"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."