He had done a few days’ work during the two or three months since the event, but his health had been indifferent, and it was now precarious. He was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and coughed a good deal.
“I’ve got a bargain for my trouble in marrying thee over again!” Arabella was saying to him. “I shall have to keep ’ee entirely—that’s what ’twill come to! I shall have to make black-pot and sausages, and hawk ’em about the street, all to support an invalid husband I’d no business to be saddled with at all. Why didn’t you keep your health, deceiving one like this? You were well enough when the wedding was!”
“Ah, yes!” said he, laughing acridly. “I have been thinking of my foolish feeling about the pig you and I killed during our first marriage. I feel now that the greatest mercy that could be vouchsafed to me would be that something should serve me as I served that animal.”
This was the sort of discourse that went on between them every day now. The landlord of the lodging, who had heard that they were a queer couple, had doubted if they were married at all, especially as he had seen Arabella kiss Jude one evening when she had taken a little cordial; and he was about to give them notice to quit, till by chance overhearing her one night haranguing Jude in rattling terms, and ultimately flinging a shoe at his head, he recognized the note of genuine wedlock; and concluding that they must be respectable, said no more.
Jude did not get any better, and one day he requested Arabella, with considerable hesitation, to execute a commission for him. She asked him indifferently what it was.
“To write to Sue.”
“What in the name—do you want me to write to her for?”
“To ask how she is, and if she’ll come to see me, because I’m ill, and should like to see her—once again.”
“It is like you to insult a lawful wife by asking such a thing!”
“It is just in order not to insult you that I ask you to do it. You know I love Sue. I don’t wish to mince the matter—there stands the fact: I love her. I could find a dozen ways of sending a letter to her without your knowledge. But I wish to be quite aboveboard with you, and with her husband. A message through you asking her to come is at least free from any odour of intrigue. If she retains any of her old nature at all, she’ll come.”
“You’ve no respect for marriage whatever, or its rights and duties!”
“What does it matter what my opinions are—a wretch like me! Can it matter to anybody in the world who comes to see me for half-an-hour—here with one foot in the grave! … Come, please write, Arabella!” he pleaded. “Repay my candour by a little generosity!”
“I should think not!”
“Not just once?—O do!” He felt that his physical weakness had taken away all his dignity.
“What do you want her to know how you are for? She don’t want to see ’ee. She’s the rat that forsook the sinking ship!”
“Don’t, don’t!”
“And I stuck to un—the more fool I! Have that strumpet in the house indeed!”
Almost as soon as the words were spoken Jude sprang from the chair, and before Arabella knew where she was he had her on her back upon a little couch which stood there, he kneeling above her.
“Say another word of that sort,” he whispered, “and I’ll kill you—here and now! I’ve everything to gain by it—my own death not being the least part. So don’t think there’s no meaning in what I say!”
“What do you want me to do?” gasped Arabella.
“Promise never to speak of her.”
“Very well. I do.”
“I take your word,” he said scornfully as he loosened her. “But what it is worth I can’t say.”
“You couldn’t kill the pig, but you could kill me!”
“Ah—there you have me! No—I couldn’t kill you—even in a passion. Taunt away!”
He then began coughing very much, and she estimated his life with an appraiser’s eye as he sank back ghastly pale. “I’ll send for her,” Arabella murmured, “if you’ll agree to my being in the room with you all the time she’s here.”
The softer side of his nature, the desire to see Sue, made him unable to resist the offer even now, provoked as he had been; and he replied breathlessly: “Yes, I agree. Only send for her!”
In the evening he inquired if she had written.
“Yes,” she said; “I wrote a note telling her you were ill, and asking her to come tomorrow or the day after. I haven’t posted it yet.”
The next day Jude wondered if she really did post it, but would not ask her; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a crumb, made him restless with expectation. He knew the times of the possible trains, and listened on each occasion for sounds of her.
She did not come; but Jude would not address Arabella again thereon. He hoped and expected all the next day; but no Sue appeared; neither was there any note of reply. Then Jude decided in the privacy of his mind that Arabella had never posted hers, although she had written it. There was something in her manner which told it. His physical weakness was such that he shed tears at the disappointment when she was not there to see. His suspicions were, in fact, well founded. Arabella, like some other nurses, thought that your duty towards your invalid was to pacify him by any means short of really acting upon his fancies.
He never said another word to her about his wish or his conjecture. A silent, undiscerned resolve grew up in him, which gave him, if not strength, stability and calm. One midday when, after an absence of two hours, she came into the room, she
