William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

and he adjourned the court until the following day.
    Rathbone left feeling thoroughly miserable. He had scored a slight victory over Sacheverall on the point of Zillah Lambert’s very evident charm and apparent innocence, but it would not win him the case, and they both knew it. It made Melville’s behavior all the more incomprehensible, and the thought that filled Rathbone’s mind as he walked smartly along the footpath, avoiding the eyes of the few professional acquaintances he passed and heading for the nearest hansom cab, was just what did Melville know about Zillah, or her family, that he refused to say? And that thought must also sooner or later cross the mind of almost every one of her friends and enemies in society as well. Certainly it would cross the lips of the mothers of her rivals. And they would make doubly sure that it entered the ears of the mothers of suitable young gentlemen, heirs to titles and fortunes.
    If anyone was marrying Zillah Lambert for love, it would seem he could not do better, but that was not the majority of those whom her mother would seek. Even if no one was vulgar enough to say so, the jurors were men of the world, and no doubt married themselves, perhaps with sons who would soon seek brides. Would they accept willingly a girl about whom there were questions?
    It was beginning to rain and he had to run to catch a hansom before a couple of gentlemen in short temper could beat him to it. He heard their cries of frustration as he slammed the door and gave the driver his address.
    Two hours later, after he had dined without enjoying it and then paced the floor for thirty-five minutes, he went out again to look for another cab to Melville’s rooms.
    He had only been there once before, Melville had come to him during their preparation for trial. The building was a handsome Georgian town house, but in no way different from its neighbors on either side. However, once he was past the vestibule, across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor, where Melville had his rooms, it was utterly individual. The inside had been gutted and the new walls were curved and washed with colors giving a unique appearance of space and light. They had been used to create optical illusions of both distance and warmth. One room seemed to blend into the next. Ivories and golds and shades of brown sugar blended with the richness of polished wood. One brilliant fuchsia-red cushion caught the eye. Another in hot Turkish pink echoed it.
    Killian Melville sat in the middle of the floor on an embroidered camel saddle. He looked wretched. He barely glanced up as Rathbone came in and the maid disappeared.
    “I suppose you want to resign the case,” he said gloomily. “I can’t blame you. I appear to be a complete cad.”
    “Appear to be?” Rathbone said with sarcasm.
    Melville looked up. There were shadows around his eyes and fine lines from nose to mouth and around his lips. He was handsome in a refined, ascetic manner, but the most outstanding impression in his countenance was still one of overriding honesty. There was a directness in him, a sense of courage, even daring.
    “Are you asking to resign?” he repeated.
    “No, I am not!” Rathbone said sharply, stung more by pride than by sense, and certainly not by any belief that he could win. “I shall fight the case to the end, but the least I can realistically hope to do for you is mitigate the scale of the disaster. On what you have given me, I cannot beat Sacheverall; he has all the weapons.”
    “I know,” Melville agreed. “I do not expect miracles.”
    “Yes, you do.” Rathbone sat down on the sofa withoutwaiting to be invited. “Or you would not have entered this case at all. It is not too late to make some excuse of nervousness, indisposition, and still ask her to marry you. She may well refuse now—heaven knows, you have given her cause—and then at least her honor will be satisfied and you will have extricated yourself.”
    Melville smiled with self-mockery. “But what if she accepts?”
    “Then marry her,” Rathbone responded. “She is charming, modest, intelligent, good-tempered and healthy. Her father is rich and she is his only heir. For heaven’s sake, man, what more do you want? You have admitted you like her, and she obviously cares for you.”
    Melville looked away. “No,” he said quietly, but there was infinite resolution in his voice. “I cannot marry her.”
    Rathbone was exasperated. He felt helpless, sent into