William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

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 andawards 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