Part 20 (1/2)

'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.