Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy [top 100 novels of all time TXT] 📗

“O, I can see such a pretty thing up this tree,” said Arabella. “A sort of a⁠—caterpillar, of the most loveliest green and yellow you ever came across!”

“Where?” said Jude, sitting up.

“You can’t see him there⁠—you must come here,” said she.

He bent nearer and put his head in front of hers. “No⁠—I can’t see it,” he said.

“Why, on the limb there where it branches off⁠—close to the moving leaf⁠—there!” She gently pulled him down beside her.

“I don’t see it,” he repeated, the back of his head against her cheek. “But I can, perhaps, standing up.” He stood accordingly, placing himself in the direct line of her gaze.

“How stupid you are!” she said crossly, turning away her face.

“I don’t care to see it, dear: why should I?” he replied, looking down upon her. “Get up, Abby.”

“Why?”

“I want you to let me kiss you. I’ve been waiting to ever so long!”

She rolled round her face, remained a moment looking deedily aslant at him; then with a slight curl of the lip sprang to her feet, and exclaiming abruptly “I must mizzel!” walked off quickly homeward. Jude followed and rejoined her.

“Just one!” he coaxed.

“Shan’t!” she said.

He, surprised: “What’s the matter?”

She kept her two lips resentfully together, and Jude followed her like a pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked beside him, talking calmly on indifferent subjects, and always checking him if he tried to take her hand or clasp her waist. Thus they descended to the precincts of her father’s homestead, and Arabella went in, nodding goodbye to him with a supercilious, affronted air.

“I expect I took too much liberty with her, somehow,” Jude said to himself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on to Marygreen.

On Sunday morning the interior of Arabella’s home was, as usual, the scene of a grand weekly cooking, the preparation of the special Sunday dinner. Her father was shaving before a little glass hung on the mullion of the window, and her mother and Arabella herself were shelling beans hard by. A neighbour passed on her way home from morning service at the nearest church, and seeing Donn engaged at the window with the razor, nodded and came in.

She at once spoke playfully to Arabella: “I zeed ’ee running with ’un⁠—hee-hee! I hope ’tis coming to something?”

Arabella merely threw a look of consciousness into her face without raising her eyes.

“He’s for Christminster, I hear, as soon as he can get there.”

“Have you heard that lately⁠—quite lately?” asked Arabella with a jealous, tigerish indrawing of breath.

“O no! But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He’s on’y waiting here for an opening. Ah well: he must walk about with somebody I s’pose. Young men don’t mean much nowadays. ’Tis a sip here and a sip there with ’em. ’Twas different in my time.”

When the gossip had departed Arabella said suddenly to her mother: “I want you and father to go and inquire how the Edlins be, this evening after tea. Or no⁠—there’s evening service at Fensworth⁠—you can walk to that.”

“Oh? What’s up tonight, then?”

“Nothing. Only I want the house to myself. He’s shy; and I can’t get un to come in when you are here. I shall let him slip through my fingers if I don’t mind, much as I care for ’n!”

“If it is fine we med as well go, since you wish.”

In the afternoon Arabella met and walked with Jude, who had now for weeks ceased to look into a book of Greek, Latin, or any other tongue. They wandered up the slopes till they reached the green track along the ridge, which they followed to the circular British earth-bank adjoining, Jude thinking of the great age of the trackway, and of the drovers who had frequented it, probably before the Romans knew the country. Up from the level lands below them floated the chime of church bells. Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened, and stopped.

“Now we’ll go back,” said Arabella, who had attended to the sounds.

Jude assented. So long as he was near her he minded little where he was. When they arrived at her house he said lingeringly: “I won’t come in. Why are you in such a hurry to go in tonight? It is not near dark.”

“Wait a moment,” said she. She tried the handle of the door and found it locked.

“Ah⁠—they are gone to church,” she added. And searching behind the scraper she found the key and unlocked the door. “Now, you’ll come in a moment?” she asked lightly. “We shall be all alone.”

“Certainly,” said Jude with alacrity, the case being unexpectedly altered.

Indoors they went. Did he want any tea? No, it was too late: he would rather sit and talk to her. She took off her jacket and hat, and they sat down⁠—naturally enough close together.

“Don’t touch me, please,” she said softly. “I am part eggshell. Or perhaps I had better put it in a safe place.” She began unfastening the collar of her gown.

“What is it?” said her lover.

“An egg⁠—a cochin’s egg. I am hatching a very rare sort. I carry it about everywhere with me, and it will get hatched in less than three weeks.”

“Where do you carry it?”

“Just here.” She put her hand into her bosom and drew out the egg, which was wrapped in wool, outside it being a piece of pig’s bladder, in case of accidents. Having exhibited it to him she put it back, “Now mind you don’t come near me. I don’t want to get it broke, and have to begin another.”

“Why do you do such a strange thing?”

“It’s an old custom. I suppose it is natural for a woman to want to bring live things into the world.”

“It is very awkward for me just now,” he said, laughing.

“It serves you right. There⁠—that’s all you can have of me.”

She had turned round her chair, and, reaching over the back of it, presented her cheek to him gingerly.

“That’s very shabby of you!”

“You should