by Thomas Hardy
“How she sticks to him!” said Arabella. “0 no—I fancy they are not married, or they wouldn’t be so much to one another as that.... I wonder!”
“But I thought you said he did marry her?”
“I heard he was going to—that’s all, going to make another attempt, after putting it off once or twice.... As far as they themselves are concerned they are the only two in the show. I should be ashamed of making myself so silly if I were he!”
“I don’t see as how there’s anything remarkable in their behaviour. I should never have noticed their being in love, if you hadn’t said so.”
“You never see anything,” she rejoined. Nevertheless Cartlett’s view of the lovers’ or married pair’s conduct was undoubtedly that of the general crowd, whose attention seemed to be in no way attracted by what Arabella’s sharpened vision discerned.
“He’s charmed by her as if she were some fairy!” continued Arabella. “See how he looks round at her, and lets his eyes rest on her. I am inclined to think that she don’t care for him quite so much as he does for her. She’s not a particular warm-hearted creature to my thinking, though she cares for him pretty middling much—as much as she’s able to; and he could make her heart ache a bit if he liked to try—which he’s too simple to do. There—now they are going across to the cart-horse sheds. Come along.”
“I don’t want to see the cart-horses. It is no business of ours to follow these two. If we have come to see the show let us see it in our own way, as they do in theirs.”
“Well—suppose we agree to meet somewhere in an hour’s time—say at that refreshment tent over there, and go about independent? Then you can look at what you choose to, and so can I.”
Cartlett was not loth to agree to this, and they parted—he proceeding to the shed where malting processes were being exhibited, and Arabella in the direction taken by Jude and Sue. Before, however, she had regained their wake a laughing face met her own, and she was confronted by Anny, the friend of her girlhood.
Anny had burst out in hearty laughter at the mere fact of the chance rencounter. “I am still living down there,” she said, as soon as she was composed. “I am soon going to be married, but my intended couldn’t come up here to-day. But there’s lot of us come by excursion, though I’ve lost the rest of ’em for the present.”
“Have you met Jude and his young woman, or wife, or whatever she is? I saw ’em by now.”
“No. Not a glimpse of un for years!”
“Well, they are close by here somewhere. Yes—there they are—by that grey horse!”
“0, that’s his present young woman—wife did you say? Has he married again?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s pretty, isn’t she!”
“Yes—nothing to complain of; or jump at. Not much to depend on, though; a slim, fidgety little thing like that.”
“He’s a nice-looking chap, too! You ought to ha’ stuck to un, Arabella.”
“I don’t know but I ought,” murmured she.
Anny laughed. “That’s you, Arabella! Always wanting another man than your own.”
“Well, and what woman don’t I should like to know? As for that body with him—she don’t know what love is—at least what I call love! I can see in her face she don’t.”
“And perhaps, Abby dear, you don’t know what she calls love.”
“I’m sure I don’t wish to! ... Ah—they are making for the Art Department. I should like to see some pictures myself Suppose we go that way?—Why, if all Wessex isn’t here, I verily believe! There’s Dr. Vilbert. Haven’t seen him for years, and he’s not looking a day older than when I used to know him. How do you do, Physician? I was just saying that you don’t look a day older than when you knew me as a girl.”
“Simply the result of taking my own pills regular, ma’am. Only two and threepence a box—warranted efficacious by the Government stamp. Now let me advise you to purchase the same immunity from the ravages of Time by following my example? Only two-and-three.”
The physician had produced a box from his waistcoat pocket, and Arabella was induced to make the purchase.
“At the same time,” continued he, when the pills were paid for, “you have the advantage of me, Mrs.—Surely not Mrs. Fawley, once Miss Donn, of the vicinity of Marygreen?”
“Yes. But Mrs. Cartlett now.”
“Ah—you lost him, then? Promising young fellow! A pupil of mine, you know. I taught him the dead languages. And believe me, he soon knew nearly as much as I.”
“I lost him; but not as you think,” said Arabella drily. “The lawyers untied us. There he is, look, alive and lusty; along with that young woman, entering the Art exhibition.”
“Ah—dear me! Fond of her, apparently”
“They say they are cousins.”
“Cousinship is a great convenience to their feelings, I should say?”
“Yes. So her husband thought, no doubt, when he divorced her.... Shall we look at the pictures, too?”
The trio followed across the green and entered. Jude and Sue, with the child, unaware of the interest they were exciting, had gone up to a model at one end of the building, which they regarded with considerable attention for a long while before they went on. Arabella and her friends came to it in due course, and the inscription it bore was: “Model of Cardinal College, Christminster; by J. Fawley and S. F. M. Bridehead.”
“Admiring their own work,” said Arabella. “How like Jude—always thinking of Colleges and Christminster, instead of attending to his business!”
They glanced cursorily at the pictures, and proceeded to the band-stand. When they had stood a little while listening to the music of the military performers, Jude, Sue, and the child came up on the other side. Arabella did not care if they should recognize her; but they were too deeply absorbed in their own lives, as translated into emotion by the military band, to perceive her under her beaded veil. She walked round the outside of the listening throng, passing behind the lovers, whose movements had an unexpected fascination for her to-day. Scrutinizing them narrowly from the rear she noticed that Jude’s hand sought Sue’s as they stood, the two standing close together so as to conceal, as they supposed, this tacit expression of their mutual responsiveness.
“Silly fools—like two children!” Arabella whispered to herself morosely, as she rejoined her companions, with whom she preserved a preoccupied silence.
Anny meanwhile had jokingly remarked to Vilbert on Arabella’s hankering interest in her first husband.
“Now,” said the physician to Arabella, apart; “do you want anything such as this, Mrs. Cartlett? It is not compounded out of my regular pharmacopoeia, but I am sometimes asked for such a thing.” He produced a small phial of clear liquid. “A love-philtre, such as was used by the Ancients with great effect. I found it out by study of their writings, and have never known it to fail.”
“What is it made of?” asked Arabella curiously.
“Well—a distillation of the juices of doves’ hearts—otherwise pigeons’ —is one of the ingredients. It took nearly a hundred hearts to produce that small bottle full.”
“How do you get pigeons enough?”
“To tell a secret, I get a piece of rock-salt, of which pigeons are inordinately fond, and place it in a dovecote on my roof. In a few hours the birds come to it from all points of the compass—east, west, north, and south—and thus I secure as many as I require. You use the liquid by contriving that the desired man shall take about ten drops of it in his drink. But remember, all this is told you because I gather from your questions that you mean to be a purchaser. You must keep faith with me?”
“Very well—I don’t mind a bottle—to give some friend or other to try it on her young man.” She produced five shillings, the price asked, and slipped the phial in her capacious bosom. Saying presently that she was due at an appointment with her husband she sauntered away towards the refreshment bar, Jude, his companion, and the child having gone on to the horticultural ten
t, where Arabella caught a glimpse of them standing before a group of roses in bloom.
She waited a few minutes observing them, and then proceeded to join her spouse with no very amiable sentiments. She found him seated on a stool by the bar, talking to one of the gaily dressed maids who had served him with spirits.
“I should think you had enough of this business at home!” Arabella remarked gloomily. “Surely you didn’t come fifty miles from your own bar to stick in another? Come, take me round the show, as other men do their wives! Dammy, one would think you were a young bachelor, with nobody to look after but yourself!”
“But we agreed to meet here; and what could I do but wait?”
“Well, now we have met, come along,” she returned, ready to quarrel with the sun for shining on her. And they left the tent together, this pot-bellied man and florid woman, in the antipathetic, recriminatory mood of the average husband and wife of Christendom.
In the meantime the more exceptional couple and the boy still lingered in the pavilion of flowers—an enchanted palace to their appreciative taste—Sue’s usually pale cheeks reflecting the pink of the tinted roses at which she gazed; for the gay sights, the air, the music, and the excitement of a day’s outing with Jude, had quickened her blood and made her eyes sparkle with vivacity. She adored roses, and what Arabella had witnessed was Sue detaining Jude almost against his will while she learnt the names of this variety and that, and put her face within an inch of their blooms to smell them.
“I should like to push my face quite into them—the dears!” she had said. “But I suppose it is against the rules to touch them—isn’t it, Jude?”
“Yes, you baby,” said he: and then playfully gave her a little push, so that her nose went among the petals.
“The policeman will be down on us, and I shall say it was my husband’s fault!”
Then she looked up at him, and smiled in a way that told so much to Arabella.
“Happy?” he murmured.
She nodded.
“Why? Because you have come to the great Wessex Agricultural Show—or because we have come?”
“You are always trying to make me confess to all sorts of absurdities. Because I am improving my mind, of course, by seeing all these steam-ploughs, and threshing machines, and chaff-cutters, and cows, and pigs, and sheep.”
Jude was quite content with a baffle from his ever evasive companion. But when he had forgotten that he had put the question, and because he no longer wished for an answer, she went on: “I feel that we have returned to Greek joyousness, and have blinded ourselves to sickness and sorrow, and have forgotten what twenty-five centuries have taught the race since their time, as one of your Christminster luminaries says.... There is one immediate shadow, however,—only one.” And she looked at the aged child, whom, though they had taken him to everything likely to attract a young intelligence, they had utterly failed to interest.
He knew what they were saying and thinking. “I am very, very sorry, father and mother,” he said. “But please don’t mind!—I can’t help it. I should like the flowers very very much, if I didn’t keep on thinking they’d be all withered in a few days!”
V.-VI.
THE UNNOTICED LIVES THAT the pair had hitherto led began, from the day of the suspended wedding onwards, to be observed and discussed by other persons than Arabella. The society of Spring Street and the neighbourhood generally did not understand, and probably could not have been made to understand, Sue and Jude’s private minds, emotions, positions, and fears. The curious facts of a child coming to them unexpectedly, who called Jude father, and Sue mother, and a hitch in a marriage ceremony intended for quietness to be performed at a registrar’s office, together with rumours of the undefended cases in the law-courts, bore only one translation to plain minds.
Little Time—for though he was formally turned into “Jude,” the apt nickname stuck to him—would come home from school in the evening, and repeat inquiries and remarks that had been made to him by the other boys; and cause Sue, and Jude when he heard them, a great deal of pain and sadness.
The result was that shortly after the attempt at the registrar’s the pair went off—to London it was believed—for several days, hiring somebody to look to the boy. When they came back they let it be understood indirectly, and with total indifference and weariness of mien, that they were legally married at last. Sue, who had previously been called Mrs. Bridehead, now openly adopted the name of Mrs. Fawley. Her dull, cowed, and listless manner for days seemed to substantiate all this.
But the mistake (as it was called) of their going away so secretly to do the business, kept up much of the mystery of their lives; and they found that they made not such advances with their neighbours as they had expected to do thereby. A living mystery was not much less interesting than a dead scandal.
The baker’s lad and the grocer’s boy, who at first had used to lift their hats gallantly to Sue when they came to execute their errands, in these days no longer took the trouble to render her that homage, and the neighbouring artizans’ wives looked straight along the pavement when they encountered her.
Nobody molested them, it is true; but an oppressive atmosphere began to encircle their souls, particularly after their excursion to the Show, as if that visit had brought some evil influence to bear on them. And their temperaments were precisely of a kind to suffer from this atmosphere, and to be indisposed to lighten it by vigorous and open statements. Their apparent attempt at reparation had come too late to be effective.
The headstone and epitaph orders fell off: and two or three months later, when autumn came, Jude perceived that he would have to return to journey-work again, a course all the more unfortunate just now, in that he had not as yet cleared off the debt he had unavoidably incurred in the payment of the law-costs of the previous year.
One evening he sat down to share the common meal with Sue and the child as usual. “I am thinking,” he said to her, “that I’ll hold on here no longer. The life suits us, certainly; but if we could get away to a place where we are unknown, we should be lighter hearted, and have a better chance. And so I am afraid we must break it up here, however awkward for you, poor dear!”
Sue was always much affected at a picture of herself as an object of pity, and she saddened.
“Well—I am not sorry,” said she presently. “I am much depressed by the way they look at me here. And you have been keeping on this house and furniture entirely for me and the boy! You don’t want it yourself, and the expense is unnecessary. But whatever we do, wherever we go, you won’t take him away from me, Jude dear? I could not let him go now! The cloud upon his young mind makes him so pathetic to me; I do hope to lift it some day! And he loves me so. You won’t take him away from me?”
“Certainly I won’t, dear little girl! We’ll get nice lodgings, wherever we go. I shall be moving about probably—getting a job here and a job there.”
“I shall do something too, of course, till—till—Well, now I can’t be useful in the lettering it behoves me to turn my hand to something else.”
“Don’t hurry about getting employment,” he said regretfully. “I don’t want you to do that. I wish you wouldn’t, Sue. The boy and yourself are enough for you to attend to.”
There was a knock at the door, and Jude answered it. Sue could hear the conversation:
“Is Mr. Fawley at home? ... Biles and Willis the building contractors sent me to know if you’ll undertake the relettering of the Ten Commandments in a little church they’ve been restoring lately in the country near here.”
Jude reflected, and said he could undertake it.
“It is not a very artistic job,” continued the messenger. “The clergyman is a very old-fashioned chap, and he has refused to let anything more be done to the church than cleaning and repairing.”
“Excellent old man!” said Sue to herself, who was sentimentally opposed to the horrors of over-restoration.
“The Ten Commandments are fixed to the west end,” the
messenger went on, “and they want doing up with the rest of the wall there, since he won’t have them carted off as old materials belonging to the contractor, in the usual way of the trade.”
A bargain as to terms was struck, and Jude came indoors. “There, you see,” he said cheerfully. “One more job yet, at any rate, and you can help in it—at least you can try. We shall have all the church to ourselves, as the rest of the work is finished.”
Next day Jude went out to the church, which was only two miles off. He found that what the contractor’s clerk had said was true. The tables of the Jewish law towered sternly over the utensils of Christian grace, as the chief ornament of the chancel end, in the fine dry style of the last century. And as their framework was constructed of ornamental plaster they could not be taken down for repair. A portion, crumbled by damp, required renewal; and when this had been done, and the whole cleansed, he began to renew the lettering. On the second morning Sue came to see what assistance she could render, and also because they liked to be together.
The silence and emptiness of the building gave her confidence, and, standing on a safe low platform erected by Jude, which she was nevertheless timid at mounting, she began painting in the letters of the first Table while he set about mending a portion of the second. She was quite pleased at her powers; she had acquired them in the days she painted illumined texts for the church-fitting shop at Christminster. Nobody seemed likely to disturb them; and the pleasant twitter of birds, and rustle of October leafage, came in through an open window, and mingled with their talk.
They were not, however, to be left thus snug and peaceful for long. About half-past twelve there came footsteps on the gravel without. The old vicar and his churchwarden entered, and, coming up to see what was being done, seemed surprised to discover that a young woman was assisting. They passed on into an aisle, at which time the door again opened, and another figure entered—a small one, that of little Time, who was crying. Sue had told him where he might find her between school-hours, if he wished. She came down from her perch, and said, “What’s the matter, my dear?”
