William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

tightening its coils around him. “Margaret, did you go to Hattie Benson in the clinic, take her to the street door, and persuade her to leave?”
    There were two spots of color in Margaret’s face. She lifted her chin a little higher. “She was going to lie about Rupert Cardew, and Hester would have seen that she went through with it. If you think I could allow my father to be hanged for something he didn’t do, then you have no idea of either love or loyalty.”
    “Love doesn’t mean betraying what you believe in, Margaret, and no one who truly loved you would ask it,” he replied, his voice trembling.
    She closed her eyes. “You pompous fool!” she said between her teeth. “Love means caring, passionately. It means sacrificing yourself for another person because they are more important to you than your career or your ambition, or the way other people admire you, or your money, or even your own life!” Her voice was shaking. “But you wouldn’t understand that. You like, you want, perhaps at times you can need, but you don’t love! You’re a cold, pious, self-righteous man. You don’t want a wife; you want someone to hold on your arm at parties, and organize your household for you.”
    Rathbone felt as if she had struck him. He tried to think clearly, find the reason, the balance, but all that filled his mind was crippling emotion. Hester’s words rang in his ears, but he knew even trying to repeat them to Margaret would be useless. And they would sound like Hester, which would make matters even worse.
    He should leave, now before he said something that he could never take back.
    But as he stood on the outside step again, he was at a loss to know of anything that could have made it worse.
    H E TOOK A HANSOM and rode in it all the way to Primrose Hill, not even considering the possibility that his father might be out. Only as the cab set him down on the pavement and he fished in his pocket for the money to pay the driver did he think of it. It was a mild Saturday afternoon. Why should Henry Rathbone be at home when there were a hundred other things to do, friends to visit?
    “Wait a moment,” he told the cabby. “He may be out. I’ll be right back to tell you.” He turned and strode up the path, now in a hurry as if every second counted. He banged on the door, and thirty seconds later banged again.
    There was no answer. His heart sank with a ridiculous, overwhelming disappointment. He was angry with himself for behaving like a child. He stepped back, and the door opened. Henry Rathbone looked grubby and disheveled, a gardening fork in his hand. He was taller than Oliver, lean and just a trifle stooped. His gray hair was sparse and windblown, his blue eyes mild.
    “You look terrible,” he observed, looking Oliver up and down. “You’d better come in. But pay the cabby first.”
    Oliver had already forgotten the cab. He strode back, paid the man, and thanked him, then went back to the door and into the house.
    “Where’s whatshisname?” he asked. He could never remember his father’s manservant’s name.
    “Saturday afternoon,” Henry Rathbone replied. “Poor man has to have some time to himself. He’s got a grandson somewhere. Go and put the kettle on the cooktop while I wash my hands and put my tools away. Then you can tell me what’s happened. I presume it is something to do with your father-in-law’s case? Quarter of London is talking about it.” He rarely exaggerated.
    Oliver obeyed. Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the large, old armchairs on either side of the fire in the familiar sitting room with its watercolors on the wall and its shelves upon shelves of books.The tea was poured, but still too hot to drink, although its steamy fragrance filled the air. There were also several slices of fruitcake on a plate. It was rich and inviting, even if Oliver had thought he might never feel hungry again.
    “What is your dilemma?” Henry asked.
    “I don’t know that I have one,” Oliver replied. “I can see only one acceptable choice, but I hate it. I suppose …” He stopped, uncertain what it was he wanted to say.
    Henry took one of the slices of cake and began to eat it, waiting.
    Oliver started to sip his tea, trying not to scald himself.
    Several minutes passed in silence, comfortable but still needing to be filled with words to frame the burden.
    “You are required to do something repugnant to you,” Henry said at last. “If you are certain Ballinger is