The Bigamist — A Reader’s Guide

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Young, F. E. Mills (Florence Ethel Mills), 1875- Project Gutenberg 2011 Not confirmed
Bigamy -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; British -- South Africa -- Fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 85,517
Reading time 372 min
Text sections 9

This digital edition of The Bigamist — A Reader’s Guide is described by source-level measurements including 85,517 words, 6 hr 12 min estimated reading time, and 9 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 14.2 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 “Bigamy -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

An editorial note examining F.E. Mills Young's use of charged dialogue, tense silences, and domestic settings to portray a marriage unraveling under the weight of bigamy, based on excerpts from the opening and a later quarrel.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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  • Title & short description10 pts
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She looked surprised: a faint questioning showed in the blue eyes and the slight puckering of the finely pencilled brows.

"My dear!" she said. "You know that." She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. "You never doubted me?" she asked.

"No," he answered,--"no."

Suddenly he caught her to him and held her strained against his breast.

"Oh! but it's good to have you," he cried. "You are the best thing that life has given me. I'd fight till my last breath to keep you."

"Well, but there isn't any fear of your losing me," she said, and drew back to regard him, perplexed at this unusual demonstration from a man who, save in moments of passionate excess, was habitually rather reserved. "Silly person! Did you think I was going to run away?"

"You couldn't," he answered confidently. "You are chained here to my side with invisible, unbreakable bonds."

"Oh; there's the divorce court," she remarked with light-hearted flippancy.

"I wasn't referring to social laws," he answered gravely. "The bond that holds you is the strength of our love. It is the one invincible power in the world. Whatever happened, you would never cease to love me, Pamela."

He made the statement with a look which seemed to question her. Pamela responded to the look.

"No," she answered, her sweet face grown suddenly very earnest. "I could never cease to love you. That's the surest thing in heaven or earth to me."

He set her aside and stood up. Then he lifted her to her feet and put his arm about her and drew her towards the open window.

"Come into the garden," he said. "The air indoors stifles me. I don't want to talk. I want to be in the open and feel you near."

She pressed his hand sympathetically.

"There's certainly a little worry of some sort," she said.

"Yes, there's a little worry," he answered in an evasive tone which discouraged inquiries. "But it needn't concern you."

Pamela was not naturally curious. Her husband seldom discussed his affairs with her. She did not resent this lack of confidence, but attributed it to the disparity of their ages: Pamela was twenty-six, and Herbert Arnott was forty, and rather staid and settled. He had been a widower when he married Pamela; but he never spoke of his first wife. He had been married when he was quite young and had made a hash of his early life. She knew that because he had told her when they became engaged: he did not refer to the subject again; and Pamela never knew what the first wife was like nor who her people were. Arnott was reserved about his past, and, so far as his wife knew, he was without ties or relations. He had put the old life behind him entirely when he quitted his native land; and very early Pamela learnt that it was not wise to try to get him to talk about himself and the days before she knew him. He was a man whose past was a closed book to the world, nor would he allow his wife to turn over the pages.

He had first met Pamela on board the vessel in which he sailed for South Africa. She was going out to a post as governess in a girl's college at Port Elizabeth. He had sat next her at meals in the saloon and found her congenial. When he left the ship at Cape Town he had asked her to write to him. Subsequently he had journeyed round the coast to see her, and shortly afterwards they were married. That was five years ago, and during those five years Pamela had been extraordinarily happy. She had never had even a trivial disagreement with her husband; the usual petty domestic worries had not intruded into their pleasant, easy home life. Arnott made an admirable husband, and Pamela's disposition was naturally sunny and contented. Moreover, this life of luxurious comfort as the wife of a wealthy man of independent means formed a delightful contrast to the old days of poverty and constant struggle, with nothing more inspiring ahead than a succession of years of continuous teaching, and then old age and uselessness, and a small pittance at the end. She felt grateful to Arnott for having saved her from that.

The novel opens with a tableau of strained domesticity: a man motionless in a low chair, a woman at the window, both silent for half an hour. Young’s description of Herbert’s pose—‘his legs stretched out compass-wise, his brow resting on his hand’—and Pamela’s ‘still, but considerably less absorbed’ posture immediately establishes a power imbalance in attention and anxiety. The dialogue that follows, with Herbert’s abrupt question ‘you’ve been happy with me?’ and Pamela’s light-hearted flippancy about the divorce court, reveals a marriage where unspoken fears lurk beneath affectionate rituals. Young’s diction in this opening scene—‘plunged in thought,’ ‘roused by the extraordinary quiet’—signals that silence itself is a character, charged with what cannot yet be said.

Silence as a Dramatic Device

Young repeatedly uses prolonged silence to heighten tension and expose character. In the opening, Herbert’s immobility for ‘fully half an hour’ is broken only by the pressure of his fingers on his brow. Pamela, turning from the window, is ‘roused by the extraordinary quiet, as effectually as though recalled by some unexpected sound.’ This inversion—silence functioning as a summons—underscores how unspoken thoughts dominate the household. Later, during the quarrel, Pamela’s ‘quiet manner’ and ‘voice broke’ contrast with Herbert’s shouted accusations. Young’s stage directions (e.g., ‘He tapped the floor irritably with his foot’) amplify the emotional stakes without explicit interior monologue. The reader infers the weight of secrets from what is left unsaid.

Dialogue as Weapon and Shield

Young crafts dialogue that shifts rapidly between affection and aggression, revealing the fragility of the couple’s bond. In the opening, Herbert’s declaration ‘You are chained here to my side with invisible, unbreakable bonds’ is met with Pamela’s jest about the divorce court—a remark he takes gravely, insisting on love as ‘the one invincible power.’ This exchange foreshadows the later confrontation, where Herbert sneers ‘Women are cheap—and ungrateful’ and Pamela retorts ‘If I leave you, I wouldn’t desire you to do anything for me.’ The repetition of ‘you’ve got to’ in Herbert’s speech (‘You’ve got to put up with them. You’ve got to stand this sort of thing’) underscores his coercive control. Pamela’s language, by contrast, moves from playful to measured defiance, culminating in her threat to compel support for the children.

Domestic Space as a Stage for Conflict

Young anchors key scenes in specific domestic interiors that mirror the characters’ emotional states. The opening ‘handsome room, softly lighted with shaded electric lamps’ suggests wealth and comfort, yet the stillness and the open window (Pamela’s back to the room) imply a desire for escape. In the quarrel, the setting shifts to a sofa and table, with Herbert placing his glass down before approaching—a small action that signals a deliberate escalation. Pamela’s threat to leave transforms the home from a sanctuary into a bargaining chip: Herbert warns of ‘social ostracism in two countries’ and the children’s ruined future. Young uses these familiar spaces to stage the collision between private turmoil and public reputation.

The Weight of Unspoken History

Though the excerpts do not reveal the full backstory, Young plants clues that Herbert’s secret predates the marriage. His question ‘You’ve been happy with me?’ and his insistence that Pamela could never cease to love him (‘Whatever happened’) hint at a past transgression. The later quarrel references ‘three years ago’ as a turning point, and Herbert’s fear of ‘social ostracism in two countries’ suggests a double life spanning England and South Africa (as indicated by the catalog subject ‘British -- South Africa -- Fiction’). Young withholds the nature of the bigamy, letting the reader piece together the threat from Pamela’s reaction: ‘Ah! dear heaven! … To think that you should say that to me.’ The gaps in the narrative are as telling as the spoken words.

Readers approaching The Bigamist should attend to Young’s subtle orchestration of silence, gesture, and domestic detail. The excerpts offer a microcosm of a marriage under siege, where every lamp-lit room and every broken sentence carries the weight of a secret. The novel’s power lies not in sensational revelation but in the slow, painful erosion of trust—and in the quiet strength of a woman who, when pushed, chooses to walk away.

There’s a particular ache in watching a marriage fall apart inside its own quiet rooms—the way Young captures both the words and the silence around them. It reminds me of the distance between people on the veld, where the landscape holds everything unsaid. Tales from the Veld — Story, Setting & Ideas carries that same loneliness, familiar and a little heavy, like an old photograph.

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