William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

filthy temper, doesn’t keep a mistress or practice any excesses, so far as I know.” Still he did not ask why Monk was enquiring.
    “Could he have studied abroad?” Monk asked.
    Florence leaped up into Mr. Burnham’s lap, turned around several times and then settled.
    “Of course he could!” Mr. Burnham answered. “Probably did, in fact. He is far too original to have gathered all his inspirations here. But if you doubt his technical ability, you have no need. I know Barton Lambert quite well enough to stake all I possess on his having assured himself, beyond even the slightest question, that all Melville’s drawings are structurally perfect before he would put forward a halfpenny to have them built.” He stroked Florence absentmindedly. “You may rely absolutely upon that as you would upon the Bank of England!Stand as long as the Tower of London, I assure you.” There was absolute conviction in his face, and he smiled as he spoke.
    The door opened and a stout and very agreeable woman came in. Mr. Burnham introduced her as Mrs. Shipton, his housekeeper, and requested that supper be served for two. She seemed pleased to have a guest and disappeared briskly about her business.
    “A man whose word you would trust?” Monk asked. “And his judgment?”
    “Absolutely!” Mr. Burnham answered instantly. “Ask anyone.”
    Monk smiled. “I am not sure ‘anyone’ will tell me the truth, or even that they know it.”
    “Ah!” Mr. Burnham smiled and settled a little farther down in his chair. Florence was purring loudly. “You’re a skeptic. Of course you are. It’s your job. Silly of me to have forgotten it.”
    Monk found himself recalling how much he had liked Mr. Burnham in their previous acquaintance. He had been almost sorry when the case was concluded. It was not a feeling he indulged in often. All too frequently he saw pettiness, spite, a mind too willing to leap to prejudiced assumptions, instances where unnecessary cruelty or greed had opened the way for acts of impulse which were beyond the borders of selfishness and into the area of actual crime. Sometimes there was a justice to be served, too often simply a law. The case here had been one of the happy exceptions.
    Mr. Burnham put more coals in the fire. It was now roaring rather dangerously up the chimney, and he regarded it with a flicker of alarm before deciding it would not set the actual fabric of it alight, and relaxed again, folding his hands across his stomach and resettling the cat to its satisfaction.
    “Let me tell you a little story about Barton Lambert,” he began with candid pleasure. He loved telling stories and could find too few people to listen to him. He was a man who should have had grandchildren. “And you will see what I mean.”
    Monk smiled, amused at both of them. “Please do.” It was just possible the tale would even be enlightening, and he wasextremely comfortable and looking forward to a very fine supper. He had tasted Mrs. Shipton’s cooking twice before.
    Mr. Burnham settled himself still deeper into his chair and began.
    “You must understand one thing about Barton Lambert. He loves beauty in all its forms. For all his rather unrefined exterior, frankly, and his”—he smiled, not unkindly, as he said it—“rather plebeian background—he was in trade—he has the soul of an artist. He has not the talent, but instead of envying those who do, he supports them. That is his way of being part of what they create.”
    A coal fell out of the fire and he ignored it, in spite of the smoke it sent up.
    Monk recovered it with the tongs and replaced it in the blazing heap.
    “He is a man without envy,” Mr. Burnham carried on without apparently having noticed. “And that of itself is a very beautiful thing, my dear fellow. And I think he is entirely unconscious of it. Virtue that does not regard itself is of peculiar value.”
    Monk wanted to urge him to begin the story, but he knew from past experience it would only interrupt his thought and hurt his feelings.
    Mrs. Shipton came in and set the small gate-legged table with a lace-edged cloth, silver, salt and pepper pots and very fine crystal glasses, and a few moments later carried in the supper and served it. Mr. Burnham continued with his story, barely hesitating as he removed Florence from his lap and conducted Monk to his chair, and thanked Mrs. Shipton. They began to eat.
    “Lord …” He hesitated. “I think I shall decline, in the interests of