'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 tender little mouth began to quiver.
'Lord—I mean goodness gracious—what is there to cry about? Some folks would be proud enough!'
'It is not that I am ashamed—not as you think! But it seems such a terribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world—so presumptuous—that I question my right to do it sometimes!'
'Take it easy, my dear… But you don't tell me why you do such a thing as this? Jude used to be a proud sort of chap—above any business almost, leave alone keeping a standing.'
'Perhaps my husband has altered a little since then. I am sure he is not proud now!' And Sue's lips quivered again. 'I am doing this because he caught a chill early in the year while putting up some stonework of a music-hall, at Quartershot, which he had to do in the rain, the work having to be executed by a fixed day. He is better than he was; but it has been a long, weary time! We have had an old widow 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 of thinking 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 make without 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, and pinnacles! And upon my word they are very nice.' She had helped herself, 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 his to do them in pastry.'
'Still harping on Christminster—even in his cakes!' laughed Arabella. 'Just like Jude. A ruling passion. What a queer fellow he 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 of him!'
'Of course Christminster is a sort of fixed vision with him, which I suppose he'll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks it a great centre of high and fearless thought, instead of what it is, a nest of commonplace schoolmasters whose characteristic is timid obsequiousness to tradition.'
Arabella was quizzing Sue with more regard of how she was speaking than of what she was saying. 'How odd to hear a woman selling cakes talk like that!' she said. 'Why don't you go back to school-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. We gave up all ambition, and were never so happy in our lives till his illness 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 and Jude's!'
Sue's eyes darted a spark. 'You needn't throw that in my face!' she cried.
'Very well—though I half-feel as if I should like to have him with me! … But Lord, I don't want to take him from 'ee—ever I should sin to speak so profane—though I should think you must have enough of your own! He's in very good hands, that I know; and I am not the woman to find fault with what the Lord has ordained. I've reached a more 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 a soul conscious not only of spiritual but of social superiority. 'I make no boast of my awakening, but I'm not what I was. After Cartlett'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 need of some sort of support under my loss, and, as 'twas righter than gin, 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 at Alfredston, with my friend Anny, to be near my own old country. I'm not come here to the fair to-day. There's to be the foundation-stone of a new chapel laid this afternoon by a popular London preacher, and I drove over with Anny. Now I must go back to meet her.'
Then Arabella wished Sue good-bye, and went on.
VIII
In the afternoon Sue and the other people bustling about Kennetbridge fair could hear singing inside the placarded hoarding farther down the street. Those who peeped through the opening saw a crowd of persons in broadcloth, with hymn-books in their hands, standing round the excavations for the new chapel-walls. Arabella Cartlett and her weeds stood among them. She had a clear, powerful voice, which could be 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 return journey across the high and open country which stretches between Kennetbridge and Alfredston. Arabella was in a thoughtful mood; but her thoughts were not of the new chapel, as Anny at first surmised.
'No—it is something else,' at last said Arabella sullenly. 'I came here to-day never thinking of anybody but poor Cartlett, or of anything but spreading the Gospel by means of this new tabernacle they've begun this afternoon. But something has happened to turn my mind another way quite. Anny, I've heard of un again, and I've seen
'Who?'
'I've heard of Jude, and I've seen his wife. And ever since, do what I will, and though I sung the hymns wi' all my strength, I have not been able to help thinking about 'n; which I've no right to do as a chapel member.'
'Can't ye fix your mind upon what was said by the London preacher to-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! If you on'y knew what I do dream sometimes o' nights quite against my wishes, you'd say I had my struggles!' (Anny, too, had grown rather serious 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 it made 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 all that's said about the comforts of this religion, I wish I had Jude back 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 afflicts volupshious widows, is to go to your husband's grave in the dusk of evening, 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 within the horizon of Marygreen, which lay not far to the left of their route. They came to the junction of the highway and the cross-lane leading to that village, whose church-tower could be seen athwart the hollow. When they got yet farther on, and were passing the lonely house in which Arabella and Jude had lived during the first months of their marriage, and where the pig-killing had taken
