MRS. SNOW'S PAST
Beatrice waited to hear no more. As a sensible woman, she should have
remained where she was to question the old shepherd, and learn why
he stated so firmly that she was the daughter of Colonel Hall who
had been murdered so cruelly at the Grange; but the mere fact of the
announcement startled her, and without pausing, she rushed away, as
though to escape from her thoughts. Orchard looked after her in mild
surprise, but did not call her back, although her action must have
puzzled him. The ex-butler seemed to have outlived all curiosity, or
else the Downs had cured his nerves so thoroughly that he did not feel
startled. However, be this as it may, he returned to his dinner, and
sat watching the slowly-moving sheep without giving a thought to the
young lady who had called upon him.
How Beatrice descended the slope of the Downs into the valley she never
knew. Her brain was filled with the information she had so strangely
gained. She was not Beatrice Hedge, but Beatrice Hall, the daughter of
the dead man who had owned the necklace. Ruck asserted that the Colonel
had given the necklace to his wife before the murder. As Mrs. Alpenny,
who called herself Mrs. Hedge and who really was Mrs. Hall, had been
the wife of the Colonel, this was not unlikely. Alpenny, finding that
she possessed the necklace, might have married her to gain possession
of the same. But what Beatrice could not understand was, why her mother
should have married the usurer. It was true that he had always been her
admirer, as Durban himself had stated; but from accepting attentions to
marrying the man who paid them, was a long step. Mrs. Hall had taken
it, under the name of Mrs. Hedge, and again Beatrice wondered what the
reason could be.
Durban must have known this truth. He had been the faithful servant of
Colonel Hall, and had always spoken of him with love and admiration.
If she--Beatrice--were the Colonel's child, the adoration of Durban
for herself would be explained. He loved her, because he had loved her
dead father. But why had Durban held his tongue over the marriage, and
had allowed everyone to think that Alpenny had married a Mrs. Hedge?
Durban, as Beatrice well knew, had no love for Alpenny, yet he had
said nothing likely to prevent such a match. Certainly Durban might
not have had the power; but there appeared no reason why he should
have concealed the truth from his dead master's child. Beatrice was
beginning to see light. There was some mystery concerning her, which
had to do with her father's murder, with the missing necklace, and
probably with the murder of Alpenny himself. Durban now might tell the
truth and explain matters seeing that she already knew so much. Then,
again, he might refuse to speak out, and she would be as much in the
dark as ever.
Major Ruck doubtless knew the truth from Alpenny, although he had
declared that Mrs. Hedge was the cousin of Colonel Hall. But Beatrice,
remembering his hesitation in making the statement, was certain that
Ruck was cognisant of the real state of affairs. Was Vivian Paslow
likewise enlightened? She could not be certain of this. Vivian might
or might not know, but he assuredly had some secret on his mind which
he refused to impart to her until the marriage took place. Had that
secret to do with her real parentage which had been revealed to her by
Orchard? Beatrice was minded, then and there, to ask Vivian for the
truth. But she could not do so on the spur of the moment, much as she
wished to since Vivian was at Brighton with Dinah and would not be back
for some hours. Durban certainly was at The Camp, but Beatrice, very
naturally, considering his attitude, was doubtful if he would speak out
At the foot of the Downs, and when on the road leading to Hurstable
village, she paused to think what was best to be done. She half
regretted that she had not stopped with Orchard to learn more. It would
be just as well, she thought, to go back: but a glance at the steep
wall of the Downs led her to change her mind. She could not face that
weary climb again, as her nerves were shattered by the communication
which had changed her life.
Then it occurred to her that Mrs. Snow knew her mother. Mrs. Snow--then
Miss Duncan--had been at Convent Grange when Colonel Hall was murdered.
She must have known that the so-called Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs. Hall,
and must have known also the reason why Mrs. Hall under a feigned name
had married Jarvis Alpenny. Mrs. Snow declared herself to be a dear
friend of Mrs. Hall. Why, then, did she hate Beatrice, who was the
daughter of that same dear friend? That Mrs. Snow hated her Beatrice
was convinced, as she had pointedly neglected her throughout five and
twenty years. Yes Mrs. Snow would be the best person to question; and
having made up her mind rapidly, the girl took her way to the Vicarage
of Hurstable.
Mrs. Snow, looking more sour and elderly than ever, was in the garden,
engaged in the Arcadian pastime of gathering roses for decorative
purposes. She was a good housekeeper, and liked to see a dainty
dinner-table. Notwithstanding her disagreeable nature, she made the
vicar and his son comfortable enough, and really loved them both in her
sour way. Jerry, indeed, was the apple of her eye, and it was for this
reason that she resented his engagement to Dinah Paslow. With any other
girl it would have been the same. It was not the individual maiden that
Mrs. Snow hated, but the girl who took her son to be a husband. For
the sake of her own selfishness, which she miscalled maternal love,
she would have liked Jerry to remain a bachelor all his life, just to
please her, and bestow all his affection on his dear mother. But the
young man himself had not found that affection, although it really
existed, strong enough to fill his life. Therefore he had asked Dinah
to marry him, and so strongly had he held his own on the subject, that
Mrs. Snow had been won over so far as to receive Dinah as a future
daughter-in-law.
"Mrs. Snow," said Beatrice, when she entered the pretty grounds of the
Vicarage, "I wish to speak to you particularly."
The vicar's wife looked sourly at her visitor. She hated Beatrice
because of her beauty, amongst other things; and when she saw that same
beauty was somewhat worn and haggard, that the girl looked ill and had
lost her vivacity, she felt pleased. "Quite washed out," said Mrs. Snow
to herself, and thus became more amiable. Laying down the scissors,
with which she had been clipping the flowers, she advanced with what
was meant to be an ingratiating smile. "My dear Miss Hedge, I am so
pleased to see you. This is the first time that you have called. Come
inside, please."
"Thank you. I prefer to remain in the garden and take up as little of
your time as possible."
Mrs. Snow stiffened. "What an extraordinary tone to take with me,"
she said, with the offended air of a thorough egotist.
"Can you wonder at it? We know so little of one another."
"That is, as it may be," snapped Mrs. Snow, wondering what her visitor
had come to see her about. "I may know more of you than you think."
"For that reason I come to see you," said Beatrice calmly.
Her hostess started, but speedily recovered her calmness. "I really do
not know what you mean, Miss Hedge," she said composedly.
"I think you know this much, that I am not Miss Hedge."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Snow, her sallow face flushing an uneasy red. "Will you
not be seated?"
"Thank you." Beatrice moved towards a garden seat at the far end of the
lawn; but Mrs. Snow touched her arm, and pointed to a side-path.
"I have a very secluded arbour there," she said significantly, "where
we cannot be overheard." And she led the way down the path.
"The whole world may hear what I have to say," declared Beatrice
boldly, and resolved to be a party to no mystery.
"But the whole world," said Mrs. Snow, stopped with a disagreeable
smile, "may not hear what I may have to say--that is, if you press me."
"I want to hear everything," said the girl sharply; "for that reason I
have come to you."
"I fear you will go away less easy in your mind than you came."
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. "My mind has been uneasy ever since
the death of my stepfather," she retorted. "Is this the place?"
"This is the place," assented the vicaress.
It was--as Mrs. Snow had stated--a very secret place. The path ended
In a kind of semicircular enclosure surrounded by a high hedge of
hawthorn. The arbour faced the path, so that any one seated therein
could see an intruder advancing along the path. The haven of rest was
of light trellis-work overgrown with roses, and had a comfortable
wooden seat at the back, and two basket chairs in front of this, with
a small green-painted table between. Beatrice sank into one of the
chairs, and Mrs. Snow subsided into the other. The table was between
them, and the two glanced at one another when seated. Mrs. Snow looked
as sour as ever: but there lurked a watchful look in her eyes, which
a more discerning person than the visitor would have seen at once.
Beatrice on her part, having nothing to conceal, was perfectly open;
and caring very little for what Mrs. Snow had to say, resolved that,
whatever it might be, she would bind herself to no secrecy. The scene
being set, the actresses spoke. Beatrice politely waited to give
Mrs. Snow a chance of opening the conversation, while Mrs. Snow was
equally determined that her visitor should speak first. Under these
circumstances a silence ensued which lasted for quite two minutes. Mrs.
Snow, being the most impatient, yielded first to the desire to use her
tongue.
"You spoke very strangely just now, Miss Hedge," she said, and
purposely uttered the name to evoke frank speech from Beatrice.
"Miss Hall, if you please," said the girl, falling into the trap.
"Oh! Miss Hall," replied the other, flushing. "I never knew that your
mother was called Hall."
"As she was your dearest friend--you told me as much--I fancy you must
have had some idea."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Snow, looking down uneasily. Then she raised her
face with a frown. "Who told you this?"
"A man called Orchard. You may know of him, Mrs. Snow?"
"I have no reason to deny that I know of him. He was the late Mr.
Paslow's butler, and became a shepherd on the Downs, because the doctor
said he would have to live in the open air."
"Why?"
"Did he not tell you? His nerves were so shattered by that horrid
murder which took place at the Grange twenty-five years ago."
"You allude to the murder of my father?"
"To the murder of Colonel Hall," corrected Mrs. Snow snappishly.
"My father was Colonel Hall."
"So this man Orchard says?" sneered the other, her face flushing and
her hands opening and shutting.
"And so I believe. Come now, Mrs. Snow, you must tell me what you know
of this matter?"
"I know nothing."
"Perhaps Miss Duncan may be able to tell me?"
"Ah!"--the vicar's wife laughed carelessly--"you know my maiden name,
and perhaps my occupation before I married my husband?"
"I heard that you were a governess."
"Who said so?"
"Durban."
"In that case, since he has been so frank, I wonder that he did not
tell you how Mrs. Hall--your mother--killed the Colonel."
Beatrice started to her feet. "You dare to say that?"
"Yes, I do," cried Mrs. Snow venomously. "She killed your father to
gain possession of a diamond necklace, and married Alpenny because he
could have accused her of the murder."
"That is not true," said Beatrice, closing her eyes with horror.
"It is true. I can prove it."
"Why did you not do so twenty-five years ago?"
"Because your mother was my friend."
"Mrs. Snow"--Beatrice opened her eyes, and leaned across the
table--"you were never my mother's friend."
The woman moved uneasily, and her hands were restless. "Had I not been
so, your mother would have stood in the dock."
"Ah! you had your own reason for keeping quiet."
"Do you mean to accuse me of being her accomplice?" said Mrs. Snow,
rising, and scowling.
"Sit down, please." Beatrice pushed her back into the chair.
"How dare you!" gasped Mrs. Snow. "I was never treated before so in the
whole course of my life!" And she made to rise again.
Again Beatrice pushed her back. "I am stronger than you, Mrs. Snow,"
she said scornfully; "you shall sit down, and you shall tell me
everything you know."
"And if I do not?"
"I'll go at once to the police."
Mrs. Snow turned white. "To the police?"
"Yes. Listen. I believe that the man with the black patch who murdered
my father, Colonel Hall, also murdered Mr. Alpenny. My mother is
entirely innocent, and were she alive she would say so." Mrs. Snow
laughed at this remark, but in a hollow manner. "Yes, you may laugh,
Mrs. Snow, but what I say is true," resumed Beatrice firmly; "and if
you don't tell me all you know, I shall tell the police that you accuse
my mother and say that you can substantiate your accusation. When
arrested, you may be forced to speak out."
"Arrested? How dare you!" Mrs. Snow was furious. "How can I be arrested
when the murder of your father took place twenty-five years ago? It is
ridiculous."
"Oh no; this second murder has to do with the first, so that will
bring the death of my father up-to-date. Speak out, or I go at once to
Brighton, and then----"
"You will not dare----" gasped the vicaress in a cowed tone.
"I give you three minutes to make up your mind, Mrs. Snow."
"I don't want one minute. I shall tell you all I know--all I believe to
be true: your mother is guilty."
"Was guilty, since she is dead," corrected Beatrice quietly; "and I
do not believe one word. You hated her, in spite of the fact that she
was--as you say--your dearest friend."
"You are right!" cried Mrs. Snow with hysterical vehemence; "I did hate
her--always--always! She took from me the man I loved. Yes, you may
look and look, but I loved George Hall, your father, with all my heart.
I was only a governess, poor and plain; your mother was a planter's
daughter, rich and beautiful. We were at school together. I was her
companion afterwards; but I always detested her, and now----"
"Now you detest her daughter," finished Beatrice.
"You have your mother's beauty," said Mrs. Snow, and cast a venomous
look on the girl's pale face.
"So this is the reason you kept away from The Camp, and spoke of me to
others so bitterly as you did?"
"Yes. You may as well know the truth: I hate you. You have the beauty
of your mother, who stole George Hall away from me. But you have not
the money; I saw to that."
"How could you prevent my inheriting the money? I suppose you allude to
Mr. Alpenny's fortune."
"Because I told Mr. Alpenny if he left the money to you that I would
accuse him of being an accomplice of Mrs. Hall in her murder of the
Colonel. Miss Hedge, or Miss Hall, or whatever you like to call
yourself, I hate you so much that I would like to put the rope round
your neck."
"Yet I am the daughter of the man you loved!" said Beatrice, wondering
at this bitterness.
"All the more reason I should hate you. His daughter--yes, and the
daughter of Amy Hall, whom I loathed with all my soul."
"If so, why did you not accuse her of the murder?"
"I gave her a chance of repentance."
"No, Mrs. Snow, that was not the reason. You did not tell the police,
because you could not prove your accusation. For all I know--for all
the police know--you may have murdered my father yourself."
Mrs. Snow laughed scornfully. "I murder George Hall? Why, I loved the
very ground he trod on. You can prove nothing against me."
"Nor can you prove anything against my mother."
"Can I not?" Mrs. Snow rose and flung her arms about exultingly. "I was
stopping at the Grange. I was lying awake on that night, wondering when
my misery would end."
"What misery?"
"The misery of loving your father, and of seeing him with your mother.
But I sowed dissension between them: they were never happy."
"You wicked woman!"
"I am a woman, and that answers all," said Mrs. Snow sullenly. "I
don't mind telling you all this, as you cannot accuse me of anything.
If you did say that I told you what I am now telling you, I should deny
it; and who would believe you, against a respectable woman like me?"
"You are a wicked woman!" said Beatrice again. "Go on with what you
have to say. I want to get away from you as soon as possible."
"You may not be in such a hurry to leave me on a future occasion,"
retorted Mrs. Snow. "You and I have not done with one another yet. I
know much that you would like to know."
"What is that?"
"I'll tell you later. Meanwhile, I tell you that I was lying awake
and heard a noise. I stole out, and saw Mrs. Hall ready dressed to
go out into the passage. She was at the head of the stairs, and with
her was old Alpenny, for he was old even then. They stopped talking
for a time, as I saw, and he apparently was persuading her to do
something. Then they went along towards the wing where Colonel Hall
slept. I went back to bed, wondering what Mrs. Hall meant by keeping
a midnight appointment with old Alpenny. I never suspected the truth.
Next morning the necklace was gone and George Hall murdered. And she
did it!" shouted Mrs. Snow savagely; "she--you mother! Alpenny was
her accomplice. He wished to get the necklace. He was afraid to kill
George Hall himself, and made a woman do it. Then she got the necklace
after she cut poor George's throat, and Alpenny made her marry him
under a threat of denouncing her as what she was, a murderess--a
murderess--you--you daughter of one!" jeered Mrs. Snow, pointing a
mocking finger at the pale girl.
"You lie!" said Beatrice, shaken but not convinced.
"A black patch was found under the window of my father's room. It was
open; and now that a man with a black patch killed Mr. Alpenny (for the
necklace, for all I know), I believe he also killed my father."
"You admit that Mr. Alpenny had the necklace. How did he get it?"
"Orchard said that Alpenny killed my father."
"No; your mother did. Alpenny was merely the accomplice."
"Wait. Major Ruck declared that Colonel Hall gave the necklace before
his death to Mrs. Hedge. Now I know that Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs.
Hall, I believe him. Father gave my mother the necklace, and doubtless
what else you say is true. My mother was forced to marry Alpenny,
because he threatened to denounce her, She must have been suspected of
the crime. I can see that plainly, else she would not have changed her
name to Hedge. I wonder she was not recognised."
"No one knew her here," said Mrs. Snow gloomily. "She was only one
night at Convent Grange, and on that night her husband was murdered.
Pshaw! She is guilty."
"I don't believe it," insisted Beatrice, rising defiantly; "but I will
prove the truth of what you say. Durban must speak out now."
"And he will accuse your mother as I accuse her. Why did Durban go to
serve Alpenny for nothing? Because Alpenny, wishing to get a faithful
servant for nothing, said he would denounce Mrs. Hall unless she
married him and brought Durban with her. Durban knows the truth, but he
has kept silent all these years because he dared not speak out without
hanging Mrs. Hall."
"She is dead now, so nothing can be done," said Beatrice sadly; "but at
least her memory can be cleared, and I shall clear it."
"If you delve into your mother's past, you will find more things than
murder in it," said Mrs. Snow sneeringly. "She loved Major Ruck."
"What?"
"She loved Major Ruck, I tell you. He also was at Convent Grange on the
night the crime was committed, and I believe that your mother was about
to elope with him when I saw her dressed at midnight, with Alpenny
talking to her."
"Oh," said Beatrice coldly, "I thought that she was there--as you
say--to murder my father."
"She intended to do so, and then elope with Ruck; but Alpenny caught
her in his toils. For all I know, I may have seen her talking after
the murder, and Alpenny may have gone with her to get the necklace."
"You make out a very pretty case, Mrs. Snow," said Beatrice, her heart
beating loudly and quickly, for the weight of evidence did seem to be
against Mrs. Hall. "However, I shall see Durban, and then come again to
see you. Good day," and she moved away, while Mrs. Snow laughed.