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She could not have been more effective had she slapped his face.
Rathbone’s estimation of her soared. It was more difficult than ever to understand why Melville did not wish to marry her—unless Sacheverall’s charge was true. It was the only explanation which made sense. But then, knowing his inclination, he was irresponsible at best for having wooed her, grossly cruel at worst, using her simply to gain her father’s patronage and possibly to mask his own affair with Wolff by seeming to have interests elsewhere.
But he would not be the first man of genius to have a moral sense which was distorted by egocentricity into total selfishness. Rathbone should not have been disappointed; it was foolish, even naive. A man of his age and sophistication should have known better.
But the pain of it was startlingly sharp. He wanted to admire Melville. He could not help liking him.
Delphine was talking soothingly to Sacheverall, trying to repair the damage. From the look upon his face she was succeeding. Presumably with Melville excluded, he was an acceptable match. He was the right age, his family was excellent, his career prospects good, and he had more than enough money not to be courting her for merely financial reasons, although such a marriage would undoubtably improve his situation.
Barton Lambert had taken little part in the exchange. He was standing with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, and two or three times he had looked towards Rathbone as if he wished to speak to him. But it was too late to make any difference now. His whole posture was one of deep unhappiness, and Rathbone guessed he regretted the whole affair. His affection for Melville had been real. It could not be swept away by any revelation, no matter how dark. Emotions do not often turn so entirely in so short a space. The wound was raw, and it showed. He was an unusual man in that he did not seek to alleviate it with anger.
Rathbone admired him for that. Perhaps Zillah did not gain all her refinement of character from her mother.
Rathbone left the courthouse and went out into the bright afternoon with the sharp sun and wind promising a clear evening. Twilight would not be until after eight o’clock. It made the day seem long, the night over so quickly the next morning would be there almost before he had been to sleep. If Monk did not find anything he would have to call witnesses merely to waste time. Witnesses to what? McKeever would know what he was doing, and Sacheverall certainly would.
His only hope lay in there being something, however slight, in the Lambert family history which would persuade Barton Lambert to settle for a modest amount of damages.
He walked briskly towards a hansom, and then at the last moment changed his mind and decided not to ride but to continue on foot until he had consumed some of the energy of anger and frustration inside himself. He had not acquitted himself well in the case, but that mattered very little beside his concern for Melville’s future.
If only Melville had been honest with him and told him about Wolff! But he should have guessed it was something like that. Melville was not a very muscular man; he had a visionary’s face, a subtle and delicate mind, a poet’s imagination. Rathbone should have told Monk all that, and then perhaps Monk would have found Wolff before Sacheverall did, and this scandal at least could have been forestalled. Rathbone had the powerful impression that had Barton Lambert known he would not have pressed the suit.
Perhaps Delphine would not have wished to either. She was not hurt by the revelation, to judge from her manner, but it was certainly embarrassing.
He had dined out and it was nearly nine o’clock when he reached his rooms and his manservant presented him with the evening newspapers.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized.
Rathbone saw immediately what had precipitated the remark and the look of distress upon the manservant’s somber face. The headlines were lurid, vulgar and aroused speculation even further than Sacheverall had. Not a shred of dignity or honor was left to Melville—or Isaac Wolff either. Even Zillah did not escape prurient suggestions and a note of condescension masked in pity, but lacking any sense of true compassion. She was the catalyst of self-righteous anger, but no thought for her feelings came through the details and the outpouring of criticism, judgment and supposition.
Rathbone was too restless to remain at home. There was a rage inside him which demanded physical action, even if it was completely pointless.
He took his coat and hat and stick, not for any purpose beyond the pleasant feel of its weight in his hand, and went out to visit Monk.
However, Monk was not in, and there was no point in waiting for him in his empty and rather cold room, even though his landlady offered him the opportunity. He left again and went to his club.
He sat and brooded over a single-malt whiskey for nearly an hour, attempting to think creatively, until he was joined by an old friend who sat down in the chair opposite him, bringing another whiskey to replace the one Rathbone had nearly finished.
“Rotten business,” he said sympathetically. “Never know where you’ll find the beggars, do you.”
Rathbone looked up. “What did you say?”
“Never know where you’ll find the beggars,” the man repeated. His name was Boothroyd and he was a solicitor in family law.
“What beggars?” Rathbone said edgily.
“Homosexuals.” Boothroyd pushed over the glass he had brought for Rathbone. “For heaven’s sake, man, don’t be coy! There’s nothing to protect now. Angry with yourself you didn’t guess, no doubt, but then you always were a trifle naive, my dear chap. Always thinking in terms of the greater crimes, murder, arson and grand theft, not sordid little bedroom perversions. Looking beyond the mark.”
A turmoil of thoughts boiled up in Rathbone’s mind, awareness that Boothroyd was right in that he should have thought of it, blind rage at the man’s complacency and ignorance of the torrent of pain he was dismissing with a few callous sentences, and then a deeper stirring of a different kind of questioning and anger that these judgments were even a matter of law.
He looked up at Boothroyd and ignored the whiskey.
“I suppose I imagined that what a man did in his bedroom, providing he injured no one, was his own affair,” he said clearly and very distinctly.
Boothroyd was startled. His rather bulbous eyes widened in amazement.
“Are you saying you approve of buggery?” he asked, his voice lifting sharply at the end of the word in incredulity.
“There are a lot of things I don’t approve of,” Rathbone answered with the careful enunciation which marked his icy temper. “I don’t approve of a man who uses his wife without love or consideration for her feelings. I don’t approve of a woman who sells her body to obtain material goods, or power, or any other commodity, in or outside marriage. I don’t approve of cruelty, physical or of the mind.” He stared at Boothroyd unwaveringly. “I don’t approve of lies or manipulation or coercion or blackmail. For that matter, I don’t approve of greed or idleness or jealousy. But I do not believe we should improve our society by attempting to legislate against them. All one would do is turn every petty-minded busybody and every mealymouthed gossip into a spy, a snoop and a telltale.”
