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?"