Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
VII
From that week Jude Fawley and Sue walked no more in the town ofAldbrickham.
Whither they had gone nobody knew, chiefly because nobody caredto know. Any one sufficiently curious to trace the steps of suchan obscure pair might have discovered without great trouble thatthey had taken advantage of his adaptive craftsmanship to enteron a shifting, almost nomadic, life, which was not without itspleasantness for a time.
Wherever Jude heard of free-stone work to be done, thither he went,choosing by preference places remote from his old haunts and Sue's.He laboured at a job, long or briefly, till it was finished; andthen moved on.
Two whole years and a half passed thus. Sometimes he might havebeen found shaping the mullions of a country mansion, sometimessetting the parapet of a town-hall, sometimes ashlaring an hotel atSandbourne, sometimes a museum at Casterbridge, sometimes as far downas Exonbury, sometimes at Stoke-Barehills. Later still he was atKennetbridge, a thriving town not more than a dozen miles south ofMarygreen, this being his nearest approach to the village where hewas known; for he had a sensitive dread of being questioned as to hislife and fortunes by those who had been acquainted with him duringhis ardent young manhood of study and promise, and his brief andunhappy married life at that time.
At some of these places he would be detained for months, at othersonly a few weeks. His curious and sudden antipathy to ecclesiasticalwork, both episcopal and noncomformist, which had risen in him whensuffering under a smarting sense of misconception, remained with himin cold blood, less from any fear of renewed censure than from anultra-conscientiousness which would not allow him to seek a livingout of those who would disapprove of his ways; also, too, from asense of inconsistency between his former dogmas and his presentpractice, hardly a shred of the beliefs with which he had firstgone up to Christminster now remaining with him. He was mentallyapproaching the position which Sue had occupied when he first mether.
On a Saturday evening in May, nearly three years after Arabella'srecognition of Sue and himself at the agricultural show, some ofthose who there encountered each other met again.
It was the spring fair at Kennetbridge, and, though this ancienttrade-meeting had much dwindled from its dimensions of former times,the long straight street of the borough presented a lively sceneabout midday. At this hour a light trap, among other vehicles,was driven into the town by the north road, and up to the door ofa temperance inn. There alighted two women, one the driver, anordinary country person, the other a finely built figure in the deepmourning of a widow. Her sombre suit, of pronounced cut, causedher to appear a little out of place in the medley and bustle of aprovincial fair.
”I will just find out where it is, Anny,” said the widow-lady to hercompanion, when the horse and cart had been taken by a man who cameforward: ”and then I'll come back, and meet you here; and we'll goin and have something to eat and drink. I begin to feel quite asinking.”
”With all my heart,” said the other. ”Though I would sooner haveput up at the Chequers or The Jack. You can't get much at thesetemperance houses.”
”Now, don't you give way to gluttonous desires, my child,” said thewoman in weeds reprovingly. ”This is the proper place. Very well:we'll meet in half an hour, unless you come with me to find out wherethe site of the new chapel is?”
”I don't care to. You can tell me.”
The companions then went their several ways, the one in crape walkingfirmly along with a mien of disconnection from her miscellaneoussurroundings. Making inquiries she came to a hoarding, within whichwere excavations denoting the foundations of a building; and onthe boards without one or two large posters announcing that thefoundation-stone of the chapel about to be erected would be laid thatafternoon at three o'clock by a London preacher of great popularityamong his body.
Having ascertained thus much the immensely weeded widow retraced hersteps, and gave herself leisure to observe the movements of the fair.By and by her attention was arrested by a little stall of cakes andginger-breads, standing between the more pretentious erections oftrestles and canvas. It was covered with an immaculate cloth, andtended by a young woman apparently unused to the business, she beingaccompanied by a boy with an octogenarian face, who assisted her.
”Upon my--senses!” murmured the widow to herself. ”His wife Sue--ifshe is so!” She drew nearer to the stall. ”How do you do, Mrs.Fawley?” she said blandly.
Sue changed colour and recognized Arabella through the crape veil.
”How are you, Mrs. Cartlett?” she said stiffly. And then perceivingArabella's garb her voice grew sympathetic in spite of herself.”What?--you have lost--”
”My poor husband. Yes. He died suddenly, six weeks ago, leaving menone too well off, though he was a kind husband to me. But whateverprofit there is in public-house keeping goes to them that brew theliquors, and not to them that retail 'em... And you, my little oldman! You don't know me, I expect?”
”Yes, I do. You be the woman I thought wer my mother for a bit, tillI found you wasn't,” replied Father Time, who had learned to use theWessex tongue quite naturally by now.
”All right. Never mind. I am a friend.”
”Juey,” said Sue suddenly, ”go down to the station platform with thistray--there's another train coming in, I think.”
When he was gone Arabella continued: ”He'll never be a beauty, willhe, poor chap! Does he know I am his mother really?”
”No. He thinks there is some mystery about his parentage--that's all.Jude is going to tell him when he is a little older.”
”But how do you come to be doing this? I am surprised.”
”It is only a temporary occupation--a fancy of ours while we are in adifficulty.”
”Then you are living with him still?”
”Yes.”
”Married?”
”Of course.”
”Any children?”
”Two.”
”And another coming soon, I see.”
Sue writhed under the hard and direct questioning, and her tenderlittle mouth began to quiver.
”Lord--I mean goodness gracious--what is there to cry about? Somefolks would be proud enough!”
”It is not that I am ashamed--not as you think! But it seemssuch a terribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world--sopresumptuous--that I question my right to do it sometimes!”
”Take it easy, my dear... But you don't tell me why you do such athing as this? Jude used to be a proud sort of chap--above anybusiness almost, leave alone keeping a standing.”
”Perhaps my husband has altered a little since then. I am sure heis not proud now!” And Sue's lips quivered again. ”I am doing thisbecause he caught a chill early in the year while putting up somestonework of a music-hall, at Quartershot, which he had to do in therain, the work having to be executed by a fixed day. He is betterthan he was; but it has been a long, weary time! We have had an oldwidow friend with us to help us through it; but she's leaving soon.”
”Well, I am respectable too, thank God, and of a serious way ofthinking since my loss. Why did you choose to sell gingerbreads?”
”That's a pure accident. He was brought up to the baking business,and it occurred to him to try his hand at these, which he can makewithout coming out of doors. We call them Christminster cakes.They are a great success.”
”I never saw any like 'em. Why, they are windows and towers, andpinnacles! And upon my word they are very nice.” She had helpedherself, and was unceremoniously munching one of the cakes.
”Yes. They are reminiscences of the Christminster Colleges.Traceried windows, and cloisters, you see. It was a whim of histo do them in pastry.”
”Still harping on Christminster--even in his cakes!” laughedArabella. ”Just like Jude. A ruling passion. What a queer fellowhe is, and always will be!”
Sue sighed, and she looked her distress at hearing him criticized.
”Don't you think he is? Come now; you do, though you are so fond ofhim!”
”Of course Christminster is a sort of fixed vision with him, whichI suppose he'll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks ita great centre of high and fearless thought, instead of what it is,a nest of commonplace schoolmasters whose characteristic is timidobsequiousness to tradition.”
Arabella was quizzing Sue with more regard of how she was speakingthan of what she was saying. ”How odd to hear a woman sellingcakes talk like that!” she said. ”Why don't you go back toschool-keeping?”
She shook her head. ”They won't have me.”
”Because of the divorce, I suppose?”
”That and other things. And there is no reason to wish it. Wegave up all ambition, and were never so happy in our lives till hisillness came.”
”Where are you living?”
”I don't care to say.”
”Here in Kennetbridge?”
Sue's manner showed Arabella that her random guess was right.
”Here comes the boy back again,” continued Arabella. ”My boy andJude's!”
Sue's eyes darted a spark. ”You needn't throw that in my face!” shecried.
”Very well--though I half-feel as if I should like to have him withme! ... But Lord, I don't want to take him from 'ee--ever I shouldsin to speak so profane--though I should think you must have enoughof your own! He's in very good hands, that I know; and I am not thewoman to find fault with what the Lord has ordained. I've reached amore resigned frame of mind.”
”Indeed! I wish I had been able to do so.”
”You should try,” replied the widow, from the serene heights of asoul conscious not only of spiritual but of social superiority.”I make no boast of my awakening, but I'm not what I was. AfterCartlett's death I was passing the chapel in the street next ours,and went into it for shelter from a shower of rain. I felt a needof some sort of support under my loss, and, as 'twas righter thangin, I took to going there regular, and found it a great comfort.But I've left London now, you know, and at present I am living atAlfredston, with my friend Anny, to be near my own old country. I'mnot come here to the fair to-day. There's to be the foundation-stoneof a new chapel laid this afternoon by a popular London preacher, andI drove over with Anny. Now I must go back to meet her.”
Then Arabella wished Sue good-bye, and went on.
From that week Jude Fawley and Sue walked no more in the town ofAldbrickham.
Whither they had gone nobody knew, chiefly because nobody caredto know. Any one sufficiently curious to trace the steps of suchan obscure pair might have discovered without great trouble thatthey had taken advantage of his adaptive craftsmanship to enteron a shifting, almost nomadic, life, which was not without itspleasantness for a time.
Wherever Jude heard of free-stone work to be done, thither he went,choosing by preference places remote from his old haunts and Sue's.He laboured at a job, long or briefly, till it was finished; andthen moved on.
Two whole years and a half passed thus. Sometimes he might havebeen found shaping the mullions of a country mansion, sometimessetting the parapet of a town-hall, sometimes ashlaring an hotel atSandbourne, sometimes a museum at Casterbridge, sometimes as far downas Exonbury, sometimes at Stoke-Barehills. Later still he was atKennetbridge, a thriving town not more than a dozen miles south ofMarygreen, this being his nearest approach to the village where hewas known; for he had a sensitive dread of being questioned as to hislife and fortunes by those who had been acquainted with him duringhis ardent young manhood of study and promise, and his brief andunhappy married life at that time.
At some of these places he would be detained for months, at othersonly a few weeks. His curious and sudden antipathy to ecclesiasticalwork, both episcopal and noncomformist, which had risen in him whensuffering under a smarting sense of misconception, remained with himin cold blood, less from any fear of renewed censure than from anultra-conscientiousness which would not allow him to seek a livingout of those who would disapprove of his ways; also, too, from asense of inconsistency between his former dogmas and his presentpractice, hardly a shred of the beliefs with which he had firstgone up to Christminster now remaining with him. He was mentallyapproaching the position which Sue had occupied when he first mether.
On a Saturday evening in May, nearly three years after Arabella'srecognition of Sue and himself at the agricultural show, some ofthose who there encountered each other met again.
It was the spring fair at Kennetbridge, and, though this ancienttrade-meeting had much dwindled from its dimensions of former times,the long straight street of the borough presented a lively sceneabout midday. At this hour a light trap, among other vehicles,was driven into the town by the north road, and up to the door ofa temperance inn. There alighted two women, one the driver, anordinary country person, the other a finely built figure in the deepmourning of a widow. Her sombre suit, of pronounced cut, causedher to appear a little out of place in the medley and bustle of aprovincial fair.
”I will just find out where it is, Anny,” said the widow-lady to hercompanion, when the horse and cart had been taken by a man who cameforward: ”and then I'll come back, and meet you here; and we'll goin and have something to eat and drink. I begin to feel quite asinking.”
”With all my heart,” said the other. ”Though I would sooner haveput up at the Chequers or The Jack. You can't get much at thesetemperance houses.”
”Now, don't you give way to gluttonous desires, my child,” said thewoman in weeds reprovingly. ”This is the proper place. Very well:we'll meet in half an hour, unless you come with me to find out wherethe site of the new chapel is?”
”I don't care to. You can tell me.”
The companions then went their several ways, the one in crape walkingfirmly along with a mien of disconnection from her miscellaneoussurroundings. Making inquiries she came to a hoarding, within whichwere excavations denoting the foundations of a building; and onthe boards without one or two large posters announcing that thefoundation-stone of the chapel about to be erected would be laid thatafternoon at three o'clock by a London preacher of great popularityamong his body.
Having ascertained thus much the immensely weeded widow retraced hersteps, and gave herself leisure to observe the movements of the fair.By and by her attention was arrested by a little stall of cakes andginger-breads, standing between the more pretentious erections oftrestles and canvas. It was covered with an immaculate cloth, andtended by a young woman apparently unused to the business, she beingaccompanied by a boy with an octogenarian face, who assisted her.
”Upon my--senses!” murmured the widow to herself. ”His wife Sue--ifshe is so!” She drew nearer to the stall. ”How do you do, Mrs.Fawley?” she said blandly.
Sue changed colour and recognized Arabella through the crape veil.
”How are you, Mrs. Cartlett?” she said stiffly. And then perceivingArabella's garb her voice grew sympathetic in spite of herself.”What?--you have lost--”
”My poor husband. Yes. He died suddenly, six weeks ago, leaving menone too well off, though he was a kind husband to me. But whateverprofit there is in public-house keeping goes to them that brew theliquors, and not to them that retail 'em... And you, my little oldman! You don't know me, I expect?”
”Yes, I do. You be the woman I thought wer my mother for a bit, tillI found you wasn't,” replied Father Time, who had learned to use theWessex tongue quite naturally by now.
”All right. Never mind. I am a friend.”
”Juey,” said Sue suddenly, ”go down to the station platform with thistray--there's another train coming in, I think.”
When he was gone Arabella continued: ”He'll never be a beauty, willhe, poor chap! Does he know I am his mother really?”
”No. He thinks there is some mystery about his parentage--that's all.Jude is going to tell him when he is a little older.”
”But how do you come to be doing this? I am surprised.”
”It is only a temporary occupation--a fancy of ours while we are in adifficulty.”
”Then you are living with him still?”
”Yes.”
”Married?”
”Of course.”
”Any children?”
”Two.”
”And another coming soon, I see.”
Sue writhed under the hard and direct questioning, and her tenderlittle mouth began to quiver.
”Lord--I mean goodness gracious--what is there to cry about? Somefolks would be proud enough!”
”It is not that I am ashamed--not as you think! But it seemssuch a terribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world--sopresumptuous--that I question my right to do it sometimes!”
”Take it easy, my dear... But you don't tell me why you do such athing as this? Jude used to be a proud sort of chap--above anybusiness almost, leave alone keeping a standing.”
”Perhaps my husband has altered a little since then. I am sure heis not proud now!” And Sue's lips quivered again. ”I am doing thisbecause he caught a chill early in the year while putting up somestonework of a music-hall, at Quartershot, which he had to do in therain, the work having to be executed by a fixed day. He is betterthan he was; but it has been a long, weary time! We have had an oldwidow friend with us to help us through it; but she's leaving soon.”
”Well, I am respectable too, thank God, and of a serious way ofthinking since my loss. Why did you choose to sell gingerbreads?”
”That's a pure accident. He was brought up to the baking business,and it occurred to him to try his hand at these, which he can makewithout coming out of doors. We call them Christminster cakes.They are a great success.”
”I never saw any like 'em. Why, they are windows and towers, andpinnacles! And upon my word they are very nice.” She had helpedherself, and was unceremoniously munching one of the cakes.
”Yes. They are reminiscences of the Christminster Colleges.Traceried windows, and cloisters, you see. It was a whim of histo do them in pastry.”
”Still harping on Christminster--even in his cakes!” laughedArabella. ”Just like Jude. A ruling passion. What a queer fellowhe is, and always will be!”
Sue sighed, and she looked her distress at hearing him criticized.
”Don't you think he is? Come now; you do, though you are so fond ofhim!”
”Of course Christminster is a sort of fixed vision with him, whichI suppose he'll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks ita great centre of high and fearless thought, instead of what it is,a nest of commonplace schoolmasters whose characteristic is timidobsequiousness to tradition.”
Arabella was quizzing Sue with more regard of how she was speakingthan of what she was saying. ”How odd to hear a woman sellingcakes talk like that!” she said. ”Why don't you go back toschool-keeping?”
She shook her head. ”They won't have me.”
”Because of the divorce, I suppose?”
”That and other things. And there is no reason to wish it. Wegave up all ambition, and were never so happy in our lives till hisillness came.”
”Where are you living?”
”I don't care to say.”
”Here in Kennetbridge?”
Sue's manner showed Arabella that her random guess was right.
”Here comes the boy back again,” continued Arabella. ”My boy andJude's!”
Sue's eyes darted a spark. ”You needn't throw that in my face!” shecried.
”Very well--though I half-feel as if I should like to have him withme! ... But Lord, I don't want to take him from 'ee--ever I shouldsin to speak so profane--though I should think you must have enoughof your own! He's in very good hands, that I know; and I am not thewoman to find fault with what the Lord has ordained. I've reached amore resigned frame of mind.”
”Indeed! I wish I had been able to do so.”
”You should try,” replied the widow, from the serene heights of asoul conscious not only of spiritual but of social superiority.”I make no boast of my awakening, but I'm not what I was. AfterCartlett's death I was passing the chapel in the street next ours,and went into it for shelter from a shower of rain. I felt a needof some sort of support under my loss, and, as 'twas righter thangin, I took to going there regular, and found it a great comfort.But I've left London now, you know, and at present I am living atAlfredston, with my friend Anny, to be near my own old country. I'mnot come here to the fair to-day. There's to be the foundation-stoneof a new chapel laid this afternoon by a popular London preacher, andI drove over with Anny. Now I must go back to meet her.”
Then Arabella wished Sue good-bye, and went on.