"What? ... But you ARE!"
"From your point of view; but--"
"Of course we were afraid of the ceremony, and a good many others
would have been in our places, with such strong reasons for fears.
But experience has proved how we misjudged ourselves, and overrated
our infirmities; and if you are beginning to respect rites and
ceremonies, as you seem to be, I wonder you don't say it shall be
carried out instantly? You certainly ARE my wife, Sue, in all but
law. What do you mean by what you said?"
"I don't think I am!"
"Not? But suppose we HAD gone through the ceremony? Would you feel
that you were then?"
"No. I should not feel even then that I was. I should feel worse
than I do now."
"Why so--in the name of all that's perverse, my dear?"
"Because I am Richard's."
"Ah--you hinted that absurd fancy to me before!"
"It was only an impression with me then; I feel more and more
convinced as time goes on that--I belong to him, or to nobody."
"My good heavens--how we are changing places!"
"Yes. Perhaps so."
Some few days later, in the dusk of the summer evening, they were
sitting in the same small room downstairs, when a knock came to the
front door of the carpenter's house where they were lodging, and in a
few moments there was a tap at the door of their room. Before they
could open it the comer did so, and a woman's form appeared.
"Is Mr. Fawley here?"
Jude and Sue started as he mechanically replied in the affirmative,
for the voice was Arabella's.
He formally requested her to come in, and she sat down in the window
bench, where they could distinctly see her outline against the light;
but no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general
aspect and air. Yet something seemed to denote that she was not
quite so comfortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly attired, as she
had been during Cartlett's lifetime.
The three attempted an awkward conversation about the tragedy, of
which Jude had felt it to be his duty to inform her immediately,
though she had never replied to his letter.
"I have just come from the cemetery," she said. "I inquired and
found the child's grave. I couldn't come to the funeral--thank you
for inviting me all the same. I read all about it in the papers,
and I felt I wasn't wanted... No--I couldn't come to the funeral,"
repeated Arabella, who, seeming utterly unable to reach the ideal of
a catastrophic manner, fumbled with iterations. "But I am glad I
found the grave. As 'tis your trade, Jude, you'll be able to put up
a handsome stone to 'em."