Rathbone found his sympathy touched in spite of his better judgment.
"Has Miss Lambert any idea of your feelings?" he asked.
Melville's shoulders lifted slightly.
"I don't know; I don't think so. She is… she is caught up in the wedding plans. I sometimes look at her face and it seems to me as if it is quite unreal to her. It is the wedding itself which has occasioned such enormous preparation, the gown, the wedding breakfast, who will be invited and who will not, what society will think."
Rathbone found himself smiling with the same half-ironic appreciation of frailty and fear that he had seen in Melville's eyes. He had some slight experience of society matrons who had successfully married a daughter, to the envy and the chagrin of their friends. Appearance far outweighed substance at that point. They had long ago ceased to consider whether the bride was happy, confident, or even what she actually wished. They assumed it must be what they wished for her, and acted accordingly.
Then he was afraid Melville might think he was laughing at him, which was far from the case. He leaned forward.
"I sympathize, Mr. Melville. It is most unpleasant to feel manipulated and as if no one is listening to you or considering your wishes. But then, from those of my friends who are married, I believe it is a not uncommon experience at the time of the ceremony itself. The bridegroom can seem little more than a necessary part of the stage property and not a principal in the act. That will pass, immediately after the day itself is over."
"I am not suffering from nervousness of the day, Sir Oliver," Melville said levelly, although such self-control obviously cost him a great effort of will. "Nor do I feel any pique at being placed at the side of events rather than in the center. I simply cannot"-he seemed to have difficulty forming the words with his lips-"bear… to find myself married to Zillah… Miss Lambert. I have no desire to be married to anyone at all. If at some time I shall have, it will be of my own choosing, and of theirs, not something that has been assumed by others and organized around me. I…" Now at last there was a thread of real panic in him, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the ends of the chair arms. "I feel trapped!"
Rathbone could see that he spoke the truth.
"I assume you have done what you can to escape the contract-"
"There was no contract!" Melville cut across him. "Simply an assumption, which I did not realize soon enough to deny with any dignity or sensitivity. Now it is too late. My refusal, all my arguments, will be seen as a breach of promise." His green-blue eyes were growing wilder, his words more rapid. "They forget what was actually said and remember the facts quite differently from the reality. I cannot stand there and argue 'You said this' and 'I said that'" He jerked one hand up sharply. "It would be absurd and degrading, and achieve nothing but mutual blame and hurt. I assure you, Sir Oliver, Mrs. Lambert is never going to admit she presumed something which was not so and that I gave her daughter no proposal of marriage, literal or implicit. How could she, now that she has announced it to the world?"
Rathbone could see that that was indeed so unlikely as to be considered impossible.
"And Mr. Lambert?" He made a last attempt, more out of habit than a belief he would learn anything which would provide a defense.
Melville's expression was difficult to read, a mixture of admiration and despair. He sank back in the chair. "Mr. Lambert is an honest man, straightforward in word and deed. He drives a hard bargain, which is how he made his fortune, but strictly fair." The lines around his mouth softened. "But of course he loves his daughter, and he's fiercely loyal. He's sensitive about his northern roots and he sometimes fancies high society thinks the less of him because he earned his money in trade… and for that matter, so they do." He winced a little. "I suppose it was unnecessary to say that. I apologize."
Rathbone waved it aside. "So he would be quick to defend her from anything he saw as an insult," he concluded.
"Yes. And there is hardly a greater insult than to break a contract of marriage." The fear was sharp in Melville's voice again. "He cannot afford to believe me that there was none. Mrs. Lambert is a formidable woman-" He stopped abruptly.
"I see." Rathbone did see, extremely clearly, the nature of the predicament. He also felt increasingly certain that Melville was withholding something which he knew to be of importance. "Have you told me all the facts, Mr. Melville?"
"All that are relevant, yes." Melville spoke so unhesitatingly that Rathbone was sure he was lying. He had been expecting the question and was prepared for it.
"You have not found your affections engaged elsewhere?" He looked at Melville closely and thought he saw a faint flush in his cheeks, although his eyes did not waver.
"I have no desire or intention of marrying anyone else," Melville said with conviction. "You may search all you care to, you will find nothing to suggest I have paid the slightest court to any other lady. I work extremely hard, Sir Oliver. It is one of the most difficult things in the world to establish oneself as an architect." There was a ring of bitterness in his voice, and something which was almost certainly pride. His clear eyes were filled with light. "It requires time and skill in negotiation, patience, the art of diplomacy, as well as a vision of precisely what makes a building both beautiful and functional, strong enough to endure through generations of time and yet not so exorbitantly expensive that no one can afford to construct it. It requires a magnitude of ideas and yet note of the minutest detail. Perhaps the law is the same." He raised his brows and stared questioningly, almost challengingly. For the first time Rathbone was conscious of the man's remarkable mind, the breadth and the power of his intellect. He must indeed have an extraordi nary strength of will. His present problem was not indicative of his character. He was certainly not a man of indecision.
"Yes," Rathbone agreed ruefully, many of his own past romances, or near romances, fleeting through his mind. He had been too busy, too ambitious, to allow the time necessary to enlarge them into courtship. This he could understand with no effort at all. But he had not been unmindful enough of others, or of the way of the world, to allow himself to be so misunderstood that anyone, even a socially avaricious would-be mother-in-law, had missed his intentions.
"Yes, the law is a hard taskmistress, Mr. Melville," he agreed. "And one requiring both imagination and exactitude if one is to succeed. And it also requires an ability to judge character. I confess that I do not think you are telling me the whole truth of this matter."
He saw Melville's face tighten and the skin around his lips turn pale.
"Many men are not particularly in love with the women they marry," he continued, "but find the alliance quite tolerable. Even more young women accept marriages which are based upon financial or dynastic necessity. If the person is honorable, kind, and not physically repellent, they very frequently learn to love one another. At times such a union is happier than one entered into in the heat of a passion which is based upon dreams and fades when the first hunger is assuaged, and there is no friendship left to feed it or to tide them over the later times." As he said it he knew it was true, and yet he would not have entered such an arrangement himself.