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Armadale ebook

Collins Wilkie

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Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
Kategoria: Kryminał
Język: angielski

Opis

The hero of the novel, Armadel, decides how to deceive fate, become loved and fall in love for life. The mysteries of life are the mysteries of love, which are presented to us by the main characters of the novel, and it is up to the readers to decide which characters to side with. A cry of passion or the silent restraint of love – this is how the heroes of the novel behave.

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Liczba stron: 1484

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Contents

Preface

Prologue

The Travelers

The Solid Side of the Scotch Character

The Wreck of the Timber Ship

Book the First

The Mystery of Ozias Midwinter

The Man Revealed

Day and Night

The Shadow of the Past

The Shadow of the Future

Book the Second

Lurking Mischief

Allan As a Landed Gentleman

The Claims of Society

The March of Events

Mother Oldershaw on Her Guard

Midwinter in Disguise

The Plot Thickens

The Norfolk Broads

Fate or Chance?

The House-Maid's Face

Miss Gwilt Among the Quicksands

The Clouding of the Sky

Exit

Book the Third

Miss Gwilt’s Diary

The Man is Found

The Brink of Discovery

Allan at Bay

Pedgift's Remedy

Pedgift's Postscript

The Martyrdom of Miss Gwilt

She Comes Between Them

She Knows the Truth

Miss Gwilt's Diary

Love and Law

A Scandal at the Station

An Old Man's Heart

Miss Gwilt's Diary

The Wedding-Day

Book the Fourth

Miss Gwilt’s Diary

The Diary Continued

The Diary Broken Off

Book the Last

At the Terminus

In the House

The Purple Flask

Epilogue

News From Norfolk

Midwinter

Appendix

Preface

JOHN FORSTER.

In acknowledgment of the services which he has rendered to the cause of literature by his “Life of Goldsmith;” and in affectionate remembrance of a friendship which is associated with some of the happiest years of my life.

Readers in general–on whose friendly reception experience has given me some reason to rely–will, I venture to hope, appreciate whatever merit there may be in this story without any prefatory pleading for it on my part. They will, I think, see that it has not been hastily meditated or idly wrought out. They will judge it accordingly, and I ask no more.

Readers in particular will, I have some reason to suppose, be here and there disturbed, perhaps even offended, by finding that “Armadale” oversteps, in more than one direction, the narrow limits within which they are disposed to restrict the development of modern fiction–if they can.

Nothing that I could say to these persons here would help me with them as Time will help me if my work lasts. I am not afraid of my design being permanently misunderstood, provided the execution has done it any sort of justice. Estimated by the clap-trap morality of the present day, this may be a very daring book. Judged by the Christian morality which is of all time, it is only a book that is daring enough to speak the truth.

LONDON, April, 1866.

Prologue

Chapter I

The Travelers.

It was the opening of the season of eighteen hundred and thirty-two, at the Baths of Wildbad.

The evening shadows were beginning to gather over the quiet little German town, and the diligence was expected every minute. Before the door of the principal inn, waiting the arrival of the first visitors of the year, were assembled the three notable personages of Wildbad, accompanied by their wives–the mayor, representing the inhabitants; the doctor, representing the waters; the landlord, representing his own establishment. Beyond this select circle, grouped snugly about the trim little square in front of the inn, appeared the towns-people in general, mixed here and there with the country people, in their quaint German costume, placidly expectant of the diligence–the men in short black jackets, tight black breeches, and three-cornered beaver hats; the women with their long light hair hanging in one thickly plaited tail behind them, and the waists of their short woolen gowns inserted modestly in the region of their shoulder-blades. Round the outer edge of the assemblage thus formed, flying detachments of plump white-headed children careered in perpetual motion; while, mysteriously apart from the rest of the inhabitants, the musicians of the Baths stood collected in one lost corner, waiting the appearance of the first visitors to play the first tune of the season in the form of a serenade. The light of a May evening was still bright on the tops of the great wooded hills watching high over the town on the right hand and the left; and the cool breeze that comes before sunset came keenly fragrant here with the balsamic odor of the first of the Black Forest.

“Mr. Landlord,” said the mayor’s wife (giving the landlord his title), “have you any foreign guests coming on this first day of the season?”

“Madame Mayoress,” replied the landlord (returning the compliment), “I have two. They have written–the one by the hand of his servant, the other by his own hand apparently–to order their rooms; and they are from England, both, as I think by their names. If you ask me to pronounce those names, my tongue hesitates; if you ask me to spell them, here they are, letter by letter, first and second in their order as they come. First, a high-born stranger (by title Mister) who introduces himself in eight letters, A, r, m, a, d, a, l, e–and comes ill in his own carriage. Second, a high-born stranger (by title Mister also), who introduces himself in four letters–N, e, a, l–and comes ill in the diligence. His excellency of the eight letters writes to me (by his servant) in French; his excellency of the four letters writes to me in German. The rooms of both are ready. I know no more.”

“Perhaps,” suggested the mayor’s wife, “Mr. Doctor has heard from one or both of these illustrious strangers?”

“From one only, Madam Mayoress; but not, strictly speaking, from the person himself. I have received a medical report of his excellency of the eight letters, and his case seems a bad one. God help him!”

“The diligence!” cried a child from the outskirts of the crowd.

The musicians seized their instruments, and silence fell on the whole community. From far away in the windings of the forest gorge, the ring of horses’ bells came faintly clear through the evening stillness. Which carriage was approaching–the private carriage with Mr. Armadale, or the public carriage with Mr. Neal?

“Play, my friends!” cried the mayor to the musicians. “Public or private, here are the first sick people of the season. Let them find us cheerful.”

The band played a lively dance tune, and the children in the square footed it merrily to the music. At the same moment, their elders near the inn door drew aside, and disclosed the first shadow of gloom that fell over the gayety and beauty of the scene. Through the opening made on either hand, a little procession of stout country girls advanced, each drawing after her an empty chair on wheels; each in waiting (and knitting while she waited) for the paralyzed wretches who came helpless by hundreds then–who come helpless by thousands now–to the waters of Wildbad for relief.

While the band played, while the children danced, while the buzz of many talkers deepened, while the strong young nurses of the coming cripples knitted impenetrably, a woman’s insatiable curiosity about other women asserted itself in the mayor’s wife. She drew the landlady aside, and whispered a question to her on the spot.

“A word more, ma’am,” said the mayor’s wife, “about the two strangers from England. Are their letters explicit? Have they got any ladies with them?”

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