Miss Arnott's Marriage
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 24: The Somnambulist
Miss Arnott was not happy. Money had not brought her anything worth having. In her case, fortune had been synonymous with misfortune. Young, rich “beyond the dreams of avarice,” good-looking; all those papers which deal with what are ironically called “personal topics,” held her up to public admiration as one of the persons in the world who were most to be envied. In plain truth she was one of the most miserable. In her penniless days she was not unhappier. Then her trouble was simple, now it was compound. Not the least of her disasters was the fact that health was failing. That robust habit of mind and body which had, so far, stood her in good stead, was being sapped by the continuous strain. Her imagination was assuming a morbid tinge. Her nights were sleepless, or dream-haunted, which was as bad. She was becoming obsessed by an unhealthy feeling that she lived in a tainted atmosphere. That all the air about her was impregnated with suspicion. That she was becoming the centre of doubting eyes, whispering tongues, furtively pointing fingers.
While she was more or less unconsciously drifting into this physically and mentally unhealthy condition she received a visit from a Mrs Forrester, in the course of which that lady insisted on dwelling on topics of a distinctly disagreeable kind.
Mrs Forrester was a widow, childless, well-to-do. She had two occupations--one was acting as secretary to the local branch of the Primrose League, and the other was minding other people’s business. She so managed that the first was of material assistance to her in the second. She was a person for whom Miss Arnott had no liking. Had she had a chance she would have denied herself. But Mrs Forrester came sailing in through the hall just as she was going out of it.
“Oh, my dear Miss Arnott, this is an unexpected pleasure! I am so fortunate in finding you at home, I so seldom do! And there is something of the first importance which I must speak to you about at once--of the very first importance, I do assure you.”
The motor was at the door. Miss Arnott’s inclination was to fib, to invent a pressing engagement--say, twenty miles off--and so shunt the lady off on to Mrs Plummer. It seemed as if the visitor saw what was in her mind. She promptly gave utterance to her intention not to be shunted.
“Now you mustn’t say you’re engaged, because I sha’n’t keep you a minute, or at most but five. That motor of yours can wait, and you simply must stop and listen to what I have to say. It’s in your own interest, your own urgent interest, so I can’t let you go.”
Miss Arnott stopped, perforce. She led the way into the red drawing-room. Mrs Forrester burst into the middle of the subject, which had brought her there, in her own peculiar fashion.
“Now, before I say a single word, I want you to understand most clearly that the only reason which has brought me here, the one thing I have come for, is to obtain your permission, your authority, to contradict the whole story.”
“What story?”
The visitor held up her hands.
“What story! You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard? It simply shows how often we ourselves are the last persons to hear of matters in which we are most intimately concerned. My dear, the whole world is talking about it, the entire parish! And you say, what story?”
“I say again, what story? I’ve no doubt that my concerns do interest a large number of persons, even more than they do me, but I’ve not the vaguest idea to which one of them you’re now referring.”
“Is it possible? My dear, I was told no longer ago than this morning that you walk every night through the woods in--well, in your nightdress.”
“What’s that?”
“Of course it’s nonsense. No one knows better than I do that such an idea’s ridiculous. But there’s the story. And, as I’ve said, I’ve come on purpose to ask you to allow me to offer an authoritative contradiction.”
“But what is the story? I should be obliged to you, Mrs Forrester, if you could manage to make it a little clearer.”
“I will make it clear. To me it has been made painfully clear--painfully. I may tell you that I’ve heard the story, in different forms, from various sources. Indeed I believe it’s no exaggeration to say that it’s on everybody’s tongue, and, on the whole, no wonder. My informant this morning was Briggs, the postman. You know him?”
“I can’t claim the honour. However, I’m willing to take your statement as proof of his existence.”
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