God!” Jude said. “He’s dead.”
“What’s God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, I should like to know!” she said scornfully. “Poor folks must live.”
“I know, I know,” said he. “I don’t scold you.”
Suddenly they became aware of a voice at hand.
“Well done, young married volk! I couldn’t have carried it out much better myself, cuss me if I could!” The voice, which was husky, came from the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughter they saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate, critically surveying their performance.
“’Tis well for ‘ee to stand there and glane!” said Arabella. “Owing to your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! ‘Twon’t fetch so much by a shilling a score!”
Challow expressed his contrition. “You should have waited a bit” he said, shaking his head, “and not have done this — in the delicate state, too, that you be in at present, ma’am. ’Tis risking yourself too much.”
“You needn’t be concerned about that,” said Arabella, laughing. Jude too laughed, but there was a strong flavour of bitterness in his amusement.
Challow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal in the scalding and scraping. Jude felt dissatisfied with himself as a man at what he had done, though aware of his lack of common sense, and that the deed would have amounted to the same thing if carried out by deputy. The white snow, stained with the blood of his fellow-mortal, wore an illogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say a Christian; but he could not see how the matter was to be mended. No doubt he was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool.
He did not like the road to Alfredston now. It stared him cynically in the face. The wayside objects reminded him so much of his courtship of his wife that, to keep them out of his eyes, he read whenever he could as he walked to and from his work. Yet he sometimes felt that by caring for books he was not escaping common-place nor gaining rare ideas, every working-man being of that taste now. When passing near the spot by the stream on which he had first made her acquaintance he one day heard voices just as he had done at that earlier time. One of the girls who had been Arabella’s companions was talking to a friend in a shed, himself being the subject of discourse, possibly because they had seen him in the distance. They were quite unaware that the shed-walls were so thin that he could hear their words as he passed.
“Howsomever, ’twas I put her up to it! ‘Nothing venture nothing have,’ I said. If I hadn’t she’d no more have been his mis’ess than I.”
“’Tis my belief she knew there was nothing the matter when she told him she was . . . ”
What had Arabella been put up to by this woman, so that he should make her his “mis’ess,” otherwise wife? The suggestion was horridly unpleasant, and it rankled in his mind so much that instead of entering his own cottage when he reached it he flung his basket inside the garden-gate and passed on, determined to go and see his old aunt and get some supper there.
This made his arrival home rather late. Arabella however, was busy melting down lard from fat of the deceased pig, for she had been out on a jaunt all day, and so delayed her work. Dreading lest what he had heard should lead him to say something regrettable to her he spoke little. But Arabella was very talkative, and said among other things that she wanted some money. Seeing the book sticking out of his pocket she added that he ought to earn more.
“An apprentice’s wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on, as a rule, my dear.”
“Then you shouldn’t have had one.”
“Come, Arabella! That’s too bad, when you know how it came about.”
“I’ll declare afore Heaven that I thought what I told you was true. Doctor Vilbert thought so. It was a good job for you that it wasn’t so!”
“I don’t mean that,” he said hastily. “I mean before that time. I know it was not your fault; but those women friends of yours gave you bad advice. If they hadn’t, or you hadn’t taken it, we should at this moment have been free from a bond which, not to mince matters, galls both of us devilishly. It may be very sad, but it is true.”
“Who’s been telling you about my friends? What advice? I insist upon you telling me.”
“Pooh — I d rather not.”
“But you shall — you ought to. It is mean of ‘ee not to!”
“Very well.” And he hinted gently what had been revealed to him. “But I don’t wish to dwell upon it. Let us say no more about it.”
Her defensive manner collapsed. “That was nothing,” she said, laughing coldly. “Every woman has a right to do such as that. The risk is hers.”
“I quite deny it, Bella. She might if no lifelong penalty attached to it for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weakness of the moment could end with the moment, or even with the year. But when effects stretch so far she should not go and do that which entraps a man if he is honest, or herself if he is otherwise.”
“What ought I to have done?”
“Given me time. . . . Why do you fuss yourself about melting down that pig’s fat to-night? Please put it away!”
“Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won’t keep.”
“Very well — do.”
CHAPTER 11
NEXT morning, which was Sunday, she resumed operations about ten o’clock; and the renewed work recalled the conversation which had accompanied it the night before, and put her back into the same intractable temper.
“That’s the story about me in Marygreen, is it — that I entrapped ‘ee? Much of a catch you were, Lord send!” As she warmed she saw some of Jude’s dear ancient classics on a table where they ought not to have been laid. “I won’t have them books here in the way!” she cried petulantly; and seizing them one by one she began throwing them upon the floor.
“Leave my books alone!” he said. “You might have thrown them aside if you had liked, but as to soiling them like that, it is disgusting!” In the operation of making lard Arabella’s hands had become smeared with the hot grease, and her fingers consequently left very perceptible imprints on the book-covers. She continued deliberately to toss the books severally upon the floor, till Jude, incensed beyond bearing, caught her by the arms to make her leave off. Somehow, in going so, he loosened the fastening of her hair, and it rolled about her ears.
“Let me go!” she said.
“Promise to leave the books alone.”
She hesitated. “Let me go!” she repeated.
“Promise!”
After a pause: “I do.”
Jude relinquished his hold, and she crossed the room to the door, out
