William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

coolly.
    Melville flushed, a wave of color rising up his fair cheeks.
    “No it is not, not in the way you mean!” he said hotly. “But if a … if a man breaks off an engagement to marry—or seems to—then people will raise questions as to the lady’s morals. They will wonder if he has learned something of her which is … which has changed his mind.”
    “And have you?” Rathbone asked. That at least could prove some excuse, both ethically and in law, if it could be proved.
    “No!” Melville’s reply was unhesitating. “As far as I know she is blameless.”
    “Is the matter financial?” Rathbone pursued the next most likely problem. Perhaps Melville required a wife of larger fortune. Although if her father was able to be a patron to architects, then he must be of very considerable wealth. A social disadvantage seemed more likely. Or possibly Melville could not afford to keep her in the manner which she would expect.
    Melville stiffened. “Certainly not!”
    “You would not be the first young man not in a financialposition to marry,” Rathbone said a little more gently, leaning back in his chair and regarding the young man opposite him. “It is a common enough state. Did you perhaps mislead Mr. Lambert about your prospects, albeit unintentionally?”
    Melville let out his breath in a sigh. “No. No, I was very candid with him.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face, an unexpected light of humor in it, rueful and self-mocking. “Not that there would have been any point in doing any less. Mr. Lambert is largely responsible for my success. He would be in a better position to estimate my financial future than my banker or my broker would.”
    “Have you some other encumbrance, Mr. Melville? A previously incurred relationship, some reason why you are not free to marry?”
    Melville’s voice was very quiet. “No. I …” He looked away from Rathbone, for the first time avoiding his eyes. “I simply cannot bear to! I like Zillah … Miss Lambert. I regard her as a good and charming friend, but I do not wish to marry her!” He looked up again quickly, this time meeting Rathbone’s eyes, and his voice was urgent. “It all happened around me … without my even being sensible to what was occurring. That may sound absurd to you, but believe me, it is true. I took it to be a most pleasant acquaintance.” His eyes softened. “A mutual interest in art and music and other pleasures of the mind, discussion, appreciation of the beauties of nature and of thought … I—I found her a most delightful friend … gentle, modest, intelligent …” Suddenly the desperation was back in his face. “I discovered to my horror that Zillah’s mother had completely misunderstood. She had read it as a declaration of love, and before I knew where I was, she had begun to make arrangements for a wedding!”
    He was sitting upright in the chair opposite Rathbone, his back straight, his hands strong and square, the nails very short, as if now and then he bit them. He clasped the chair arms as if he could not let them go.
    “I tried to explain that that was not what I had meant,” he went on, biting his lips as he spoke. “But how do you do thatwithout appearing grossly hurtful, offensive? How do I say that I do not feel that kind of emotion for her without insulting her and wounding her feelings unforgivably?” His voice rose. “And yet I never said anything, so far as I can recall, that sounded like … that was intended to mean … I have racked my brain, Sir Oliver, until I now no longer have any clear recollection of what I did say. I only know that announcements have been made in the
Times,
and the date is set, and I had no say in the matter at all.” His face was pale, except for two spots of color in his cheeks. “It has all happened as if I were a prop in the center of some stage around whom the whole dance revolves, and yet I can do nothing at all to affect it. And suddenly the music is going to stop, and they are all going to wait for me to play my part and make everyone happy. I can’t do it!” He was filled with quiet despair, like a trapped creature who can no longer fight and has nowhere to run.
    Rathbone found his sympathy touched in spite of his better judgment.
    “Has Miss Lambert any idea of your feelings?” he asked.
    Melville’s shoulders lifted slightly.
    “I don’t know; I don’t think so. She is … she is caught up in the wedding plans. I sometimes look at