The Queen Against Owen Part 20

'Before I tell you, why did you come here--for any special object, I mean?'

'Yes. I came, hearing you had refused--and in my opinion rightly refused--to see Mr. Tressamer. I came, taking the privilege of an old friend of your father's and your own, to ask if I might appear for you in the court to which your case is being taken.'

'Ah, then there is a Providence. I am not quite deserted!'

She spoke in half irony, and then all at once broke down, and began sobbing as if her heart would break.

'Miss Owen!--don't, Eleanor!' cried her friend in alarm and distress.

'Do try and be calm. All will end happily yet, believe me. I swear to you I will never rest till your innocence is established by the discovery of the real criminal!'

For some time she wept on without replying. At last the sobs grew feebler, and she lifted her head.

'Oh, if you knew,' she said, 'what I have gone through these last two months--no, I ought to say these last two years, since my father died, and that you are the first to speak to me in tones that I can trust, you would not wonder that I weep. Sometimes I have felt it too much to bear, and I have actually thought before now of writing to you to tell you all my troubles.'

'To me! Why, do you--are you----'

She checked him gently.

'To you, as to my oldest friend, whose memory I could recall with trust and confidence. I am speaking now of a time that has pa.s.sed. Now I shall never consent to claim anyone as my friend--if I live--until this horrible stain has been wiped off my name.'

'I will wipe it off. Only trust me fully meanwhile, and if you won't claim my friends.h.i.+p, at least so far rely on it as to unburden yourself to me freely. Tell me all, because I feel that you may hold in some way the clue to this mystery. I cannot think that all the circ.u.mstances piled up against you were purely accidental, and I must know everything before I can see my way clearly.'

She shook her head doubtfully.

'I am afraid that my story will not throw much light on the murder.

Indeed, I fear I am abusing your kindness in troubling you with my affairs. It is a father-confessor I want, not a lawyer.' And she smiled faintly.

But Prescott was in earnest, and at length he persuaded her to speak.

Making allowance for some repet.i.tions and some slips of memory, her story was something like this:

'When my father died I was only seventeen. In spite of his being rector, we had lived a very retired life and seen few visitors. The only people I knew at all intimately were Miss Lewis and the Tressamers.

'Miss Lewis had been in the habit of inviting me to her house ever since I can remember. She used to give me valuable presents, too. In fact, she treated me more like a niece or some near relation than a mere acquaintance. I can never forget her kindness--never, never!'

She had to stop a moment or two to overcome her emotion.

'I dare say you remember as much about the Tressamers as I could tell you. You know that I was constantly at their house. George Tressamer and I were always friends, and he showed me great kindness when I was a mere child. I remember I used to look forward to his coming home for the holidays. Neither of us had any brothers or sisters, and so we were more ready to seek each other's company, I suppose.

'But I never quite understood him. I could see, even at an early age, that there was something in his feeling towards me quite different from ordinary friends.h.i.+p. And yet it was only friends.h.i.+p that I felt for him--yes, even to the very last, I a.s.sure you. I never felt for him any warmer feeling than grat.i.tude and affection.

'When my dear father died, I was at first in despair. Only two people would I listen to--my aunt Lewis, as she liked me to call her, and George. My own relations were all far away. I had never seen them, and they were too poor to do anything for me. So when Miss Lewis offered me a home, I had no choice but to accept. And I was very, very grateful for it.

'But in the meantime George had shown me a great deal of kindness. He came down from London on purpose directly he heard of my father's death. He made all the arrangements for the funeral, and wound up all my father's affairs. I believe he must have paid some money out of his own pocket, as I know my poor father always spent every penny of his income, and was often hard pressed for money. But there were no demands ever made on me. All the things I expressed a wish for were saved, and after the rest were sold, and all debts settled, George brought me a sum of two hundred pounds, which he said was mine.'

Prescott frowned thoughtfully, and drummed with the toe of his boot on the floor.

'I suppose he didn't give you any accounts?' he said.

'No; I never asked for any. I felt sure that my father couldn't really have left me so much as that, and I told Miss Lewis I thought so. But she seemed to think it was all right, and I was really too distressed at his death to think much about money matters, one way or the other.

'Well, that wasn't all. Not only did he see to these business affairs for me, but he did everything he could to console me besides. He brought me books to read, he persuaded me to come out walks, and, in fact, he succeeded in making me get over my first grief sooner than I had thought it possible. The result was that I came to rely on him very much. I looked for him constantly, and felt a disappointment if a day pa.s.sed without bringing him to see me.

'This was in the vacation time. At last he had to go up to London, and left me, feeling very lonely. He offered to write to me, and I was glad to accept. We corresponded the whole term, nearly every week, and at Christmas he came down again.

'By this time some months had gone by since my father's loss, and I was beginning to recover my ordinary spirits. George saw this; he gave me more of his company than ever, and finally, before the Christmas holidays were over, he told me that he loved me.

'You will think I ought to have been prepared for this. Perhaps another girl would have been, but I can only say that it took me completely by surprise. You see, I had never known any other young man at all intimately, and George I had looked upon more as a brother than anything else. When he spoke of love, my first feeling was one of annoyance and fear. I shrank from answering, and when he pressed me I asked him to let me have time to think it over. He wisely dropped the subject, and before we got home he was chatting to me as familiarly as ever.

'The result was that I began to think that the love which he offered me was nothing very deep, but only a warm friends.h.i.+p like what I felt for him. Then I reflected on my own position, as an orphan, dependent on one who was no relation and might cast me adrift at any moment.

I realised what a loss it would be to be deprived of George's friends.h.i.+p. I had never really felt anything that I could call love for anyone else, and, in short, I reconciled myself by degrees to the idea. At Easter of that year I accepted him.

'In all this I had made one great mistake. I thought George's feeling towards me was a mild one. The moment we were engaged I found the very opposite.

'When I first uttered the words which gave him the right to do so, he clasped me to him with a transport which frightened me. It was actually fierce in its intensity. He lost all that studied control which he had maintained for so long, and fairly gave himself up to the intoxication of his pa.s.sion. Had I dreamed what his state of feeling really was, I don't believe that I should ever have promised myself to him. But it was too late to draw back. He had obtained a power over me, from which I shrank, but of which I had no right to complain. I became in a sense his slave, and he did with me what he chose.

'From that moment, unhappily, my own feelings towards him underwent a rapid change. I ceased to look forward to his coming. I got in time to actually dread it. Instead of taking pleasure in his society, I feared him. I disliked the little tokens of proprietors.h.i.+p which are common in the case of an engaged couple. I did not even tell Miss Lewis that we were engaged, though I believe she looked upon it as an understood thing. In fact, I suppose it would not have done for me to see so much of George otherwise. Neither did I dare to tell her of the aversion which had begun to replace my former feelings towards him. To tell the truth, I was ashamed of it. In common grat.i.tude, after all George had done for me, I ought not to have allowed myself to feel so. I did try to check it. I told myself of all his good qualities. I recalled how long I had known him, and how friendly we had always been. But it was no use.

'Sometimes he seemed to realise that I was alienated by his pa.s.sionate displays. Then he would return for awhile to his old manner, and be cheerful and cynical with me. Then my confidence in him returned, and I enjoyed his company. But this would not last long. When I was least expecting it, he would break into a strain of what I can only call love-frenzy, and disturb me more than ever.

'It was impossible for me to hide what was going on in my mind from him always. He began to find out that I avoided him. Instead of openly coming and calling for me to go out with him, he took to lying in wait as it were, and joining me when I was out by myself. Of course nothing was said between us. I did not complain of his stratagems, and he did not complain of my excuses. But I think we understood each other.

'Then he managed to get Miss Lewis on his side. He used to come into the room where we both were and give me an invitation for a walk or sail or other excursion in his company. And if I tried to get out of it, he appealed to Miss Lewis to give me leave, and, of course, she then urged me to go. The way in which he went to work inspired me with a queer sort of admiration for him. I thought that he showed powers of intrigue that would have made him a great man if he had been able to apply them on some vast stage.'

'Yes, yes,' said Prescott, as she paused a few moments for breath; 'he has great ability, strange powers in many things, but----'

He shrugged his shoulders, and turned a pitying eye on Eleanor. He had known Tressamer well enough to be able to understand her experience.

She went on again.

'Strange to say, you were the cause of our first open quarrel, about six months ago.'

'I? How?'

'You know you had not been to Rivermouth for some four years or more.

But I remembered you perfectly, and used always to ask George about you when he came down from London. At last, on this occasion, he happened to say he had a recent photograph of you. I got him to show it to me, and then I wanted to keep it. He objected; I persisted, and finally his jealousy was aroused.

'"You always liked Prescott better than me," he said.

'"I haven't even seen him for five years," I said. "I remember him as an old friend, and I don't see why you should mind my taking an interest in him."

'"Taking an interest!" he scoffed back. "I wish you would take an interest in me. You have never asked me for my photograph, that I recollect."

'But I needn't tell you all that we said. It ended in his accusing me of not loving him, and in my saying that he was at liberty to find someone else, if he was dissatisfied with me.

'But he--he would not take the release. He altered his tone all at once and fell at my feet, protesting that he loved me above all others, and that nothing should ever separate us.

'So things went on, he alternately courting me and threatening me, I turning from coldness to dislike, and from dislike to detestation. But I hadn't the courage to break my bondage, intolerable as I sometimes felt it. Perhaps I should never have shaken myself free but for his own action in bringing things to a crisis. Our letters had been friendly for some time, and, at last, in the month of May, he threw out a suggestion in one that it was time to think of our marriage.