Jude the Obscure
Page 47
VIII
In the afternoon Sue and the other people bustling about Kennetbridgefair could hear singing inside the placarded hoarding farther downthe street. Those who peeped through the opening saw a crowd ofpersons in broadcloth, with hymn-books in their hands, standing roundthe excavations for the new chapel-walls. Arabella Cartlett and herweeds stood among them. She had a clear, powerful voice, which couldbe distinctly heard with the rest, rising and falling to the tune,her inflated bosom being also seen doing likewise.
It was two hours later on the same day that Anny and Mrs. Cartlett,having had tea at the Temperance Hotel, started on their returnjourney across the high and open country which stretches betweenKennetbridge and Alfredston. Arabella was in a thoughtful mood; buther thoughts were not of the new chapel, as Anny at first surmised.
"No--it is something else," at last said Arabella sullenly. "Icame here to-day never thinking of anybody but poor Cartlett, or ofanything but spreading the Gospel by means of this new tabernaclethey've begun this afternoon. But something has happened to turn mymind another way quite. Anny, I've heard of un again, and I've seenHER!"
"Who?"
"I've heard of Jude, and I've seen his wife. And ever since, do whatI will, and though I sung the hymns wi' all my strength, I have notbeen able to help thinking about 'n; which I've no right to do as achapel member."
"Can't ye fix your mind upon what was said by the London preacherto-day, and try to get rid of your wandering fancies that way?"
"I do. But my wicked heart will ramble off in spite of myself!"
"Well--I know what it is to have a wanton mind o' my own, too! Ifyou on'y knew what I do dream sometimes o' nights quite against mywishes, you'd say I had my struggles!" (Anny, too, had grown ratherserious of late, her lover having jilted her.)
"What shall I do about it?" urged Arabella morbidly.
"You could take a lock of your late-lost husband's hair, and have itmade into a mourning brooch, and look at it every hour of the day."
"I haven't a morsel!--and if I had 'twould be no good... After allthat's said about the comforts of this religion, I wish I had Judeback again!"
"You must fight valiant against the feeling, since he's another's.And I've heard that another good thing for it, when it afflictsvolupshious widows, is to go to your husband's grave in the dusk ofevening, and stand a long while a-bowed down."
"Pooh! I know as well as you what I should do; only I don't do it!"
They drove in silence along the straight road till they were withinthe horizon of Marygreen, which lay not far to the left of theirroute. They came to the junction of the highway and the cross-laneleading to that village, whose church-tower could be seen athwart thehollow. When they got yet farther on, and were passing the lonelyhouse in which Arabella and Jude had lived during the first months oftheir marriage, and where the pig-killing had taken place, she couldcontrol herself no longer.
"He's more mine than hers!" she burst out. "What right has she tohim, I should like to know! I'd take him from her if I could!"
"Fie, Abby! And your husband only six weeks gone! Pray against it!"
"Be damned if I do! Feelings are feelings! I won't be a creepinghypocrite any longer--so there!"
Arabella had hastily drawn from her pocket a bundle of tracts whichshe had brought with her to distribute at the fair, and of which shehad given away several. As she spoke she flung the whole remainderof the packet into the hedge. "I've tried that sort o' physic andhave failed wi' it. I must be as I was born!"
"Hush! You be excited, dear! Now you come along home quiet, andhave a cup of tea, and don't let us talk about un no more. We won'tcome out this road again, as it leads to where he is, because itinflames 'ee so. You'll be all right again soon."
Arabella did calm herself down by degrees; and they crossed theridge-way. When they began to descend the long, straight hill, theysaw plodding along in front of them an elderly man of spare statureand thoughtful gait. In his hand he carried a basket; and there wasa touch of slovenliness in his attire, together with that indefinablesomething in his whole appearance which suggested one who was hisown housekeeper, purveyor, confidant, and friend, through possessingnobody else at all in the world to act in those capacities for him.The remainder of the journey was down-hill, and guessing him to begoing to Alfredston they offered him a lift, which he accepted.
Arabella looked at him, and looked again, till at length she spoke."If I don't mistake I am talking to Mr. Phillotson?"
The wayfarer faced round and regarded her in turn. "Yes; my name isPhillotson," he said. "But I don't recognize you, ma'am."
"I remember you well enough when you used to be schoolmaster out atMarygreen, and I one of your scholars. I used to walk up there fromCresscombe every day, because we had only a mistress down at ourplace, and you taught better. But you wouldn't remember me as Ishould you?--Arabella Donn."
He shook his head. "No," he said politely, "I don't recall the name.And I should hardly recognize in your present portly self the slimschool child no doubt you were then."
"Well, I always had plenty of flesh on my bones. However, I amstaying down here with some friends at present. You know, I suppose,who I married?"
"No."
"Jude Fawley--also a scholar of yours--at least a night scholar--forsome little time, I think? And known to you afterwards, if I am notmistaken."
"Dear me, dear me," said Phillotson, starting out of his stiffness."YOU Fawley's wife? To be sure--he had a wife! And he--Iunderstood--"
"Divorced her--as you did yours--perhaps for better reasons."
"Indeed?"
"Well--he med have been right in doing it--right for both; for I soonmarried again, and all went pretty straight till my husband diedlately. But you--you were decidedly wrong!"
"No," said Phillotson, with sudden testiness. "I would rather nottalk of this, but--I am convinced I did only what was right, andjust, and moral. I have suffered for my act and opinions, but I holdto them; though her loss was a loss to me in more ways than one!"
"You lost your school and good income through her, did you not?"
"I don't care to talk of it. I have recently come back here--toMarygreen. I mean."
"You are keeping the school there again, just as formerly?"
The pressure of a sadness that would out unsealed him. "I am there,"he replied. "Just as formerly, no. Merely on sufferance. It wasa last resource--a small thing to return to after my move upwards,and my long indulged hopes--a returning to zero, with all itshumiliations. But it is a refuge. I like the seclusion of theplace, and the vicar having known me before my so-called eccentricconduct towards my wife had ruined my reputation as a schoolmaster,he accepted my services when all other schools were closed againstme. However, although I take fifty pounds a year here after takingabove two hundred elsewhere, I prefer it to running the risk ofhaving my old domestic experiences raked up against me, as I shoulddo if I tried to make a move."
"Right you are. A contented mind is a continual feast. She has doneno better."
"She is not doing well, you mean?"
"I met her by accident at Kennetbridge this very day, and she isanything but thriving. Her husband is ill, and she anxious. Youmade a fool of a mistake about her, I tell 'ee again, and the harmyou did yourself by dirting your own nest serves you right, excusingthe liberty."
"How?"
"She was innocent."
"But nonsense! They did not even defend the case!"
"That was because they didn't care to. She was quite innocent ofwhat obtained you your freedom, at the time you obtained it. I sawher just afterwards, and proved it to myself completely by talking toher."
Phillotson grasped the edge of the spring-cart, and appeared to bemuch stressed and worried by the information. "Still--she wanted togo," he said.
"Yes. But you shouldn't have let her. That's the only way withthese fanciful women that chaw high--innocent or guilty. She'd havecome ro
und in time. We all do! Custom does it! It's all the samein the end! However, I think she's fond of her man still--whateverhe med be of her. You were too quick about her. _I_ shouldn'thave let her go! I should have kept her chained on--her spirit forkicking would have been broke soon enough! There's nothing likebondage and a stone-deaf taskmaster for taming us women. Besides,you've got the laws on your side. Moses knew. Don't you call tomind what he says?"
"Not for the moment, ma'am, I regret to say."
"Call yourself a schoolmaster! I used to think o't when they readit in church, and I was carrying on a bit. 'Then shall the man beguiltless; but the woman shall bear her iniquity.' Damn rough on uswomen; but we must grin and put up wi' it! Haw haw! Well; she's gother deserts now."
"Yes," said Phillotson, with biting sadness. "Cruelty is the lawpervading all nature and society; and we can't get out of it if wewould!"
"Well--don't you forget to try it next time, old man."
"I cannot answer you, madam. I have never known much of womankind."
They had now reached the low levels bordering Alfredston, and passingthrough the outskirts approached a mill, to which Phillotson said hiserrand led him; whereupon they drew up, and he alighted, bidding themgood-night in a preoccupied mood.
In the meantime Sue, though remarkably successful in her cake-sellingexperiment at Kennetbridge fair, had lost the temporary brightnesswhich had begun to sit upon her sadness on account of that success.When all her "Christminster" cakes had been disposed of she tookupon her arm the empty basket, and the cloth which had covered thestanding she had hired, and giving the other things to the boy leftthe street with him. They followed a lane to a distance of half amile, till they met an old woman carrying a child in short clothes,and leading a toddler in the other hand.
Sue kissed the children, and said, "How is he now?"
"Still better!" returned Mrs. Edlin cheerfully. "Before you areupstairs again your husband will be well enough--don't 'ee trouble."
They turned, and came to some old, dun-tiled cottages with gardensand fruit-trees. Into one of these they entered by lifting the latchwithout knocking, and were at once in the general living-room. Herethey greeted Jude, who was sitting in an arm-chair, the increaseddelicacy of his normally delicate features, and the childishlyexpectant look in his eyes, being alone sufficient to show that hehad been passing through a severe illness.
"What--you have sold them all?" he said, a gleam of interest lightingup his face.
"Yes. Arcades, gables, east windows and all." She told him thepecuniary results, and then hesitated. At last, when they were leftalone, she informed him of the unexpected meeting with Arabella, andthe latter's widowhood.
Jude was discomposed. "What--is she living here?" he said.
"No; at Alfredston," said Sue.
Jude's countenance remained clouded. "I thought I had better tellyou?" she continued, kissing him anxiously.
"Yes... Dear me! Arabella not in the depths of London, but downhere! It is only a little over a dozen miles across the country toAlfredston. What is she doing there?"
She told him all she knew. "She has taken to chapel-going," Sueadded; "and talks accordingly."
"Well," said Jude, "perhaps it is for the best that we have almostdecided to move on. I feel much better to-day, and shall be wellenough to leave in a week or two. Then Mrs. Edlin can go homeagain--dear faithful old soul--the only friend we have in the world!"
"Where do you think to go to?" Sue asked, a troublousness in hertones.
Then Jude confessed what was in his mind. He said it would surpriseher, perhaps, after his having resolutely avoided all the old placesfor so long. But one thing and another had made him think a greatdeal of Christminster lately, and, if she didn't mind, he would liketo go back there. Why should they care if they were known? It wasoversensitive of them to mind so much. They could go on sellingcakes there, for that matter, if he couldn't work. He had no senseof shame at mere poverty; and perhaps he would be as strong as eversoon, and able to set up stone-cutting for himself there.
"Why should you care so much for Christminster?" she said pensively."Christminster cares nothing for you, poor dear!"
"Well, I do, I can't help it. I love the place--although I knowhow it hates all men like me--the so-called self-taught--how itscorns our laboured acquisitions, when it should be the firstto respect them; how it sneers at our false quantities andmispronunciations, when it should say, I see you want help, my poorfriend! ... Nevertheless, it is the centre of the universe to me,because of my early dream: and nothing can alter it. Perhaps it willsoon wake up, and be generous. I pray so! ... I should like to goback to live there--perhaps to die there! In two or three weeks Imight, I think. It will then be June, and I should like to be thereby a particular day."
His hope that he was recovering proved so far well grounded thatin three weeks they had arrived in the city of many memories; wereactually treading its pavements, receiving the reflection of thesunshine from its wasting walls.