Miss Arnott's Marriage
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 2: The Woman on the Pavement
Mr Stacey was a tall, portly gentleman, quite an accepted type of family lawyer. He was white-headed and inclined to be red-faced. He carried a pair of nose glasses, which were as often between his fingers as on his nose. His manner was urbane, with a tendency towards pomposity; and when he smiled, which was often, he showed a set of teeth which were as white and regular as the dentist could make them. He was followed into the room by Mr Gardner; and when the apartment contained three persons it was filled to overflowing.
“Miss Arnott, my excellent friend, Mr Gardner here, has brought me most important news--most important. He actually tells me that you are--eh--the Miss Arnott for whom we have been so long in search.”
“I am Miss Arnott. I am not aware, however, that anyone has searched for me. I don’t know why they should.”
Mr Gardner, who had been showing a vivid consciousness of scanty space, proffered a suggestion.
“If I might make so bold, sir, as to ask Miss Arnott to honour me by stepping down to my poor parlour, we should, at least, have a little more room to move.”
“Mrs Sayers has already made me a similar proposal. I declined it, as I decline yours. What you wish to say to me you will be so good as to say to me here. This room, such as it is, is at anyrate my own--for the present.”
“For the present; quite so!--quite so! A fine spirit of independence--a fine spirit. I think, Miss Arnott, that before long you will have other rooms of your own, where you will be able to be independent in another sense. I understand that you claim to be the only surviving relative of Septimus Arnott, of Exham Park, Hampshire.”
“You understand quite wrongly; I claim nothing. I merely say that I am the only child of Sextus Arnott, and that I had an uncle whose name was Septimus. When they were young men my father and his brother were both artists. But, after a time, Uncle Septimus came to the conclusion that there was not much money to be made out of painting. He wanted my father to give it up. My father, who loved painting better than anything else in the world”--the words were uttered with more than a shade of bitterness--”wouldn’t. They quarrelled and parted. My father never saw his brother again, and I have never seen him at all.”
“You don’t know, then, that he is dead?”
“I know nothing except what my father has told me. He remained what he called ‘true to his art’ to the end of his life, and never forgave his brother for turning his back on it.”
“Pardon my putting to you a somewhat delicate question. Did your father make much money by his painting?”
“Much money!” The girl’s lip curled. “When he died there was just enough left to keep my mother till she died.”
“And then?”
“I came to London in search of fortune.”
“And found it?”
“Do I look as if I had--in this attic, which contains all that I have in the world? No; fortune does not come to such as I am. I should be tolerably content if I were sure of daily bread. But why do you ask such questions? Why do you pry into my private affairs? I am not conscious of a desire to thrust them on your notice--or on anyone’s.”
“Miss Arnott, I beg that you will not suppose that I am actuated by common curiosity. Let me explain the situation in half-a-dozen words. Your Uncle Septimus, after he left your father, went to South America. There, after divers adventures, he went in for cattle breeding. In that pursuit he amassed one of those large fortunes which are characteristic of modern times. Eventually he came to England, bought a property, settled himself on it, and there died. We acted as his legal advisers. He left his whole property to his brother Sextus; or, in the event of his brother predeceasing him, to his brother’s children. You must understand that he himself lived and died a bachelor. His own death occurred three years ago.”
“My father also died three years ago--on the 18th of March.”
“This is very remarkable, Miss Arnott; they must have died on the same day!”
“My father died at five minutes to six in the evening. His last words were, ‘Well, Septimus.’ My mother and I, who were at his bedside, wondered why he had said it-- which he did so plainly that we both turned round to see if anyone had come into the room. Until then he had not mentioned his brother’s name for a long time.”
“Miss Arnott, this is more and more remarkable; quite apart from any legal proof there can be no sort of doubt that you are the person we are seeking. It happened that I was present at your uncle’s deathbed--partly as a friend and partly as his professional adviser. For I should tell you that he was a very lonely man. He seemed to have no friends, and was chary of making acquaintances; in that great house he lived the life of a lonely recluse. He died just as the clock was striking six; and just before he died he sat up in bed, held out his hand, and exclaimed in quite his old, hearty voice, ‘Hullo, Sextus.’ No one there knew to what the reference was made; but from what you say it would almost appear as if their spirits were already meeting.” Mr Stacey blew his nose as if all at once conscious that they were touching a subject which was not strictly professional. “Before entering further into matters, I presume that--merely for form’s sake--you are in a position to prove, Miss Arnott, that you are you.”
“Certainly, I can do that, to some extent, at once.” She took an envelope from a shabby old handbag; from the envelope some papers. “This is my mother’s marriage certificate; this is the certificate of my own birth; this--” the paper of which she had taken hold chanced to be a copy of the document which certified that a marriage had taken place between Robert Champion, bachelor, and Violet Arnott, spinster. For the moment she had forgotten its existence. When she recognised what it was her heart seemed to sink in her bosom; her voice trembled; it was only with an effort that she was able to keep herself from handing it to the man of law in front of her. “No,” she stammered, “that’s the wrong paper.” Just in time she drew it back. If he had only had one glance at it the whole course of her life would have been different. She went on, with as complete a show of calmness as she was capable of, “This is the paper I meant to give you--it is a copy of the certificate of my father’s death; and this is a copy of my mother’s. They are both buried in the same grave in the cemetery at Scarsdale.”
He took the papers she passed to him, seemingly unconscious that there was anything curious in her manner. That other paper, crumpling it up, she slipped between the buttons of her bodice. He looked through the documents she had given him.
“They appear to be perfectly in order--perfectly in order, and I have no doubt that on investigation they will be ascertained to be. By the way, Miss Arnott, I notice that you were born just one-and-twenty years ago.”
“Yes; my twenty-first birthday was on the 9th of last month--five weeks ago.”
She did not think it necessary to mention that the memory of it would be with her for ever, since it had been celebrated by the arrest of her husband.
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