Man and Wife E-Book

Wilkie Collins

• Herausgeber: Wilkie Collins
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

William Wilkie Collins (8 January 1824 – 23 September 1889) was an English novelist, playwright, and short story writer. His best-known works are The Woman in White (1859), No Name (1862), Armadale (1866), and The Moonstone (1868), considered the first modern English detective novel. Born into the family of painter William Collins in London, he lived with his family in Italy and France as a child and learned French and Italian. He worked as a clerk for a tea merchant. After his first novel Antonina was published in 1850, he met Charles Dickens, who became a close friend, mentor and collaborator. Some of Collins's works were first published in Dickens' journals All the Year Round and Household Words and the two collaborated on dramatic and fictional works. Collins published his best known works in the 1860s, achieved financial stability and an international reputation. During this time he began suffering from gout took opium for pain and developed an addiction. During the 1870s and '80s the quality of his writing declined along with his health. Collins was critical of the institution of marriage and never married; he split his time between Caroline Graves except for a 2-year separation, and his common law wife Martha Rudd with whom he had 3 children (font: Wikipedia)

Leseprobe

Man and Wife

Wilkie Collins

Table of Contents

Prologue. — The Irish Marriage.

The Villa at Hampstead.

The March of Time.

The Story.

First Scene. — The Summer-House. The Owls. The Guests. The Discoveries. The Two. The Plan. The Suitor. The Debt. The Scandal.

Second Scene. — The Inn. Anne. Mr. Bishopriggs. Sir Patrick. Arnold. Blanche.

Third Scene. — London. Geoffrey as a Letter-Writer. Geoffrey in the Marriage Market. Geoffrey as a Public Character.

Fourth Scene. — Windygates. Near it. Nearer Still. Close on it. Touching it. Done! Gone. Traced. Backward. Forward. Dropped. Outwitted. Stifled.

Fifth Scene. — Glasgow. Anne Among the Lawyers. Anne in the Newspapers.

Sixth Scene. — Swanhaven Lodge. Seeds of the Future (First Sowing). Seeds of the Future (Second Sowing). Seeds of the Future (Third Sowing).

Seventh Scene. — Ham Farm. The Night Before. The Day. The Truth at Last. The Way Out. The News from Glasgow.

Eighth Scene — The Pantry. Anne Wins a Victory.

Ninth Scene. — The Music-Room. Julius Makes Mischief.

Tenth Scene — The Bedroom. Lady Lundie Does Her Duty.

Eleventh Scene. — Sir Patrick’s House. The Smoking-Room Window. The Explosion.

Twelfth Scene. — Drury Lane. The Letter and the Law.

Thirteenth Scene. — Fulham. The Foot-Race.

Fourteenth Scene. — Portland Place. A Scotch Marriage.

Fifteenth Scene. — Holchester House. The Last Chance.

Sixteenth Scene. — Salt Patch. The Place. The Night. The Morning. The Proposal. The Apparition. What had happened in the hours of darkness? The Manuscript. The Signs of the End. The Means. The End.

Epilogue. A Morning Call.

Prologue. — The Irish Marriage.

Part the First.

The Villa at Hampstead.

I.

ON a summer’s morning, between thirty and forty years ago, two girls were crying bitterly in the cabin of an East Indian passenger ship, bound outward, from Gravesend to Bombay.

They were both of the same age — eighteen. They had both, from childhood upward, been close and dear friends at the same school. They were now parting for the first time — and parting, it might be, for life.

The name of one was Blanche. The name of the other was Anne.

Both were the children of poor parents, both had been pupil-teachers at the school; and both were destined to earn their own bread. Personally speaking, and socially speaking, these were the only points of resemblance between them.

Blanche was passably attractive and passably intelligent, and no more. Anne was rarely beautiful and rarely endowed. Blanche’s parents were worthy people, whose first consideration was to secure, at any sacrifice, the future well-being of their child. Anne’s parents were heartless and depraved. Their one idea, in connection with their daughter, was to speculate on her beauty, and to turn her abilities to profitable account.

The girls were starting in life under widely different conditions. Blanche was going to India, to be governess in the household of a Judge, under care of the Judge’s wife. Anne was to wait at home until the first opportunity offered of sending her cheaply to Milan. There, among strangers, she was to be perfected in the actress’s and the singer’s art; then to return to England, and make the fortune of her family on the lyric stage.

Such were the prospects of the two as they sat together in the cabin of the Indiaman locked fast in each other’s arms, and crying bitterly. The whispered farewell talk exchanged between them — exaggerated and impulsive as girls’ talk is apt to be — came honestly, in each case, straight from the heart.

“Blanche! you may be married in India. Make your husband bring you back to England.”

“Anne! you may take a dislike to the stage. Come out to India if you do.”

“In England or out of England, married or not married, we will meet, darling — if it’s years hence — with all the old love between us; friends who help each other, sisters who trust each other, for life! Vow it, Blanche!”

“I vow it, Anne!”

“With all your heart and soul?”

“With all my heart and soul!”

The sails were spread to the wind, and the ship began to move in the water. It was necessary to appeal to the captain’s authority before the girls could be parted. The captain interfered gently and firmly. “Come, my dear,” he said, putting his arm round Anne; “you won’t mind me! I have got a daughter of my own.” Anne’s head fell on the sailor’s shoulder. He put her, with his own hands, into the shore-boat alongside. In five minutes more the ship had gathered way; the boat was at the landing-stage — and the girls had seen the last of each other for many a long year to come.

This was in the summer of eighteen hundred and thirty-one.

II.

Twenty-four years later — in the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty-five — there was a villa at Hampstead to be let, furnished.

The house was still occupied by the persons who desired to let it. On the evening on which this scene opens a lady and two gentlemen were seated at the dinner-table. The lady had reached the mature age of forty-two. She was still a rarely beautiful woman. Her husband, some years younger than herself, faced her at the table, sitting silent and constrained, and never, even by accident, looking at his wife. The third person was a guest. The husband’s name was Vanborough. The guest’s name was Kendrew.

It was the end of the dinner. The fruit and the wine were on the table. Mr. Vanborough pushed the bottles in silence to Mr. Kendrew. The lady of the house looked round at the servant who was waiting, and said, “Tell the children to come in.”

The door opened, and a girl twelve years old entered, lending by the hand a younger girl of five. They were both prettily dressed in white, with sashes of the same shade of light blue. But there was no family resemblance between them. The elder girl was frail and delicate, with a pale, sensitive face. The younger was light and florid, with round red cheeks and bright, saucy eyes — a charming little picture of happiness and health.

Mr. Kendrew looked inquiringly at the youngest of the two girls.

“Here is a young lady,” he said, “who is a total stranger to me.”

“If you had not been a total stranger yourself for a whole year past,” answered Mrs. Vanborough, “you would never have made that confession. This is little Blanche — the only child of the dearest friend I have. When Blanche’s mother and I last saw each other we were two poor school-girls beginning the world. My friend went to India, and married there late in life. You may have heard of her husband — the famous Indian officer, Sir Thomas Lundie? Yes: ‘the rich Sir Thomas,’ as you call him. Lady Lundie is now on her way back to England, for the first time since she left it — I am afraid to say how many years since. I expected her yesterday; I expect her to-day — she may come at any moment. We exchanged promises to meet, in the ship that took her to India —‘vows’ we called them in the dear old times. Imagine how changed we shall find each other when we do meet again at last!”

“In the mean time,” said Mr. Kendrew, “your friend appears to have sent you her little daughter to represent her? It’s a long journey for so young a traveler.”

“A journey ordered by the doctors in India a year since,” rejoined Mrs. Vanborough. “They said Blanche’s health required English air. Sir Thomas was ill at the time, and his wife couldn’t leave him. She had to send the child to England, and who should she send her to but me? Look at her now, and say if the English air hasn’t agreed with her! We two mothers, Mr. Kendrew, seem literally to live again in our children. I have an only child. My friend has an only child. My daughter is little Anne — as I was. My friend’s daughter is little Blanche — as she was. And, to crown it all, those two girls have taken the same fancy to each other which we took to each other in the by-gone days at school. One has often heard of hereditary hatred. Is there such a thing as hereditary love as well?”

Before the guest could answer, his attention was claimed by the master of the house.

“Kendrew,” said Mr. Vanborough, “when you have had enough of domestic sentiment, suppose you take a glass of wine?”

The words were spoken with undisguised contempt of tone and manner. Mrs. Vanborough’s color rose. She waited, and controlled the momentary irritation. When she spoke to her husband it was evidently with a wish to soothe and conciliate him.

“I am afraid, my dear, you are not well this evening?”