all sorts of things for pleasure and to keep his mind occupied. He found life far too interesting to waste a day of it, and all manner of people engaged his attention. His own parents had been of humble stock; in fact, his maternal grandfather had been a blacksmith and wheelwright. He made no pretensions to superiority, except that when he judged a man to have sufficient intelligence to know better, he suffered fools with great impatience.
'Good evening, Father,' Rathbone called as he stepped through the French doors across the paved terrace and onto the grass.
Henry turned with surprise.
'Hello, Oliver! Come down and look at this. Do you know the honeysuckle in this hedge flowered right on until Christmas, and it's coming well into leaf again already. And the orchard is full of primroses. How are you?' He regarded his son more closely. The evening light was very clear and perhaps more revealing than the harsher sun would have been. 'What is wrong?'
Oliver reached him and stopped. He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the hedge with the aforementioned honeysuckle twined through it, and the bare branches of the orchard beyond. His father frequently read him rather too easily.
'Difficult case,' he answered. 'Shouldn't really have taken it on in the first instance. Too late now.'
Henry started to walk back towards the house. The sun was barely above the trees and any moment it would disappear. There was a golden haze in the air and it was appreciably colder than even a few minutes before. A cloud of starlings wheeled above a distant stand of poplars, still bare, although in the next garden a willow trailed weeping branches like streamers of pale chiffon. The breeze was so slight it did not even stir them.
Henry took a pipe out of his pocket but did not bother even to pretend to light it. He seemed to like just to hold it by the bowl, waving it to emphasize a point as he spoke.
'Well, are you going to tell me about it?' he asked. He gestured towards a clump of wood anemones. 'Self- seeded,' he observed. 'Can't think how they got there. Really want them in the orchard. What sort of case?'
'Breach of promise,' Oliver replied.
Henry looked at him sharply, his face full of surprise, but he made no comment.
Oliver explained anyway. 'At first I refused. Then the same evening I went to a ball, and I was so aware of the matrons parading their daughters, vying with one another for any available unmarried man, I felt like a quarry before the pack myself. I could imagine how one might be cornered, unable to extricate oneself with any grace or dignity, or the poor girl either.'
Henry merely nodded, putting the pipe stem in his mouth for a moment and closing his teeth on it.
'Too much is expected of marriage,' Oliver went on as they came to the end of the grass and stepped across the terrace to the door. He held it open while Henry went inside, then followed him in and closed it.
'Draw the curtains, will you?' Henry requested, going over to the fire and taking away the guard, then placing several more coals on it and watching it flame up satisfactorily.
Oliver walked over towards the warmth and sat down, making himself comfortable. There was always something relaxing about this room, a familiarity, books and odd pieces of furniture he remembered all his life.
'I'm not decrying it, of course,' he went on. 'But one shouldn't expect someone else to fill all the expectations in our lives, answer all the loneliness or the dreams, provide us with a social status, a roof over our heads, daily bread, clothes for our backs, and a purpose for living as well, not to mention laughter and hope and love, someone to justify our aspirations and decide our moral judgments.'
'Good gracious!' Henry was smiling but there was a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. 'Where did you gather this impression?'
Oliver retracted immediately. 'Well, all right, I am exaggerating. But the way these girls spoke, they hoped everything from marriage. I can understand why Melville panicked. No one could fill such a measure.'
'And did he also believe that was expected of him?' Henry enquired.
'Yes.' Oliver recalled it vividly, seeing Zillah in his mind. 'I met his betrothed. Her face was shining, her eyes full of dreams. One would have thought she was about to enter heaven itself.'
'Perhaps,' Henry conceded. 'But being in love can be quite consuming at times, and quite absurd in the cold
