The Two Wives; Or, Lost and Won — Text and Context

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In Category - Historical Psychological Social Fiction

Authors: Arthur, T. S. (Timothy Shay), 1809-1885 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2003 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Married people -- Fiction; Temperance -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 45,100

Reading time 197 min

Text sections 5

The catalog record for The Two Wives; Or, Lost and Won — Text and Context provides practical reading context through 45,100 words, 3 hr 17 min estimated reading time, and 5 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 15.1 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Married people -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #4621

T.S. Arthur contrasts two marriages: one wife's anxious, self-forgetting love versus another's selfishness, as a husband teeters on the brink of ruin. The opening chapters reveal a tense evening scene, a loan gone wrong, and a wife's concealed distress, all pointing to temperance and domestic strife.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg4621

Read the Text

WILKINSON was nearly in front of his own door, when he was thus familiarly accosted by a man named Ellis, who came leisurely walking along with a lighted cigar in his mouth.

"Hallo! is this you, Wilkinson? What in the name of wonder are you doing out at such an hour?"

"And suppose I were to ask you the same question?" inquired Wilkinson, as he took the hand of the other, who was an old acquaintance.

"It would be easily answered," was the unhesitating reply of Ellis, who had been drinking rather freely.

"Well, suppose I have the benefit of your answer."

"You're quite welcome. I keep no secrets from an old friend, you see. Can't you guess?"

"I'm not good at guessing."

"Had a little tiff with Cara," said Ellis in a half whisper, as he bent to the ear of his companion.

"Oh, no!" returned Wilkinson.

"Fact. Cara's a dear, good soul, as you know; but she's a self-willed little jade, and if I don't do just as she wants me to--if I don't walk her chalk line--_presto!_ she goes off like a rocket. To-night, d'ye see, I came home with the first volume of Prescott's new work on Mexico--a perfect romance of a book, and wanted to read it aloud to Cara. But no, she had something else in her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn't want to hear any of my dull old histories. I got mad, of course; I always get mad when she comes athwart my hawes in this way.

"'Dull old histories!' said I, indignantly. 'There's more true life and real interest in this book than in all the Wandering Jews or Laura Matilda novels that ever were written; and I wish you'd throw such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get some intelligence and strength of mind.' Whew! The way she combed my hair for me at this was curious. I am a philosopher, and on these occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw--

'He that fights and runs away, May live to fight another day.'

So, deeming discretion the better part of valour, I retreated in disorder."

"That's bad," remarked Wilkinson, who knew something of the character of his friend's wife.

"I know it's bad; but, then, I can't help myself. Cara has such a queer temper, I never know how to take her."

"You ought to understand her peculiarities by this time, and bear with them."

"Bear with them! I'd like to see you have the trial for a while; your wife is an angel. Ah, John! you're a lucky dog. If I had such a sweet-tempered woman in my house, I would think it a very paradise."

"Hush! hush! Harry; don't speak in that way. Few women possess so many good qualities as Mrs. Ellis; and it is your duty to cherish and love the good, and to bear with the rest."

"Well preached; but, as I am to apply the discourse, and not you, I must beg to be excused."

"Good-night. Go home, kiss Cara, and forgive her," said Wilkinson; and he made a motion to pass on, adding, as he did so, "I'm out much later than usual, and am in a hurry to get back. Mary will be uneasy about me."

But Ellis caught hold of one of his arms with both hands, and held on to him.

"Can't let you go, Wilkinson" said he, firmly. "You're the man of all others I want to see--been thinking about you all the evening; want to have a long talk with you."

"Any other time, but not now," replied Wilkinson.

"Now, and no other time," persisted the other, clinging fast to his arm.

"What do you wish to talk about?" said Wilkinson, ceasing his effort to release himself from the firm grip of his friend.

"About Cara," was answered.

"Go home and make it up with her; that's the best way. She loves you, and you love her; and your love will settle all differences. And besides, Harry, you shouldn't talk about these things to other people. The relation between man and wife is too sacred for this."

"Do you think I talk in this way to everybody? No, indeed!" responded Ellis, in a half-offended tone of voice. "But you're a particular friend. You know Cara's peculiar temper, and can advise with me as a friend. So come along, I want to have a talk with you."

Ellis turned and pointed to a brilliant gas lamp in the next square, that stood in front of a much frequented tavern.

Continue Reading →

The novel opens on a tense evening: Mrs. Wilkinson, sewing by a shaded lamp, watches her husband rise hastily to go out. Her smile is forced, her eyes betray a clouded heart. She pleads with him to stay, leaning on his shoulder, but he insists on a half-hour errand to see Elbridge about business. The exchange is layered with unspoken fears—his impatience beneath a kind voice, her tears and emphasis on the word 'engagement.' When he returns late, she has already removed her bonnet and shawl, suppressing signs of anxiety. He perceives the nervous tremour of her hand and understands her concealed distress. The conversation turns to a friend, Ellis, whose wife's lack of sympathy is blamed for his straying. The contrast between the two wives is drawn before the reader has met the second.

A Wife's Concealed Anxiety

Mrs. Wilkinson's actions reveal a pattern of self-suppression. When her husband is late, she takes out her bonnet and shawl, then pauses: 'If business should have detained him at his store, how will my appearance there affect him? I do not want him to feel that I have lost confidence in him.' She returns the items and composes herself. Her ear catches his key in the lock; she murmurs, 'He must not see that I have been over-anxious.' The narrative follows her internal struggle—'How instant and eager were her efforts to suppress all signs of anxiety!'—and then his perception: 'The low, nervous tremour of that hand he instantly perceived, and as instantly comprehended its meaning.' This mutual reading of hidden signals defines their relationship.

The Blame Shifts to the Other Wife

When Mr. Wilkinson explains his lateness—a loan to Ellis that wasn't repaid—his wife sympathizes. But he redirects the fault: 'If Ellis goes to ruin, it will be his wife's fault. She has no sympathy with him, no affectionate consideration for him. A thoroughly selfish woman, she merely regards the gratification of her own desires, and is ever making home repulsive, instead of attractive.' Mrs. Wilkinson protests, 'You must be mistaken.' He insists Ellis complains of her conduct. The contrast is explicit: 'Many a night has Ellis spent at a tavern, which, but for Cara's unamiable temper, would have been spent at home.' Mrs. Wilkinson sighs, 'Ah! she will have her reward,' and her husband silently thinks, 'And you yours.'

Temperance as a Domestic Crisis

The catalog subjects list 'Temperance -- Fiction,' and the preface states the story aims to show 'the power of tender, earnest, self-forgetting love, in winning back from the path of danger a husband whose steps have strayed, and who has approached the very brink of ruin.' The excerpts do not yet show drinking, but the groundwork is laid: Ellis's 'habits have not been very good of late,' and his wife's behavior drives him to taverns. Mr. Wilkinson's own evening errand and his wife's fear of losing confidence in him hint at a parallel danger. The novel frames intemperance not as a vice of the individual alone but as a consequence of marital failure—a wife's lack of sympathy or a husband's response to a repulsive home.

Readers should attend to the asymmetry in the opening: we see only one wife's perspective, yet the title promises two. The preface declares a moral purpose, but the excerpts complicate it—Mrs. Wilkinson's self-forgetting love may be as fraught as Cara's selfishness. Watch for how the narrative distributes sympathy and blame, and whether the promised 'lost and won' applies to husbands, wives, or both.

I’ve shelved those two volumes side by side for years, watching their quiet kinship. The anxious wife’s hidden tears in The Two Wives often remind me of the murmuring tenderness in A Duet, with an Occasional Chorus — Reading Companion—both whisper how love survives its own silences, a steady hand through domestic fog.