THE PRISONER'S STATEMENT.
The day after the trial Tressamer went with confident mien to the
prison for the purpose of having an interview with Eleanor as to the
appeal of which he had given notice.
The governor at first hesitated about permitting this. The prison
regulations forbid intercourse with a convict, except under certain
rigorous limitations. But the name and function of counsel prevailed,
and a warder was sent to fetch the prisoner.
Presently he returned alone, with the startling message that Eleanor
positively refused to hold any communication whatever with her late
advocate. Tressamer left the gaol with the air of a beaten man.
In his dismay he bethought himself of Prescott, and hurried to the
court-house to find him and get his advice. He was there, but he was
busy in a case then before the Nisi Prius Court, and it was not till
late in the afternoon that Tressamer could get a word with him.
The case had been decided in favour of Prescott's client, and he
strode into the robing-room with a little natural elation. But no
sooner did he catch sight of his friend, who was waiting for him
there, than his whole manner changed, and a stern expression settled
round the corners of his mouth.
It was their first meeting since the result of Eleanor's trial. They
were alone in the room, and Prescott at once addressed the other:
'Tressamer, what have you to say for yourself? I told you yesterday
that I should hold you responsible. You disobeyed my advice, and that
of everybody else. You set the judge and jury against you, and the
result is what you were told it would be. I gave you fair warning, and
I tell you now that, unless you have some reason for your conduct of
which I know nothing, I cannot look upon you as a friend.'
Tressamer pinched in his lips hard as he listened to this.
'I might have expected it,' he said. 'We all know that love is
stronger than friendship. The first woman that likes can break up the
strongest attachments of some men.'
'Silence!' cried Prescott. 'I am not going to bandy retorts with you.
Ever since we were boys I have liked you and befriended you, and borne
with your waywardness. You have outraged all your other friends long
ago, but I bore with everything till now. But this is too much. Where
a life is at stake, to indulge in your freaks of eccentricity! It is
murder morally. What are you better than the man who killed that
wretched woman?'
Tressamer shook with anger.
'Be careful, Prescott! I will stand a great deal from you, but you are
going too far now. You know as well as I do that her life is in no
danger. What is old Buller's opinion worth on a criminal case? Wiseman
is worth ten of him, and he is in our favour. The C.C.R. will save
her.'
'Wretched man! Have you no heart, no moral sense, that you talk like
that? As if a mere escape on a technical point could give any comfort
to a woman like her! One would think you were wanting in some
ingredient of human nature. What does Eleanor herself say?'
'I haven't seen her,' was the muttered reply.
'Haven't seen her! Then go at once, and get her authority to appear.'
'I have been to the prison, but she won't see me. I suppose she is
ill.'
A look of positive pleasure crossed the face of the elder man.
'Ill--no, but innocent!' he exclaimed. 'I can understand her refusing
to see you. You have played with her life for the prize of infamy, and
you deserve that she should discard you. This is the best thing I have
heard yet. Why, I could almost forgive you now for telling me. I will
go this instant and offer my services: they will be those of a plain,
honest man.'
And, flinging off his wig and gown, he rushed out of the place in a
very unwonted state of excitement.
Tressamer was left, bewildered and enraged, to curse his own folly in
betraying his defeat to a rival.
* * * * *
When Eleanor was summoned by the gaoler to see Mr. Prescott, she at
first thought there must be some mistake.
'Are you sure you don't mean Mr. Tressamer?' she asked.
'No; he said Prescott.'
A faint smile rose in her face. She eagerly assented to the interview,
and in a couple of minutes the two were closeted together.
At first there was a brief, awkward silence. Then Prescott broke it by
speaking in calm, precise words:
'It is nearly five years since we met, Miss Owen, but I hope you have
not quite forgotten me.'
'No, indeed,' she answered; 'but you should have forgotten me. I know
I ought to thank you for this visit, and for dealing so leniently with
the case yesterday, but I cannot find the right words. It is all so
strange--so terrible and so strange.'
Prescott was afraid to look at her, lest the tears should come into
his eyes.
'Don't thank me, please. I wish I could forgive myself for taking that
wretched brief at all. I can only say I did so for fear it might fall
into the hands of some abler and bitterer prosecutor. The solicitors
were your enemies.'
'Yes; I refused their services. I have wondered since if I was wise.
It was Mr. Tressamer who advised me.'
'And why? Why did you trust yourself so entirely to that man? But I
forgot. I believe you are or were engaged.'
Eleanor raised her eyes, and looked long and searchingly at her
questioner. Suddenly she said:
'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 passed. 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 friendship, 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
circumstances 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 repetitions 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 friendship. And yet it was only friendship that I felt
for him--yes, even to the very last, I assure you. I never felt for
him any warmer feeling than gratitude 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 passed 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 friendship 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
friendship. 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 passion. 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 proprietorship 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 gratitude, 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 passionate
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.
'I took no notice of this. He repeated it more distinctly. Then I
wrote, objecting that I was far too young to think of such a thing for
some time to come. He took the alarm, came down by the next train, and
sought me out. We went together to a lonely part of the shore, and
there we came to a full explanation.
'Don't ask me what passed between us. He may be able to tell you. I
never can. Enough, that after four hours' agonized entreaty and storm
on his part, and agonized endurance on mine, we parted. I told him I
could never hold intercourse with him again on any footing, and left
him apparently resigned. That was just two days before my friend was
murdered.
'He left the place next day, and I did not see him again till after I
had been lodged in prison.
'There he came to me, asking no return to the old relations, but
simply the privilege of befriending and defending me in my fearful
trouble. I was crushed by his generosity, and freely gave myself to
his guidance.
'But even in that first interview he threw out a suggestion which
shocked and repelled me. He seemed to take it for granted that the
jury would convict me, and to rely upon getting me off on a law point.
I told him that life would not be worth anything to me under such
conditions, and in reply he hinted that his devotion would still be
mine, if I cared for it.
'Since then you have seen how it has happened exactly as he foretold.
Now, it seems a dreadful thing to say, but the suspicion has forced
itself into my mind, and I cannot get rid of it, that he wished all
along that I might be blighted in my reputation, and just be saved at
the last from actual condemnation, so that I might be driven to take
refuge with him.'
She spoke these last sentences in a whisper, as if afraid to hear such
suggestions even from her own lips.
Prescott gave a groan.
'Would to Heaven I could contradict you!' he said, 'but I believe it
myself.'
And he related to her what had passed between his friend of old and
himself. Then he went on to ask:
'By the way, can you can tell me anything more about that night than
what came out in court? It was you who went out the first time, I take
it?'
'Yes. I had been quite unwell for some time, owing to my trouble with
George Tressamer. After our final meeting I had a terrible headache,
and could not sleep at all. I went out each night about the same hour,
but I haven't the faintest idea where I wandered to or how long I was
gone. I got a little sleep after I came in, towards the morning.'
'And what do you think yourself of this man, Lewis?'
'I can hardly say. He has shown himself my enemy, and, of course, I
cannot like him.'
'But as to suspecting him?'
'Oh dear no! I suspect no one.'
'Not one of the servants? Rebecca, for instance?'
'No. I haven't any inkling whatever as to who committed the crime.'
'Well, I suppose I must leave you. I will do whatever is in my power
for your deliverance, not merely from danger, but from disgrace, and
if I fail I will never venture in your sight again.'