MRS. SNOW'S DISCOVERY
After a few minutes' lying on the threshold of her carriage-bedroom
with the rain beating upon her soaking dress, Beatrice rose with an
effort and opened the door. It was never locked, as no one would be
likely to enter. The matches and a candle were on a table by the
bed, where she had left them, and soon she had a light. Beside the
candlestick lay a folded piece of paper, and opening this, she read a
line or two in Alpenny's crabbed handwriting.
"I find you have gone out. I am going also, and will not be back for
three days. Durban will return to-morrow and look after you."
There was no signature, but of course she recognised the calligraphy
easily, as it had a distinctive character of its own. The contents
of the note rather surprised the girl. In the first place, Alpenny
made no remark as to her having taken the key; and in the second, it
was strange that he should depart thus unexpectedly, leaving The Camp
absolutely unguarded, even by a dog. Beatrice knew well enough that
her stepfather frequently went away on business, and at times very
unexpectedly, but she had never known him to take so hasty a departure.
However, after a glance at the note, she determined to go to bed, being
too weary to think of anything; too weary even to reflect that she was
alone in that lonely Camp, and that the gate had been open when she
arrived. A memory of the stranger with the black patch over his eye
certainly made her lock her door, and see that the windows were well
fastened; but when she had accomplished this for her own safety, she
had only sufficient strength remaining to throw off her wet clothes and
get into bed. And there she speedily fell into a deep and dreamless
sleep, while the storm raged louder than ever. Her last thought was a
hope, that Vivian had reached the Grange in safety.
When she awoke next morning it was ten, as the tiny cuckoo clock on the
wall told her, and the sun was streaming in through the chinks of the
window-shutters. She still felt weary, and her limbs ached a trifle,
but for a moment or so she could not think how she came to be so tired.
Then the memory of all that had happened rushed in on her brain, and
she sprang from bed to open the door and windows. In a minute the
sunlight was pouring cheerfully into the bedroom, and Beatrice was
rapidly dressed, feeling hungry, yet at the same time anxious.
And much need she had to be. Her stepfather knew that she had gone out,
and must have known that she had taken the key of the smaller gate,
for which he would immediately look. He would certainly make himself
most unpleasant, and she anticipated a bad quarter of an hour when he
returned. Also, Vivian might have got into trouble with the man who had
watched them meet under the Witches' Oak. Then, again, the gate of The
Camp had been open when she returned, and a stranger had left the place
hurriedly. All these things were very strange and disquieting, and
Beatrice ardently wished that Durban was back, so that she might speak
to him and be reassured. But it was probable that Vivian would come
to The Camp that morning in order to learn if she had arrived safely;
then they could renew the interrupted conversation, and come to an
understanding.
The interview with Paslow perplexed Beatrice when she thought over
it. Vivian's talk had been disjointed, and he had given her no
satisfaction, answering her questions in a vague manner. That he should
have proposed at so awkward a moment, and in so awkward a manner,
also puzzled the girl. From what she could recall of the scrappy
conversation it had been like one in a nightmare; and, indeed, the
whole episode was far removed from the commonplace. The meeting-place
under the ill-omened tree--the few hurried words--the rush of Vivian
towards the strange man--and then her own headlong flight through the
damp, dark woods--these thoughts made her very uncomfortable. It was
more like romance than real life, and Beatrice did not care for such
sensational events.
When dressed, she said her prayers and felt more composed; then stepped
out into the broad, bright sunshine. After the storm everything looked
fresh and vividly green: the world had a newly washed look, and the
air seemed to be filled with vital energy, as though it were indeed
the breath of life. But Beatrice soon saw evidence of the storm's
fury. Huge boughs were stripped from the trees round The Camp, the
flower-beds presented a draggled appearance, and the sundial had been
blown down. For the rest, everything looked the same at usual. When
she glanced at the dungeon, she saw that the door was closed and the
blind was down, although this latter was a trifle askew. Beatrice could
have gratified her curiosity by looking into the counting-house through
the twisted blind; but she had seen sufficient of it on the previous
day, and felt more inclined to eat than to waste her time peering into
Alpenny's sanctum. With the idea of getting breakfast, she went to the
kitchen, and speedily had the fire alight. Durban never locked the door
of the kitchen carriage, so there was no difficulty in entering.
Beatrice found plenty of food in the cupboard, and made herself some
strong coffee and an appetising dish of bacon and eggs. It was too much
trouble to take the food to the dining-car, so she spread a cloth on
the kitchen table, and made a very good meal. When she had finished,
she washed the dishes and put them away; then went out again, feeling
much better, and all signs of fatigue disappeared from her young and
elastic frame. But for the evidences of the storm, she would have
thought the past events of the night, those of a dream.
To pass the time, Beatrice swept out her bedroom and made the bed,
then attended to the garden. Every now and then she would glance at
the gate, expecting that Vivian Paslow would enter. But by twelve
o'clock he had not come, and she felt very disappointed. Then she began
to feel alarmed. What if he had met the man and had fought with him?
What if the man had hurt him? She asked herself these questions, and
half determined to go over to Convent Grange in order to get answers.
But she did not wish to leave The Camp until Durban came back, since
Alpenny was absent. Still the desire to hear and see Paslow was
overwhelming, and she was just about to yield to her curiosity and
leave The Camp to look after itself when she heard the rapid vibration
of the electric bell, and knew that someone was at the gate. In a
moment she was flying across the lawn, her heart beating and her colour
rising.
"Vivian! Vivian!" sang her heart, and she threw open the gate, which
was still unlocked. To her surprise, she beheld outside no less a
person than Mrs. Snow!
The vicar's wife looked more amiable than usual and less grim. She was
not very tall, and was dressed in dull slate-coloured garments very
ugly and inexpensive, and likely to wear well. A straw hat trimmed with
ribbons of the same sad hue surmounted her sharp, thin face, which was
that of the miser species, hard and sour. Mrs. Snow had never been a
pretty woman, and never an agreeable one, and as she faced Beatrice
with what was meant to be a smile, she looked like a disappointed
spinster. Yet she was the wife of the vicar, and the mother of Jerry,
so she certainly should have looked more pleasant. But Mrs. Snow was
a woman who took life hard, and made it hard for others also. If she
could not enjoy herself, she was determined that no one else should.
Whatever sins the vicar had committed--if any--the poor man was
bitterly punished by having such a household fairy at his fireside.
"Mrs. Snow!" gasped Beatrice, who was immensely astonished, as well she
might be, seeing that the vicaress had never before deigned to pay The
Camp a visit.
"Yes, my dear Miss Hedge," said the lady, with a suavity she was far
from feeling, as the girl's fresh beauty annoyed her. "You are no doubt
surprised to see me. But I have come to see Mr. Alpenny as my husband's
richest parishioner. Last night's storm has damaged the spire of our
church, so I have started out at once to collect subscriptions for its
repair. There is nothing like taking Time by the forelock, Miss Hedge."
"My father is out," said Beatrice coldly, "and will not be back for a
few days. Then you can ask him, Mrs. Snow."
"May I not put you down for a trifle?"
"I have no money," replied Beatrice, annoyed by the greed and
persistence of her visitor. "Will you come in?"
She did not wish to invite the lady in, but Mrs. Snow showed so very
plainly that she intended to enter, that Beatrice could do no less. In
silence she led the way to the Snow Parlour, and the vicar's wife was
presently seated on the linen-covered sofa, glancing with sharp eyes
round the pretty place. It need hardly be said that she glanced with
inward disapproval and outward praise. She wanted money for the spire,
and therefore had to be polite; but that did not withhold her from
inwardly finding all the fault she could.
"A most charming place," said Mrs. Snow, still trying to make herself
agreeable.
"I am glad you think so," replied Beatrice, wondering why her
unexpected visitor was so very polite; and mindful of Mrs. Snow's
past behaviour, the girl could not think that the vicaress was making
herself thus pleasant in order to get money for the spire. Besides,
the spire had only been damaged on the previous night, and it seemed
strange that the woman should begin to hunt for subscriptions for its
restoration already. No! Beatrice came to the conclusion, and very
rightly, that Mrs. Snow had another motive in paying attention to the
girl she had so severely snubbed.
"I have intended to call ever so many times," went on Mrs. Snow, not
to be daunted by the frosty manner of her hostess, "but my husband,
poor man, is not very well, and I have to attend to a great deal of the
parish work."
"There is no need to apologise, Mrs. Snow. I see very few people."
"But those you see are really charming!" gushed the vicaress. "I, of
course, allude to Mr. and Miss Paslow."
"They are friends of mine."
"And of mine also, Miss Hedge. Though I will say that this engagement
of my son to Miss Paslow does not please me. I really thought"--here
Mrs. Snow cast a searching look on the girl's face--"that my son
admired you."
"Oh no. He has always been devoted to Miss Paslow."
"His devotion is misplaced," snapped Mrs. Snow, some of the veneer of
her gracious manner wearing away. "I shall never consent to such a
marriage."
"You must tell that to Miss Paslow and to your son," said Beatrice
coldly; "I have nothing to do with it."
"Well"--Mrs. Snow hesitated--"I thought that you, being a friend of
Miss Paslow's, might point out how foolish her conduct is."
"It is not my place to interfere," said Miss Hedge in a frosty manner,
and beginning to gain an inkling as to why the vicaress had paid this
unforeseen visit.
"Of course not. I should never ask you to do anything disagreeable,
Miss Hedge. I hope you will come and see me at the Vicarage. Now that I
have found you out, I really must see more of you."
"It is very kind of you, Mrs. Snow; but I never go out. My father does
not wish me to."
"So eccentric dear Mr. Alpenny is!" murmured the vicaress. "I was in
town only two weeks ago, and Lady Watson mentioned how strange he was.
You know Lady Watson, of course?"
"I never set eyes on her. I don't even know the name."
"That is strange," and Mrs. Snow really did look puzzled; "she knew all
about you."
Beatrice started. "What is there to know about me?"
"Oh, nothing--really and truly nothing. Only that Mr. Alpenny married
your mother and adopted you when she died. I was not here when Mrs.
Alpenny died, but I believe she is buried in our churchyard."
"I have seen the tombstone," said Beatrice coldly. "And how does this
Lady Watson come to know about me?"
"She was a school friend of your mother's--so she said."
"Oh!" Beatrice felt her face flush. Here was a chance of learning
something that neither Durban nor Alpenny would tell her. "I should
like to meet Lady Watson."
"You shall, my dear Miss Hedge. She is coming in a few weeks to stop at
the Vicarage."
"I shall be happy to see her." Beatrice had to swallow her pride before
she could say this, as Mrs. Snow had really treated her very badly.
But she was anxious to learn something of her mother, and to find out
if she had any relatives, as she was determined not to marry Ruck,
and knew that if she did not, Alpenny was quite capable of turning
her out of doors. Of course Durban would always look after her, but
Beatrice wished to be independent even of Durban. At the moment she
never thought of Vivian and his hasty proposal, but it came back to her
memory when Mrs. Snow introduced his name.
"I hear that Mr. Paslow is thinking of moving from this place," said
Mrs. Snow. "Such a pity! so old a family. The Paslows have been in the
Grange since the reign of Henry VIII. It was originally a convent,
you know, and the Paslow of those days was presented with it, by the
king--so shocking, wasn't it? He turned out the nuns and lived in the
place himself. That is why it is called Convent Grange."
"So Miss Paslow told me," responded Beatrice, rather weary of this
small-talk, and wondering why it was being manufactured.
"But Mr. Paslow is poor," pursued Mrs. Snow, "and can't keep the place
up. I expect he'll go to the colonies, or some such place. So you can
easily see why I don't want my son to marry his sister."
Beatrice felt very much inclined to tell her garrulous visitor that
Vivian had inherited money, and would probably clear off the mortgages
and live in the style of his forefathers. But she restrained her
inclination, as it was none of her business, and rose to intimate that
the interview was at an end. But Mrs. Snow still sat on.
"Really a lovely place, Convent Grange," she chattered, "although sadly
out of repair. Haunted, too, they say, although I don't believe in
ghosts myself. But I hear an Indian colonel was murdered there some
twenty-four years ago, and his ghost is said to haunt the room he was
killed in."
"I never heard that," said Beatrice, wondering why Dinah had never
imparted so comparatively modern a tragedy to her.
"I dare say not," said Mrs. Snow tartly; "the Paslows don't like
talking about the matter. I heard about it from an old shepherd who
keeps sheep on the Downs. Orchard is his name, and he was the butler of
Mr. Paslow's father, who was alive when Colonel Hall was murdered."
"I never heard of a shepherd being a butler."
"You mean that you never heard of a butler turning a shepherd," said
Mrs. Snow; "neither did I. But I understand that the poor man's nerves
were so wrecked by the sight of the dead body that the doctors of those
days ordered him to take the open-air cure. So he became a shepherd. A
most superior man."
"Who murdered Colonel Hall?"
"No one ever found out. His throat was cut, and he was discovered dead
in his bed. I believe a casket of jewels was stolen at the time, and
was never found. But even if the Paslows didn't tell you about this,
I wonder your father did not, dear Miss Hedge, as he was here at the
time, and a visitor at the Grange."
"My stepfather never tells me anything."
"How dull you must be. He really is so eccentric. Lady Watson knew him
years and years ago, and says that he is quite a gentleman. He was
at Rugby with her husband, Sir Reginald, who is dead. But he took up
this money-lending business, which really is not respectable, besides
which, it is quite forbidden by the Mosaic law. Well, I must be going."
Mrs. Snow rose, still smiling. "But you really must come over to the
Vicarage, and let me make your life more gay. I shall also try and
induce your father--no, stepfather--to come over."
"I don't think you'll be able to manage that," said Beatrice dryly, and
wondering what all this alarming sweetness meant; "my stepfather never
goes out."
"He did over twenty years ago. Ask him about his visit to Convent
Grange, and about Colonel Hall's murder. It caused a great sensation,
although the criminal was never found. But who is this?" Mrs.
Snow stepped out into the sunshine as she spoke, and pointed her
slate-coloured parasol towards Durban, who was standing near. He
must have approached very softly, and must have heard every word
the vicaress said for the last few minutes. His dark face looked
unnaturally white, and he cast a nervous glance at the visitor.
Beatrice noticed nothing, however, and ran to him at once.
"Oh, Durban, I am so pleased to see you. Father has gone away. See, he
left this note, and----"
"I'll take my leave, so as not to interrupt you," said Mrs. Snow
graciously; "then you can talk to the man. What a charming place!" She
looked round severely and walked from one carriage to another. "Your
bedroom, a dining-room, another bedroom"; then she stopped at the
dungeon and tried the door. "Oh, Bluebeard's chamber! I must not look
in here."
"It is the master's counting-house, lady," said Durban, who was close
at her heels and seemed anxious for her to go.
"How delightful! A counting-house in a dark wood--just like 'Alice in
Wonderland.' May I look in at the window? Mr. Alpenny is from home, so
he can't object," and before any one could stop her she was peeping
through the window, where the blind was askew. Then she gave a cry of
alarm. "Miss Hedge, your father is within. He is lying on the floor."
She stood on tiptoe. "Oh! he is dead. I see blood!"
"Impossible!" cried Beatrice, rushing forward and pushing the meddling
woman aside.--"Yes Durban!--Oh, great Heavens!"
The servant came running up and also glanced in. Then, with an
exclamation of horror, he ran into the kitchen and came out with a
bunch of skeleton keys. Both the women, pale and terrified, stood
beside him while he fitted these into the lock. None would open the
door, and he flung them away with a smothered oath. For a moment he
paused, then ran into the wood. Mrs. Snow turned to Beatrice.
"Your father has been murdered. I shall tell the police."
"Yes, do!" said Beatrice, clasping her hands. "I never knew. When I
came home last night, he left a note saying that he would go away for a
few days, and----"
"Here is the man with a log," interrupted Mrs. Snow.
Indeed, it was Durban who came, dragging after him a large beam. With
a strength of which Beatrice had never thought so stout a man was
capable, he caught this in the middle, and, retiring for a few paces,
made a run at the door. It burst open with the shock, and, dropping the
beam, Durban went inside. Mrs. Snow drew Beatrice back.
"It is not for you to see," she said sharply.
"How dare you stop me!" said the girl, angry at the liberty, and
pushing Mrs. Snow away, she ran forward.
Durban tried to keep her out, but she managed to gain a glimpse of a
stiff figure lying on the floor under the mahogany desk.
"Oh, good Heavens!" shrieked the girl; "his throat has been cut!"
"So was Colonel Hall's!" muttered Mrs. Snow, and stole a glance at
Durban, which made the man turn even greyer than he already was.