by Thomas Hardy
“They were only put in this morning!” she cried, stimulated to pursue in spite of her lover’s presence. “They were drove from Spaddleholt Farm only yesterday, where father bought ‘em at a stiff price enough. They are wanting to get home again, the stupid toads! Will you shut the garden gate, dear, and help me to get ’em in? There are no men-folk at home, only mother, and they’ll be lost if we don’t mind.”
He set himself to assist, and dodged this way and that over the potato rows and the cabbages. Every now and then they ran together, when he caught her for a moment and kissed her. The first pig was got back promptly; the second with some difficulty; the third, a long-legged creature, was more obstinate and agile. He plunged through a hole in the garden hedge, and into the lane.
“He’ll be lost if I don’t follow ’n!” said she. “Come along with me!”
She rushed in full pursuit out of the garden, Jude alongside her, barely contriving to keep the fugitive in sight. Occasionally they would shout to some boy to stop the animal, but he always wriggled past and ran on as before.
“Let me take your hand, darling,” said Jude. “You are getting out of breath.” She gave him her now hot hand with apparent willingness, and they trotted along together.
“This comes of driving ’em home,” she remarked. “They always know the way back if you do that. They ought to have been carted over.
By this time the pig had reached an unfastened gate admitting to the open down, across which he sped with all the agility his little legs afforded. As soon as the pursuers had entered and ascended to the top of the high ground it became apparent that they would have to run all the way to the farmer’s if they wished to get at him. From this summit he could be seen as a minute speck, following an unerring line towards his old home.
“It is no good!” cried Arabella. “He’ll be there long before we get there. It don’t matter now we know he’s not lost or stolen on the way. They’ll see it is ours, and send un back. O dear, how hot I be!”
Without relinquishing her hold of Jude’s hand she swerved aside and flung herself down on the sod under a stunted thorn, precipitately pulling Jude on to his knees at the same time.
“O, I ask pardon—I nearly threw you down, didn’t I! But I am so tired! ”
She lay supine, and straight as an arrow, on the sloping sod of this hill-top, gazing up into the blue miles of sky, and still retaining her warm hold of Jude’s hand. He reclined on his elbow near her.
“We’ve run all this way for nothing,” she went on, her form heaving and falling in quick pants, her face flushed, her full red lips parted, and a fine dew of perspiration on her skin. “Well—why don’t you speak, deary?”
“I’m blown too. It was all up hill.”
They were in absolute solitude—the most apparent of all solitudes, that of empty surrounding space. Nobody could be nearer than a mile to them without their seeing him. They were, in fact, on one of the summits of the county, and the distant landscape around Christminster could be discerned from where they lay. But Jude did not think of that then.
“O, I can see such a pretty thing up this tree,” said Arabella. “A sort of a—caterpillar, of the most loveliest green and yellow you ever came across!”
“Where?” said Jude, sitting up.
“You can’t see him there—you must come here,” said she.
He bent nearer and put his head in front of hers. “No—I can’t see it,” he said.
“Why, on the limb there where it branches off—close to the moving leaf—there!” She gently pulled him down beside her.
“I don’t see it,” he repeated, the back of his head against her cheek. “But I can, perhaps, standing up.” He stood accordingly, placing himself in the direct line of her gaze.
“How stupid you are!” she said crossly, turning away her face.
“I don’t care to see it, dear: why should I?” he replied, looking down upon her. “Get up, Abby.”
“Why?”
“I want you to let me kiss you. I’ve been waiting to ever so long!”
She rolled round her face, remained a moment looking deedily aslant at him; then with a slight curl of the lip sprang to her feet, and exclaiming abruptly “I must mizzel!” walked off quickly homeward. Jude followed and rejoined her.
“Just one!” he coaxed.
“Shan’t!” she said.
He, surprised: “What’s the matter?”
She kept her two lips resentfully together, and Jude followed her like a pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked beside him, talking calmly on indifferent subjects, and always checking him if he tried to take her hand or clasp her waist. Thus they descended to the precincts of her father’s homestead, and Arabella went in, nodding good-bye to him with a supercilious, affronted air.
“I expect I took too much liberty with her, somehow,” Jude said to himself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on to Marygreen.
On Sunday morning the interior of Arabella’s home was, as usual, the scene of a grand weekly cooking, the preparation of the special Sunday dinner. Her father was shaving before a little glass hung on the mullion of the window, and her mother and Arabella herself were shelling beans hard by. A neighbour passed on her way home from morning service at the nearest church, and seeing Donn engaged at the window with the razor, nodded and came in.
She at once spoke playfully to Arabella: “I zeed ‘ee running with ’un—hee-hee! I hope ’tis coming to something?”
Arabella merely threw a look of consciousness into her face without raising her eyes.
“He’s for Christminster, I hear, as soon as he can get there.”
“Have you heard that lately—quite lately?” asked Arabella with a jealous, tigerish indrawing of breath.
“0 no! But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He’s on‘y waiting here for an opening. Ah well: he must walk about with somebody I s’pose. Young men don’t mean much now-a-days. ‘Tis a sip here and a sip there with ’em. ’Twas different in my time.”
When the gossip had departed Arabella said suddenly to her mother: “I want you and father to go and inquire how the Edlins be, this evening after tea. Or no—there’s evening service at Fensworth—you can walk to that.”
“Oh? What’s up to-night, then?”
“Nothing. Only I want the house to myself He’s shy; and I can’t get un to come in when you are here. I shall let him slip through my fingers if I don’t mind, much as I care for ’n!”
“If it is fine we med as well go, since you wish.”
In the afternoon Arabella met and walked with Jude, who had now for weeks ceased to look into a book of Greek, Latin, or any other tongue. They wandered up the slopes till they reached the green track along the ridge, which they followed to the circular British earth-bank u adjoining, Jude thinking of the great age of the trackway, and of the drovers who had frequented it, probably before the Romans knew the country. Up from the level lands below them floated the chime of church bells. Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened, and stopped.
“Now we’ll go back,” said Arabella, who had attended to the sounds.
Jude assented. So long as he was near her he minded little where he was. When they arrived at her house he said lingeringly: “I won’t come in. Why are you in such a hurry to go in tonight? It is not near dark.”
“Wait a moment,” said she. She tried the handle of the door and found it locked.
“Ah—they are gone to church,” she added. And searching behind the scraper she found the key and unlocked the door. “Now, you’ll come in a moment?” she asked lightly. “We shall be all alone.”
“Certainly,” said Jude with alacrity, the case being unexpectedly altered.
Indoors they went. Did he want any tea? No, it was too late; he would rather sit and talk to her. She took off her jacket and hat, and they sat down—naturally enough close together.
“Don’t touch me, please,” she said softly. “I am part egg-shell. Or per
haps I had better put it in a safe place.” She began unfastening the collar of her gown.
“What is it?” said her lover.
“An egg—a cochin’s egg.1 I am hatching a very rare sort. I carry it about everywhere with me, and it will get hatched in less than three weeks.”
“Where do you carry it?”
“Just here.” She put her hand into her bosom and drew out the egg, which was wrapped in wool, outside it being a piece of pig’s bladder, in case of accidents. Having exhibited it to him she put it back, “Now mind you don’t come near me. I don’t want to get it broke, and have to begin another.”
“Why do you do such a strange thing?”
“It’s an old custom. I suppose it is natural for a woman to want to bring live things into the world.”
“It is very awkward for me just now,” he said, laughing.
“It serves you right. There—that’s all you can have of me.”
She had turned round her chair, and, reaching over the back of it, presented her cheek to him gingerly.
“That’s very shabby of you!”
“You should have catched me a minute ago when I had put the egg down! There!” she said defiantly, “I am without it now!” She had quickly withdrawn the egg a second time; but before he could quite reach her she had put it back as quickly, laughing with the excitement of her strategy. Then there was a little struggle, Jude making a plunge for it and capturing it triumphantly. Her face flushed; and becoming suddenly conscious he flushed also.
They looked at each other, panting; till he rose and said: “One kiss, now I can do it without damage to property; and I’ll go!”
But she had jumped up too. “You must find me first!” she cried.
Her lover followed her as she withdrew. It was now dark inside the room, and the window being small he could not discover for a long time what had become of her, till a laugh revealed her to have rushed up the stairs, whither Jude rushed at her heels.
I.-IX.
IT WAS SOME TWO months later in the year, and the pair had met constantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering.
One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers thereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her experiences.1 Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude, who seemed sad.
“I am going away,” he said to her. “I think I ought to go. I think it will be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never begun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late to mend.”
Arabella began to cry. “How do you know it is not too late?” she said. “That’s all very well to say! I haven’t told you yet!” and she looked into his face with streaming eyes.
“What?” he asked, turning pale. “Not ... ?”
“Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me?”
“0 Arabella—how can you say that, my dear! You know I wouldn’t desert you!”
“Well then———”
“I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have thought of this before.... But, of course, if that’s the case, we must marry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?”
“I thought—I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!”
“You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even three, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans—I mean my plans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all! Dreams about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that. Certainly we’ll marry: we must!”
That night he went out alone, and walked in the dark, selfcommuning. He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done,2 he was ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically.
The bannsv were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books to buy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs, Arabella’s parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of conduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The parson who married them seemed to think it satisfactory too.
And so, standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every other time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired during the few preceding weeks.3 What was as remarkable as the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at what they swore.
Fawley’s aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of his living to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his father and mother. Of this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companions in the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet “In remembrance of good advice.”
The prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stonemason’s apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however, felt that all these makeshifts were temporary; she had gained a husband; that was the thing—a husband with a lot of earning power in him for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get frightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid books for practical undertakings.
So to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving up his old room at his aunt’s—where so much of the hard labour at Greek and Latin had been carried on.
A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking-glass which he had bought her.
“What—it wasn’t your own?” he said, with a sudden distaste for her.
“O no—it never is nowadays with the better class.”
“Nonsense! perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to be different. Besides, you’ve enough of your own, surely?”
“Yes, enough as country notions go. But in towns the men expect more, and when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham———”
“Barmaid at Aldbrickham?”
“Well, not exactly barmaid—I used to draw the drink at a public-house there—just for a little time; that was all. Some people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the better in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town than all your Christ-minsters. Every lady of position wears false hair—the barber’s assistant told me so.”
Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct towards arti
ficiality in their very blood; and became adepts in counterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to think no more of it.
A new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy. There is a certain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent awhile of the real. Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one market-day with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her former friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding.
As usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them without saying it.
“So it turned out a good plan you see!” remarked the girl to the wife. “I knew it would with such as him. He’s a dear good fellow, and you ought to be proud of un.”
“I am,” said Mrs. Fawley quietly.
“And when do you expect———?”
“Ssh! Not at all.”
“What!”
“I was mistaken.”
“O Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that’s clever—it’s a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought o’, wi’ all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the real thing—not that one could sham it!”
“Don’t you be too quick to cry sham! ’Twasn’t sham. I didn’t know.”
