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."
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