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Jude The Obscure
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
Part Second - AT
CHRISTMINSTER
Part Fifth - AT ALDBR=
ICKHAM
AND ELSEWHERE
Part Sixth - AT CHRIS=
TMINSTER
AGAIN
"Yea, many there be that have run out of their wits for women, and become servants for their =
sakes. Many also have perished, have erred, and sinned=
, for
women.... O ye men, how can it =
be but
women should be strong, seeing =
they
do thus?"--ESDRAS.
The
schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry. The mille=
r at
Cresscombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his good=
s to
the city of his destination, about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving=
of
quite sufficient size for the departing teacher's effects. For the schoolhouse had been partly fur=
nished
by the managers, and the only cumbersome article possessed by the master, in
addition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had boug=
ht
at an auction during the year in which he thought of learning instrumental
music. But the enthusiasm having w=
aned
he had never acquired any skill in playing, and the purchased article had b=
een
a perpetual trouble to him ever since in moving house.
The rector had gone away for the day, being a =
man
who disliked the sight of changes. He
did not mean to return till the evening, when the new school-teacher would =
have
arrived and settled in, and everything would be smooth again.
The blacksmith, the farm bailiff, and the
schoolmaster himself were standing in perplexed attitudes in the parlour be=
fore
the instrument. The master had remarked that even if he got it into the car=
t he
should not know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the cit=
y he
was bound for, since he was only going into temporary lodgings just at firs=
t.
A little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfu=
lly
assisting in the packing, joined the group of men, and as they rubbed their
chins he spoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice: "Aunt have =
got
a great fuel-house, and it could be put there, perhaps, till you've found a
place to settle in, sir."
"A proper good notion," said the
blacksmith.
It was decided that a deputation should wait on
the boy's aunt--an old maiden resident--and ask her if she would house the
piano till Mr. Phillotson should send for it.
The smith and the bailiff started to see about the practicability of=
the
suggested shelter, and the boy and the schoolmaster were left standing alon=
e.
"Sorry I am going, Jude?" asked the
latter kindly.
Tears rose into the boy's eyes, for he was not
among the regular day scholars, who came unromantically close to the
schoolmaster's life, but one who had attended the night school only during =
the
present teacher's term of office. =
The
regular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood at the present moment af=
ar
off, like certain historic disciples, indisposed to any enthusiastic
volunteering of aid.
The boy awkwardly opened the book he held in h=
is
hand, which Mr. Phillotson had bestowed on him as a parting gift, and admit=
ted
that he was sorry.
"So am I," said Mr. Phillotson.
"Why do you go, sir?" asked the boy.=
"Ah--that would be a long story. You wouldn't understand my reasons, Jud=
e. You will, perhaps, when you are older.&=
quot;
"I think I should now, sir."
"Well--don't speak of this everywhere.
The smith and his companion returned. Old Miss Fawley's fuel-house was dry, a=
nd
eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the instrument
standing-room there. It was accord=
ingly
left in the school till the evening, when more hands would be available for=
removing
it; and the schoolmaster gave a final glance round.
The boy Jude assisted in loading some small
articles, and at nine o'clock Mr. Phillotson mounted beside his box of books
and other impedimenta, and bade his friends good-bye.
"I shan't forget you, Jude," he said,
smiling, as the cart moved off. "Be a good boy, remember; and be kind =
to
animals and birds, and read all you can.
And if ever you come to Christminster remember you hunt me out for o=
ld
acquaintance' sake."
The cart creaked across the green, and disappe=
ared
round the corner by the rectory-house. The boy returned to the draw-well at=
the
edge of the greensward, where he had left his buckets when he went to help =
his
patron and teacher in the loading. There
was a quiver in his lip now and after opening the well-cover to begin lower=
ing
the bucket he paused and leant with his forehead and arms against the
framework, his face wearing the fixity of a thoughtful child's who has felt=
the
pricks of life somewhat before his time.
The well into which he was looking was as ancient as the village its=
elf,
and from his present position appeared as a long circular perspective endin=
g in
a shining disk of quivering water at a distance of a hundred feet down. The=
re
was a lining of green moss near the top, and nearer still the hart's-tongue
fern.
He said to himself, in the melodramatic tones =
of a
whimsical boy, that the schoolmaster had drawn at that well scores of times=
on
a morning like this, and would never draw there any more. "I've seen him look down into it, =
when
he was tired with his drawing, just as I do now, and when he rested a bit
before carrying the buckets home! But he was too clever to bide here any
longer--a small sleepy place like this!"
A tear rolled from his eye into the depths of =
the
well. The morning was a little fog=
gy,
and the boy's breathing unfurled itself as a thicker fog upon the still and
heavy air. His thoughts were inter=
rupted
by a sudden outcry:
"Bring on that water, will ye, you idle y=
oung
harlican!"
It came from an old woman who had emerged from=
her
door towards the garden gate of a green-thatched cottage not far off. The boy quickly waved a signal of assen=
t,
drew the water with what was a great effort for one of his stature, landed =
and
emptied the big bucket into his own pair of smaller ones, and pausing a mom=
ent
for breath, started with them across the patch of clammy greensward whereon=
the
well stood--nearly in the centre of the little village, or rather hamlet of
Marygreen.
It was as old-fashioned as it was small, and it
rested in the lap of an undulating upland adjoining the North Wessex
downs. Old as it was, however, the
well-shaft was probably the only relic of the local history that remained
absolutely unchanged. Many of the
thatched and dormered dwelling-houses had been pulled down of late years, a=
nd many
trees felled on the green. Above a=
ll,
the original church, hump-backed, wood-turreted, and quaintly hipped, had b=
een
taken down, and either cracked up into heaps of road-metal in the lane, or =
utilized
as pig-sty walls, garden seats, guard-stones to fences, and rockeries in the
flower-beds of the neighbourhood. =
In
place of it a tall new building of modern Gothic design, unfamiliar to Engl=
ish eyes,
had been erected on a new piece of ground by a certain obliterator of histo=
ric
records who had run down from London and back in a day. The site whereon so long had stood the
ancient temple to the Christian divinities was not even recorded on the gre=
en
and level grass-plot that had immemorially been the churchyard, the obliter=
ated
graves being commemorated by eighteen-penny cast-iron crosses warranted to =
last
five years.
Slend=
er as
was Jude Fawley's frame he bore the two brimming house-buckets of water to =
the
cottage without resting. Over the =
door was
a little rectangular piece of blue board, on which was painted in yellow le=
tters,
"Drusilla Fawley, Baker."
Within the little lead panes of the window--this being one of the few
old houses left--were five bottles of sweets, and three buns on a plate of =
the
willow pattern.
While emptying the buckets at the back of the
house he could hear an animated conversation in progress within-doors betwe=
en
his great-aunt, the Drusilla of the sign-board, and some other villagers. Having seen the school-master depart, t=
hey
were summing up particulars of the event, and indulging in predictions of h=
is
future.
"And who's he?" asked one, comparati=
vely
a stranger, when the boy entered.
"Well ye med ask it, Mrs. Williams. He's my great-nephew--come since you wa=
s last
this way." The old inhabitant=
who
answered was a tall, gaunt woman, who spoke tragically on the most trivial
subject, and gave a phrase of her conversation to each auditor in turn. "He come from Mellstock, down in S=
outh
Wessex, about a year ago--worse luck for 'n, Belinda" (turning to the
right) "where his father was living, and was took wi' the shakings for
death, and died in two days, as you know, Caroline" (turning to the le=
ft).
"It would ha' been a blessing if Goddy-mighty had took thee too, wi' t=
hy
mother and father, poor useless boy! But
I've got him here to stay with me till I can see what's to be done with un,
though I am obliged to let him earn any penny he can. Just now he's a-scaring of birds for Fa=
rmer
Troutham. It keeps him out of mischty.
Why do ye turn away, Jude?" she continued, as the boy, feeling =
the
impact of their glances like slaps upon his face, moved aside.
The local washerwoman replied that it was perh=
aps
a very good plan of Miss or Mrs. Fawley's (as they called her indifferently=
) to
have him with her--"to kip 'ee company in your loneliness, fetch water,
shet the winder-shetters o' nights, and help in the bit o' baking."
Miss Fawley doubted it.... "Why didn't ye get the schoolmaste=
r to take
'ee to Christminster wi' un, and make a scholar of 'ee," she continued=
, in
frowning pleasantry. "I'm sur=
e he
couldn't ha' took a better one. Th=
e boy
is crazy for books, that he is. It=
runs
in our family rather. His cousin S=
ue is
just the same--so I've heard; but I have not seen the child for years, thou=
gh
she was born in this place, within these four walls, as it happened. My niece and her husband, after they we=
re
married, didn' get a house of their own for some year or more; and then they
only had one till--Well, I won't go into that.
Jude, my child, don't you ever marry.
'Tisn't for the Fawleys to take that step any more. She, their only one, was like a child o=
' my
own, Belinda, till the split come! Ah,
that a little maid should know such changes!"
Jude, finding the general attention again
centering on himself, went out to the bakehouse, where he ate the cake prov=
ided
for his breakfast. The end of his =
spare
time had now arrived, and emerging from the garden by getting over the hedg=
e at
the back he pursued a path northward, till he came to a wide and lonely
depression in the general level of the upland, which was sown as a
corn-field. This vast concave was =
the
scene of his labours for Mr Troutham the farmer, and he descended into the
midst of it.
The brown surface of the field went right up
towards the sky all round, where it was lost by degrees in the mist that sh=
ut
out the actual verge and accentuated the solitude. The only marks on the uniformity of the=
scene
were a rick of last year's produce standing in the midst of the arable, the
rooks that rose at his approach, and the path athwart the fallow by which h=
e had
come, trodden now by he hardly knew whom, though once by many of his own de=
ad
family.
"How ugly it is here!" he murmured.<= o:p>
The fresh harrow-lines seemed to stretch like =
the
channellings in a piece of new corduroy, lending a meanly utilitarian air to
the expanse, taking away its gradations, and depriving it of all history be=
yond
that of the few recent months, though to every clod and stone there really
attached associations enough and to spare--echoes of songs from ancient
harvest-days, of spoken words, and of sturdy deeds. Every inch of ground had been the site,=
first
or last, of energy, gaiety, horse-play, bickerings, weariness. Groups of gleaners had squatted in the =
sun on
every square yard. Love-matches that had populated the adjoining hamlet had=
been
made up there between reaping and carrying.
Under the hedge which divided the field from a distant plantation gi=
rls
had given themselves to lovers who would not turn their heads to look at th=
em
by the next harvest; and in that ancient cornfield many a man had made
love-promises to a woman at whose voice he had trembled by the next seed-ti=
me
after fulfilling them in the church adjoining.
But this neither Jude nor the rooks around him considered. For them =
it
was a lonely place, possessing, in the one view, only the quality of a
work-ground, and in the other that of a granary good to feed in.
The boy stood under the rick before mentioned,=
and
every few seconds used his clacker or rattle briskly. At each clack the rooks left off peckin=
g, and
rose and went away on their leisurely wings, burnished like tassets of mail,
afterwards wheeling back and regarding him warily, and descending to feed a=
t a
more respectful distance.
He sounded the clacker till his arm ached, and=
at
length his heart grew sympathetic with the birds' thwarted desires. They seemed, like himself, to be living=
in a
world which did not want them. Why
should he frighten them away? They=
took
upon more and more the aspect of gentle friends and pensioners--the only
friends he could claim as being in the least degree interested in him, for =
his
aunt had often told him that she was not.
He ceased his rattling, and they alighted anew.
"Poor little dears!" said Jude,
aloud. "You SHALL have some
dinner-- you shall. There is enoug=
h for
us all. Farmer Troutham can afford=
to
let you have some. Eat, then my de=
ar
little birdies, and make a good meal!"
They stayed and ate, inky spots on the nut-bro=
wn
soil, and Jude enjoyed their appetite. =
span>A
magic thread of fellow-feeling united his own life with theirs. Puny and sorry as those lives were, the=
y much
resembled his own.
His clacker he had by this time thrown away fr=
om
him, as being a mean and sordid instrument, offensive both to the birds and=
to
himself as their friend. All at on=
ce he
became conscious of a smart blow upon his buttocks, followed by a loud clac=
k,
which announced to his surprised senses that the clacker had been the
instrument of offence used. The bi=
rds
and Jude started up simultaneously, and the dazed eyes of the latter beheld=
the
farmer in person, the great Troutham himself, his red face glaring down upon
Jude's cowering frame, the clacker swinging in his hand.
"So it's 'Eat my dear birdies,' is it, yo=
ung
man? 'Eat, dear birdies,' indeed!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I'll tickle your breeches, and see if y=
ou say,
'Eat, dear birdies,' again in a hurry!
And you've been idling at the schoolmaster's too, instead of coming
here, ha'n't ye, hey? That's how y=
ou
earn your sixpence a day for keeping the rooks off my corn!"
Whilst saluting Jude's ears with this impassio=
ned
rhetoric, Troutham had seized his left hand with his own left, and swinging=
his
slim frame round him at arm's-length, again struck Jude on the hind parts w=
ith
the flat side of Jude's own rattle, till the field echoed with the blows, w=
hich
were delivered once or twice at each revolution.
"Don't 'ee, sir--please don't 'ee!"
cried the whirling child, as helpless under the centrifugal tendency of his
person as a hooked fish swinging to land, and beholding the hill, the rick,=
the
plantation, the path, and the rooks going round and round him in an amazing
circular race. "I--I sir--only
meant that--there was a good crop in the ground--I saw 'em sow it--and the
rooks could have a little bit for dinner--and you wouldn't miss it, sir--and
Mr. Phillotson said I was to be kind to 'em--oh, oh, oh!"
This truthful explanation seemed to exasperate=
the
farmer even more than if Jude had stoutly denied saying anything at all, an=
d he
still smacked the whirling urchin, the clacks of the instrument continuing =
to
resound all across the field and as far as the ears of distant workers--who
gathered thereupon that Jude was pursuing his business of clacking with gre=
at
assiduity--and echoing from the brand-new church tower just behind the mist,
towards the building of which structure the farmer had largely subscribed, =
to
testify his love for God and man.
Presently Troutham grew tired of his punitive
task, and depositing the quivering boy on his legs, took a sixpence from his
pocket and gave it him in payment for his day's work, telling him to go home
and never let him see him in one of those fields again.
Jude leaped out of arm's reach, and walked alo=
ng
the trackway weeping--not from the pain, though that was keen enough; not f=
rom
the perception of the flaw in the terrestrial scheme, by which what was good
for God's birds was bad for God's gardener; but with the awful sense that he
had wholly disgraced himself before he had been a year in the parish, and h=
ence
might be a burden to his great-aunt for life.
With this shadow on his mind he did not care to
show himself in the village, and went homeward by a roundabout track behind=
a
high hedge and across a pasture. H=
ere he
beheld scores of coupled earthworms lying half their length on the surface =
of
the damp ground, as they always did in such weather at that time of the
year. It was impossible to advance=
in
regular steps without crushing some of them at each tread.
Though Farmer Troutham had just hurt him, he w=
as a
boy who could not himself bear to hurt anything. He had never brought home a nest of you=
ng
birds without lying awake in misery half the night after, and often reinsta=
ting
them and the nest in their original place the next morning. He could scarcely bear to see trees cut=
down
or lopped, from a fancy that it hurt them; and late pruning, when the sap w=
as
up and the tree bled profusely, had been a positive grief to him in his inf=
ancy. This weakness of character, as it may be
called, suggested that he was the sort of man who was born to ache a good d=
eal
before the fall of the curtain upon his unnecessary life should signify tha=
t all
was well with him again. He carefu=
lly
picked his way on tiptoe among the earthworms, without killing a single one=
.
On entering the cottage he found his aunt sell=
ing
a penny loaf to a little girl, and when the customer was gone she said,
"Well, how do you come to be back here in the middle of the morning li=
ke
this?"
"I'm turned away."
"What?"
"Mr. Troutham have turned me away because=
I
let the rooks have a few peckings of corn.
And there's my wages--the last I shall ever hae!"
He threw the sixpence tragically on the table.=
"Ah!" said his aunt, suspending her
breath. And she opened upon him a
lecture on how she would now have him all the spring upon her hands doing
nothing. "If you can't skeer =
birds,
what can ye do? There! don't ye lo=
ok so
deedy! Farmer Troutham is not so m=
uch
better than myself, come to that. =
But
'tis as Job said, 'Now they that are younger than I have me in derision, wh=
ose
fathers I would have disdained to have set with the dogs of my flock.' His father was my father's journeyman,
anyhow, and I must have been a fool to let 'ee go to work for 'n, which I
shouldn't ha' done but to keep 'ee out of mischty."
More angry with Jude for demeaning her by comi=
ng
there than for dereliction of duty, she rated him primarily from that point=
of
view, and only secondarily from a moral one.
"Not that you should have let the birds e=
at
what Farmer Troutham planted. Of c=
ourse
you was wrong in that. Jude, Jude,=
why
didstn't go off with that schoolmaster of thine to Christminster or somewhe=
re? But,
oh no--poor or'nary child--there never was any sprawl on thy side of the
family, and never will be!"
"Where is this beautiful city, Aunt--this
place where Mr. Phillotson is gone to?" asked the boy, after meditatin=
g in
silence.
"Lord! you ought to know where the city of
Christminster is. Near a score of =
miles
from here. It is a place much too =
good
for you ever to have much to do with, poor boy, I'm a-thinking."
"And will Mr. Phillotson always be
there?"
"How can I tell?"
"Could I go to see him?"
"Lord, no!
You didn't grow up hereabout, or you wouldn't ask such as that. We've never had anything to do with fol=
k in
Christminster, nor folk in Christminster with we."
Jude went out, and, feeling more than ever his
existence to be an undemanded one, he lay down upon his back on a heap of
litter near the pig-sty. The fog h=
ad by
this time become more translucent, and the position of the sun could be seen
through it. He pulled his straw ha=
t over
his face, and peered through the interstices of the plaiting at the white
brightness, vaguely reflecting. Gr=
owing
up brought responsibilities, he found.
Events did not rhyme quite as he had thought. Nature's logic was too horrid for him t=
o care
for. That mercy towards one set of creatures was cruelty towards another si=
ckened
his sense of harmony. As you got o=
lder,
and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in i=
ts circumference,
as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of
shuddering, he perceived. All arou=
nd you
there seemed to be something glaring, garish, rattling, and the noises and
glares hit upon the little cell called your life, and shook it, and warped =
it.
If he could only prevent himself growing up! He did not want to be a man.
Then, like the natural boy, he forgot his
despondency, and sprang up. During the remainder of the morning he helped h=
is
aunt, and in the afternoon, when there was nothing more to be done, he went
into the village. Here he asked a =
man
whereabouts Christminster lay.
"Christminster? Oh, well, out by there yonder; though I=
've
never bin there--not I. I've never=
had
any business at such a place."
The man pointed north-eastward, in the very
direction where lay that field in which Jude had so disgraced himself. There was something unpleasant about the
coincidence for the moment, but the fearsomeness of this fact rather increa=
sed
his curiosity about the city. The =
farmer
had said he was never to be seen in that field again; yet Christminster lay
across it, and the path was a public one.
So, stealing out of the hamlet, he descended into the same hollow wh=
ich had
witnessed his punishment in the morning, never swerving an inch from the pa=
th,
and climbing up the long and tedious ascent on the other side till the track
joined the highway by a little clump of trees.
Here the ploughed land ended, and all before him was bleak open down=
.
Not a=
soul
was visible on the hedgeless highway, or on either side of it, and the white
road seemed to ascend and diminish till it joined the sky. At the very top it was crossed at right
angles by a green "ridgeway"--the Ickneild Street and original Ro=
man
road through the district. This an=
cient
track ran east and west for many miles, and down almost to within living me=
mory
had been used for driving flocks and herds to fairs and markets. But it was now neglected and overgrown.=
The boy had never before strayed so far north =
as
this from the nestling hamlet in which he had been deposited by the carrier
from a railway station southward, one dark evening some few months earlier,=
and
till now he had had no suspicion that such a wide, flat, low-lying country =
lay
so near at hand, under the very verge of his upland world. The whole northern semicircle between e=
ast
and west, to a distance of forty or fifty miles, spread itself before him; =
a bluer,
moister atmosphere, evidently, than that he breathed up here.
Not far from the road stood a weather-beaten o=
ld
barn of reddish-grey brick and tile. It
was known as the Brown House by the people of the locality. He was about to pass it when he perceiv=
ed a
ladder against the eaves; and the reflection that the higher he got, the
further he could see, led Jude to stand and regard it. On the slope of the roof two men were
repairing the tiling. He turned in=
to the
ridgeway and drew towards the barn.
When he had wistfully watched the workmen for =
some
time he took courage, and ascended the ladder till he stood beside them.
"Well, my lad, and what may you want up h=
ere?"
"I wanted to know where the city of
Christminster is, if you please."
"Christminster is out across there, by th=
at
clump. You can see it--at least yo=
u can
on a clear day. Ah, no, you can't
now."
The other tiler, glad of any kind of diversion
from the monotony of his labour, had also turned to look towards the quarter
designated. "You can't often see it in weather like this," he
said. "The time I've noticed =
it is
when the sun is going down in a blaze of flame, and it looks like--I don't =
know
what."
"The heavenly Jerusalem," suggested =
the
serious urchin.
"Ay--though I should never ha' thought of=
it
myself.... But I can't see no Christminster to-day."
The boy strained his eyes also; yet neither co=
uld
he see the far-off city. He descen=
ded
from the barn, and abandoning Christminster with the versatility of his age=
he
walked along the ridge-track, looking for any natural objects of interest t=
hat
might lie in the banks thereabout. When
he repassed the barn to go back to Marygreen he observed that the ladder was
still in its place, but that the men had finished their day's work and gone
away.
It was waning towards evening; there was still=
a
faint mist, but it had cleared a little except in the damper tracts of
subjacent country and along the river-courses.
He thought again of Christminster, and wished, since he had come two=
or
three miles from his aunt's house on purpose, that he could have seen for o=
nce
this attractive city of which he had been told.
But even if he waited here it was hardly likely that the air would c=
lear
before night. Yet he was loth to l=
eave
the spot, for the northern expanse became lost to view on retreating towards
the village only a few hundred yards.
He ascended the ladder to have one more look at the point the men had designated, and perched himself on the highest rung, overlying the tiles. He might not = be able to come so far as this for many days. Perhaps if he prayed, the wish to see Christminster might be forward= ed. People said that, if you prayed, things sometimes came to you, even though they sometimes did not. He had read in a tract that a man who h= ad begun to build a church, and had no money to finish it, knelt down and pray= ed, and the money came in by the next post. Another man tried the same experime= nt, and the money did not come; but he found afterwards that the breeches he kn= elt in were made by a wicked Jew. This= was not discouraging, and turning on the ladder Jude knelt on the third rung, where, resting against those above it, he prayed that the mist might rise.<= o:p>
He then seated himself again, and waited. In the course of ten or fifteen minutes=
the
thinning mist dissolved altogether from the northern horizon, as it had alr=
eady
done elsewhere, and about a quarter of an hour before the time of sunset the
westward clouds parted, the sun's position being partially uncovered, and t=
he
beams streaming out in visible lines between two bars of slaty cloud. The boy immediately looked back in the =
old
direction.
Some way within the limits of the stretch of
landscape, points of light like the topaz gleamed. The air increased in transparency with =
the
lapse of minutes, till the topaz points showed themselves to be the vanes,
windows, wet roof slates, and other shining spots upon the spires, domes,
freestone-work, and varied outlines that were faintly revealed. It was Christminster, unquestionably; e=
ither
directly seen, or miraged in the peculiar atmosphere.
The spectator gazed on and on till the windows=
and
vanes lost their shine, going out almost suddenly like extinguished candles=
. The vague city became veiled in mist. Turning to the west, he saw that the su=
n had
disappeared. The foreground of the=
scene
had grown funereally dark, and near objects put on the hues and shapes of c=
himaeras.
He anxiously descended the ladder, and started
homewards at a run, trying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, Apolly=
on
lying in wait for Christian, or of the captain with the bleeding hole in hi=
s forehead
and the corpses round him that remutinied every night on board the bewitched
ship. He knew that he had grown ou=
t of
belief in these horrors, yet he was glad when he saw the church tower and t=
he lights
in the cottage windows, even though this was not the home of his birth, and=
his
great-aunt did not care much about him.
Inside and round about that old woman's
"shop" window, with its twenty-four little panes set in lead-work,
the glass of some of them oxidized with age, so that you could hardly see t=
he
poor penny articles exhibited within, and forming part of a stock which a
strong man could have carried, Jude had his outer being for some long tidel=
ess
time. But his dreams were as gigan=
tic as
his surroundings were small.
Through the solid barrier of cold cretaceous
upland to the northward he was always beholding a gorgeous city--the fancied
place he had likened to the new Jerusalem, though there was perhaps more of=
the
painter's imagination and less of the diamond merchant's in his dreams ther=
eof
than in those of the Apocalyptic writer.
And the city acquired a tangibility, a permanence, a hold on his lif=
e,
mainly from the one nucleus of fact that the man for whose knowledge and
purposes he had so much reverence was actually living there; not only so, b=
ut living
among the more thoughtful and mentally shining ones therein.
In sad wet seasons, though he knew it must rai=
n at
Christminster too, he could hardly believe that it rained so drearily
there. Whenever he could get away =
from
the confines of the hamlet for an hour or two, which was not often, he would
steal off to the Brown House on the hill and strain his eyes persistently;
sometimes to be rewarded by the sight of a dome or spire, at other times by=
a
little smoke, which in his estimate had some of the mysticism of incense.
Then the day came when it suddenly occurred to=
him
that if he ascended to the point of view after dark, or possibly went a mil=
e or
two further, he would see the night lights of the city. It would be necessary to come back alon=
e, but
even that consideration did not deter him, for he could throw a little manl=
iness
into his mood, no doubt.
The project was duly executed. It was not late when he arrived at the =
place
of outlook, only just after dusk, but a black north-east sky, accompanied b=
y a
wind from the same quarter, made the occasion dark enough. He was rewarded; but what he saw was no=
t the
lamps in rows, as he had half expected.
No individual light was visible, only a halo or glow-fog over-arching
the place against the black heavens behind it, making the light and the city
seem distant but a mile or so.
He set himself to wonder on the exact point in=
the
glow where the schoolmaster might be--he who never communicated with anybod=
y at
Marygreen now; who was as if dead to them here.
In the glow he seemed to see Phillotson promenading at ease, like on=
e of
the forms in Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.
He had heard that breezes travelled at the rat=
e of
ten miles an hour, and the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the
north-east, and drew in the wind as if it were a sweet liquor.
"You," he said, addressing the breeze
caressingly "were in Christminster city between one and two hours ago,
floating along the streets, pulling round the weather-cocks, touching Mr.
Phillotson's face, being breathed by him; and now you are here, breathed by=
me--you,
the very same."
Suddenly there came along this wind something
towards him--a message from the place--from some soul residing there, it
seemed. Surely it was the sound of
bells, the voice of the city, faint and musical, calling to him, "We a=
re
happy here!"
He had become entirely lost to his bodily
situation during this mental leap, and only got back to it by a rough
recalling. A few yards below the b=
row of
the hill on which he paused a team of horses made its appearance, having
reached the place by dint of half an hour's serpentine progress from the bo=
ttom
of the immense declivity. They had a load of coals behind them--a fuel that
could only be got into the upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a se=
cond
man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of the wheels, and
allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while those in charge took=
a
flagon off the load and indulged in a drink round.
They were elderly men, and had genial voices.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jude addressed them, inquiring if they =
had
come from Christminster.
"Heaven forbid, with this load!" said
they.
"The place I mean is that one
yonder." He was getting so ro=
mantically
attached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his mistress=
, he
felt bashful at mentioning its name again.
He pointed to the light in the sky--hardly perceptible to their older
eyes.
"Yes.
There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the nor'-east than elsewhere,
though I shouldn't ha' noticed it myself, and no doubt it med be Christmins=
ter."
Here a little book of tales which Jude had tuc=
ked
up under his arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it g=
rew
dark, slipped and fell into the road.
The carter eyed him while he picked it up and straightened the leave=
s.
"Ah, young man," he observed,
"you'd have to get your head screwed on t'other way before you could r=
ead
what they read there."
"Why?" asked the boy.
"Oh, they never look at anything that fol=
ks
like we can understand," the carter continued, by way of passing the t=
ime. "On'y foreign tongues used in the =
days
of the Tower of Babel, when no two families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as=
a
night-hawk will whir. 'Tis all lea=
rning
there--nothing but learning, except religion.
And that's learning too, for I never could understand it. Yes, 'tis a
serious-minded place. Not but ther=
e's
wenches in the streets o' nights... You
know, I suppose, that they raise pa'sons there like radishes in a bed? And though it do take--how many years, =
Bob?--five
years to turn a lirruping hobble-de-hoy chap into a solemn preaching man wi=
th
no corrupt passions, they'll do it, if it can be done, and polish un off li=
ke
the workmen they be, and turn un out wi' a long face, and a long black coat=
and
waistcoat, and a religious collar and hat, same as they used to wear in the
Scriptures, so that his own mother wouldn't know un sometimes.... There, 'tis their business, like anybody
else's."
"But how should you know"
"Now don't you interrupt, my boy. Never interrupt your senyers. Move the =
fore
hoss aside, Bobby; here's som'at coming...
You must mind that I be a-talking of the college life. 'Em lives on a lofty level; there's no
gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of 'em. As we be here in our bodies on this hig=
h ground,
so be they in their minds--noble-minded men enough, no doubt--some on 'em--=
able
to earn hundreds by thinking out loud.
And some on 'em be strong young fellows that can earn a'most as much=
in
silver cups. As for music, there's
beautiful music everywhere in Christminster.
You med be religious, or you med not, but you can't help striking in
your homely note with the rest. And
there's a street in the place--the main street--that ha'n't another like it=
in
the world. I should think I did kn=
ow a
little about Christminster!"
By this time the horses had recovered breath a=
nd
bent to their collars again. Jude,
throwing a last adoring look at the distant halo, turned and walked beside =
his
remarkably well-informed friend, who had no objection to telling him as they
moved on more yet of the city--its towers and halls and churches. The waggon turned into a cross-road,
whereupon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said he o=
nly
wished he could talk half as well about Christminster as he.
"Well, 'tis oonly what has come in my
way," said the carter unboastfully.
"I've never been there, no more than you; but I've picked up the
knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-getting about the wor=
ld
as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one can't help hearing of
things. A friend o' mine, that use=
d to
clane the boots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was in his pr=
ime,
why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years."
Jude continued his walk homeward alone, ponder=
ing
so deeply that he forgot to feel timid.
He suddenly grew older. It =
had
been the yearning of his heart to find something to anchor on, to cling to-=
-for
some place which he could call admirable.
Should he find that place in this city if he could get there? Would =
it
be a spot in which, without fear of farmers, or hindrance, or ridicule, he
could watch and wait, and set himself to some mighty undertaking like the m=
en
of old of whom he had heard? As th=
e halo
had been to his eyes when gazing at it a quarter of an hour earlier, so was=
the
spot mentally to him as he pursued his dark way.
"It is a city of light," he said to
himself.
"The tree of knowledge grows there,"=
he
added a few steps further on.
"It is a place that teachers of men spring
from and go to."
"It is what you may call a castle, manned=
by
scholarship and religion."
After this figure he was silent a long while, =
till
he added:
"It would just suit me."
Walki=
ng
somewhat slowly by reason of his concentration, the boy--an ancient man in =
some
phases of thought, much younger than his years in others--was overtaken by a
light-footed pedestrian, whom, notwithstanding the gloom, he could perceive=
to
be wearing an extraordinarily tall hat, a swallow-tailed coat, and a
watch-chain that danced madly and threw around scintillations of sky-light =
as its
owner swung along upon a pair of thin legs and noiseless boots. Jude, begin=
ning
to feel lonely, endeavoured to keep up with him.
"Well, my man! I'm in a hurry, so you'll have to walk =
pretty
fast if you keep alongside of me. =
Do you
know who I am?"
"Yes, I think. Physician Vilbert?"
"Ah--I'm known everywhere, I see! That comes of being a public benefactor=
."
Vilbert was an itinerant quack-doctor, well kn=
own
to the rustic population, and absolutely unknown to anybody else, as he,
indeed, took care to be, to avoid inconvenient investigations. Cottagers formed his only patients, and=
his
Wessex-wide repute was among them alone.
His position was humbler and his field more obscure than those of the
quacks with capital and an organized system of advertising. He was, in fact, a survival. The distances he traversed on foot were
enormous, and extended nearly the whole length and breadth of Wessex. Jude had one day seen him selling a pot=
of coloured
lard to an old woman as a certain cure for a bad leg, the woman arranging to
pay a guinea, in instalments of a shilling a fortnight, for the precious sa=
lve,
which, according to the physician, could only be obtained from a particular
animal which grazed on Mount Sinai, and was to be captured only at great ri=
sk
to life and limb. Jude, though he
already had his doubts about this gentleman's medicines, felt him to be
unquestionably a travelled personage, and one who might be a trustworthy so=
urce
of information on matters not strictly professional.
"I s'pose you've been to Christminster,
Physician?"
"I have--many times," replied the lo=
ng
thin man. "That's one of my c=
entres."
"It's a wonderful city for scholarship and
religion?"
"You'd say so, my boy, if you'd seen it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Why, the very sons of the old women who=
do
the washing of the colleges can talk in Latin--not good Latin, that I admit=
, as
a critic: dog-Latin--cat-Latin, as we used to call it in my undergraduate
days."
"And Greek?"
"Well--that's more for the men who are in
training for bishops, that they may be able to read the New Testament in the
original."
"I want to learn Latin and Greek
myself."
"A lofty desire. You must get a grammar of each tongue.&=
quot;
"I mean to go to Christminster some
day."
"Whenever you do, you say that Physician
Vilbert is the only proprietor of those celebrated pills that infallibly cu=
re
all disorders of the alimentary system, as well as asthma and shortness of
breath. Two and threepence a
box--specially licensed by the government stamp."
"Can you get me the grammars if I promise=
to
say it hereabout?"
"I'll sell you mine with pleasure--those I
used as a student."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Jude
gratefully, but in gasps, for the amazing speed of the physician's walk kep=
t him
in a dog-trot which was giving him a stitch in the side.
"I think you'd better drop behind, my you=
ng
man. Now I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll get you the grammars, and=
give
you a first lesson, if you'll remember, at every house in the village, to r=
ecommend
Physician Vilbert's golden ointment, life-drops, and female pills."
"Where will you be with the grammars?&quo=
t;
"I shall be passing here this day fortnig=
ht
at precisely this hour of five-and-twenty minutes past seven. My movements are as truly timed as thos=
e of
the planets in their courses."
"Here I'll be to meet you," said Jud=
e.
"With orders for my medicines?"
"Yes, Physician."
Jude then dropped behind, waited a few minutes=
to
recover breath, and went home with a consciousness of having struck a blow =
for Christminster.
Through the intervening fortnight he ran about=
and
smiled outwardly at his inward thoughts, as if they were people meeting and
nodding to him--smiled with that singularly beautiful irradiation which is =
seen
to spread on young faces at the inception of some glorious idea, as if a
supernatural lamp were held inside their transparent natures, giving rise to
the flattering fancy that heaven lies about them then.
He honestly performed his promise to the man of
many cures, in whom he now sincerely believed, walking miles hither and thi=
ther
among the surrounding hamlets as the Physician's agent in advance. On the evening appointed he stood motio=
nless
on the plateau, at the place where he had parted from Vilbert, and there
awaited his approach. The road-physician was fairly up to time; but, to the
surprise of Jude on striking into his pace, which the pedestrian did not
diminish by a single unit of force, the latter seemed hardly to recognize h=
is young
companion, though with the lapse of the fortnight the evenings had grown
light. Jude thought it might perha=
ps be
owing to his wearing another hat, and he saluted the physician with dignity=
.
"Well, my boy?" said the latter
abstractedly.
"I've come," said Jude.
"You? who are you? Oh yes--to be sure! Got any orders, lad?"
"Yes."
And Jude told him the names and addresses of the cottagers who were
willing to test the virtues of the world-renowned pills and salve. The quack mentally registered these with
great care.
"And the Latin and Greek grammars?"<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jude's voice trembled with anxiety.
"What about them?"
"You were to bring me yours, that you used
before you took your degree."
"Ah, yes, yes! Forgot all about it--all! So many lives depending on my attention=
, you
see, my man, that I can't give so much thought as I would like to other
things."
Jude controlled himself sufficiently long to m=
ake
sure of the truth; and he repeated, in a voice of dry misery, "You hav=
en't
brought 'em!"
"No. But you must get me some more orders
from sick people, and I'll bring the grammars next time."
Jude dropped behind. He was an unsophisticated boy, but the =
gift
of sudden insight which is sometimes vouchsafed to children showed him all =
at
once what shoddy humanity the quack was made of. There was to be no intellectual light f=
rom
this source. The leaves dropped fr=
om his
imaginary crown of laurel; he turned to a gate, leant against it, and cried
bitterly.
The disappointment was followed by an interval=
of
blankness. He might, perhaps, have
obtained grammars from Alfredston, but to do that required money, and a
knowledge of what books to order; and though physically comfortable, he was=
in
such absolute dependence as to be without a farthing of his own.
At this date Mr. Phillotson sent for his
pianoforte, and it gave Jude a lead. Why
should he not write to the schoolmaster, and ask him to be so kind as to get
him the grammars in Christminster? He
might slip a letter inside the case of the instrument, and it would be sure=
to
reach the desired eyes. Why not as=
k him
to send any old second-hand copies, which would have the charm of being
mellowed by the university atmosphere?
To tell his aunt of his intention would be to
defeat it. It was necessary to act
alone.
After a further consideration of a few days he= did act, and on the day of the piano's departure, which happened to be his next birthday, clandestinely placed the letter inside the packing-case, directed= to his much-admired friend, being afraid to reveal the operation to his aunt Drusi= lla, lest she should discover his motive, and compel him to abandon his scheme.<= o:p>
The piano was despatched, and Jude waited days=
and
weeks, calling every morning at the cottage post office before his great-au=
nt
was stirring. At last a packet did
indeed arrive at the village, and he saw from the ends of it that it contai=
ned
two thin books. He took it away in=
to a
lonely place, and sat down on a felled elm to open it.
Ever since his first ecstasy or vision of
Christminster and its possibilities, Jude had meditated much and curiously =
on
the probable sort of process that was involved in turning the expressions of
one language into those of another. He
concluded that a grammar of the required tongue would contain, primarily, a
rule, prescription, or clue of the nature of a secret cipher, which, once
known, would enable him, by merely applying it, to change at will all words=
of
his own speech into those of the foreign one.
His childish idea was, in fact, a pushing to the extremity of
mathematical precision what is everywhere known as Grimm's Law--an
aggrandizement of rough rules to ideal completeness. Thus he assumed that the words of the
required language were always to be found somewhere latent in the words of =
the given
language by those who had the art to uncover them, such art being furnished=
by
the books aforesaid.
When, therefore, having noted that the packet =
bore
the postmark of Christminster, he cut the string, opened the volumes, and
turned to the Latin grammar, which chanced to come uppermost, he could scar=
cely
believe his eyes.
The book was an old one--thirty years old, soi=
led,
scribbled wantonly over with a strange name in every variety of enmity to t=
he letterpress,
and marked at random with dates twenty years earlier than his own day. But this was not the cause of Jude's
amazement. He learnt for the first time that there was no law of transmutat=
ion,
as in his innocence he had supposed (there was, in some degree, but the
grammarian did not recognize it), but that every word in both Latin and Gre=
ek
was to be individually committed to memory at the cost of years of plodding=
.
Jude flung down the books, lay backward along =
the
broad trunk of the elm, and was an utterly miserable boy for the space of a
quarter of an hour. As he had ofte=
n done
before, he pulled his hat over his face and watched the sun peering insidio=
usly
at him through the interstices of the straw.
This was Latin and Greek, then, was it this grand delusion! The charm he had supposed in store for =
him
was really a labour like that of Israel in Egypt.
What brains they must have in Christminster and
the great schools, he presently thought, to learn words one by one up to te=
ns
of thousands! There were no brains in his head equal to this business; and =
as
the little sun-rays continued to stream in through his hat at him, he wishe=
d he
had never seen a book, that he might never see another, that he had never b=
een
born.
Somebody might have come along that way who wo=
uld
have asked him his trouble, and might have cheered him by saying that his
notions were further advanced than those of his grammarian. But nobody did come, because nobody doe=
s; and
under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish
himself out of the world.
Durin=
g the
three or four succeeding years a quaint and singular vehicle might have been
discerned moving along the lanes and by-roads near Marygreen, driven in a
quaint and singular way.
In the course of a month or two after the rece=
ipt
of the books Jude had grown callous to the shabby trick played him by the d=
ead languages. In fact, his disappointment at the natu=
re of
those tongues had, after a while, been the means of still further glorifying
the erudition of Christminster. To
acquire languages, departed or living in spite of such obstinacies as he now
knew them inherently to possess, was a herculean performance which graduall=
y led
him on to a greater interest in it than in the presupposed patent process.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The mountain-weight of material under w=
hich
the ideas lay in those dusty volumes called the classics piqued him into a
dogged, mouselike subtlety of attempt to move it piecemeal.
He had endeavoured to make his presence tolera=
ble
to his crusty maiden aunt by assisting her to the best of his ability, and =
the business
of the little cottage bakery had grown in consequence. An aged horse with a hanging head had b=
een
purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a creaking cart with a whity-brown ti=
lt
obtained for a few pounds more, and in this turn-out it became Jude's busin=
ess
thrice a week to carry loaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotter=
s immediately
round Marygreen.
The singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less=
in
the conveyance itself than in Jude's manner of conducting it along its rout=
e. Its
interior was the scene of most of Jude's education by "private study.&=
quot; As soon as the horse had learnt the roa=
d and
the houses at which he was to pause awhile, the boy, seated in front, would=
slip
the reins over his arm, ingeniously fix open, by means of a strap attached =
to
the tilt, the volume he was reading, spread the dictionary on his knees, and
plunge into the simpler passages from Caesar, Virgil, or Horace, as the case
might be, in his purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure of labour =
that
would have made a tender-hearted pedagogue shed tears; yet somehow getting =
at
the meaning of what he read, and divining rather than beholding the spirit =
of
the original, which often to his mind was something else than that which he=
was
taught to look for.
The only copies he had been able to lay hands =
on
were old Delphin editions, because they were superseded, and therefore
cheap. But, bad for idle schoolboy=
s, it
did so happen that they were passably good for him. The hampered and lonely itinerant
conscientiously covered up the marginal readings, and used them merely on p=
oints
of construction, as he would have used a comrade or tutor who should have
happened to be passing by. And tho=
ugh
Jude may have had little chance of becoming a scholar by these rough and re=
ady
means, he was in the way of getting into the groove he wished to follow.
While he was busied with these ancient pages,
which had already been thumbed by hands possibly in the grave, digging out =
the
thoughts of these minds so remote yet so near, the bony old horse pursued h=
is
rounds, and Jude would be aroused from the woes of Dido by the stoppage of =
his
cart and the voice of some old woman crying, "Two to-day, baker, and I
return this stale one."
He was frequently met in the lanes by pedestri=
ans
and others without his seeing them, and by degrees the people of the
neighbourhood began to talk about his method of combining work and play (su=
ch
they considered his reading to be), which, though probably convenient enoug=
h to
himself, was not altogether a safe proceeding for other travellers along the
same roads. There were murmurs.
As Jude had to get up at three o'clock in the
morning to heat the oven, and mix and set in the bread that he distributed
later in the day, he was obliged to go to bed at night immediately after la=
ying
the sponge; so that if he could not read his classics on the highways he co=
uld
hardly study at all. The only thin=
g to
be done was, therefore, to keep a sharp eye ahead and around him as well as=
he could
in the circumstances, and slip away his books as soon as anybody loomed in =
the
distance, the policeman in particular.
To do that official justice, he did not put himself much in the way =
of Jude's
bread-cart, considering that in such a lonely district the chief danger was=
to
Jude himself, and often on seeing the white tilt over the hedges he would m=
ove
in another direction.
On a day when Fawley was getting quite advance=
d,
being now about sixteen, and had been stumbling through the "Carmen
Sæculare," on his way home, he found himself to be passing over the hi=
gh
edge of the plateau by the Brown House.
The light had changed, and it was the sense of this which had caused=
him
to look up. The sun was going down=
, and
the full moon was rising simultaneously behind the woods in the opposite
quarter. His mind had become so
impregnated with the poem that, in a moment of the same impulsive emotion w=
hich
years before had caused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, a=
lighted,
and glancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt down on the roads=
ide
bank with open book. He turned fir=
st to
the shiny goddess, who seemed to look so softly and critically at his doing=
s,
then to the disappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began:
"=
;Phoebe
silvarumque potens Diana!"
The h=
orse
stood still till he had finished the hymn, which Jude repeated under the sw=
ay
of a polytheistic fancy that he would never have thought of humouring in br=
oad
daylight.
Reaching home, he mused over his curious
superstition, innate or acquired, in doing this, and the strange forgetfuln=
ess
which had led to such a lapse from common sense and custom in one who wishe=
d,
next to being a scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of reading heathen works
exclusively. The more he thought o=
f it
the more convinced he was of his inconsistency.
He began to wonder whether he could be reading quite the right books=
for
his object in life. Certainly there
seemed little harmony between this pagan literature and the mediæval colleg=
es
at Christminster, that ecclesiastical romance in stone.
Ultimately he decided that in his sheer love of reading he had taken up a wrong emotion for a Christian young man. He had dabbled in Clarke's Homer, but h= ad never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek, though he possesse= d a copy, obtained by post from a second-hand bookseller. He abandoned the now familiar Ionic for= a new dialect, and for a long time onward limited his reading almost entirely to = the Gospels and Epistles in Griesbach's text. Moreover, on going into Alfredston one day, he was introduced to patristic literature by finding at the bookseller's some volumes of the Fat= hers which had been left behind by an insolvent clergyman of the neighbourhood.<= o:p>
As another outcome of this change of groove he
visited on Sundays all the churches within a walk, and deciphered the Latin
inscriptions on fifteenth-century brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met with=
a
hunch-backed old woman of great intelligence, who read everything she could=
lay
her hands on, and she told him more yet of the romantic charms of the city =
of
light and lore. Thither he resolve=
d as
firmly as ever to go.
But how live in that city? At present he had no income at all. He had no trade or calling of any digni=
ty or
stability whatever on which he could subsist while carrying out an intellec=
tual
labour which might spread over many years.
What was most required by citizens? Food, clothing, and shelter. An income =
from
any work in preparing the first would be too meagre; for making the second =
he
felt a distaste; the preparation of the third requisite he inclined to. They built in a city; therefore he would
learn to build. He thought of his
unknown uncle, his cousin Susanna's father, an ecclesiastical worker in met=
al,
and somehow mediæval art in any material was a trade for which he had rathe=
r a fancy. He could not go far wrong in following =
his
uncle's footsteps, and engaging himself awhile with the carcases that conta=
ined
the scholar souls.
As a preliminary he obtained some small blocks=
of
freestone, metal not being available, and suspending his studies awhile,
occupied his spare half-hours in copying the heads and capitals in his pari=
sh church.
There was a stone-mason of a humble kind in
Alfredston, and as soon as he had found a substitute for himself in his aun=
t's
little business, he offered his services to this man for a trifling wage. H=
ere
Jude had the opportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone-wo=
rking. Some time later he went to a church-bui=
lder
in the same place, and under the architect's direction became handy at rest=
oring
the dilapidated masonries of several village churches round about.
Not forgetting that he was only following up t=
his
handicraft as a prop to lean on while he prepared those greater engines whi=
ch he
flattered himself would be better fitted for him, he yet was interested in =
his
pursuit on its own account. He now=
had
lodgings during the week in the little town, whence he returned to Marygree=
n village
every Saturday evening. And thus he
reached and passed his nineteenth year.
At th=
is
memorable date of his life he was, one Saturday, returning from Alfredston =
to
Marygreen about three o'clock in the afternoon. It was fine, warm, and soft
summer weather, and he walked with his tools at his back, his little chisels
clinking faintly against the larger ones in his basket. It being the end of the week he had lef=
t work
early, and had come out of the town by a round-about route which he did not
usually frequent, having promised to call at a flour-mill near Cresscombe to
execute a commission for his aunt.
He was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living comf=
ortably
in Christminster in the course of a year or two, and knocking at the doors =
of
one of those strongholds of learning of which he had dreamed so much. He might, of course, have gone there no=
w, in
some capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a little mo=
re
assurance as to means than he could be said to feel at present. A warm self-content suffused him when he
considered what he had already done. Now
and then as he went along he turned to face the peeps of country on either =
side
of him. But he hardly saw them; th=
e act
was an automatic repetition of what he had been accustomed to do when less
occupied; and the one matter which really engaged him was the mental estima=
te
of his progress thus far.
"I have acquired quite an average student=
's
power to read the common ancient classics, Latin in particular." This was true, Jude possessing a facili=
ty in
that language which enabled him with great ease to himself to beguile his
lonely walks by imaginary conversations therein.
"I have read two books of the Iliad, besi=
des
being pretty familiar with passages such as the speech of Phoenix in the ni=
nth
book, the fight of Hector and Ajax in the fourteenth, the appearance of Ach=
illes
unarmed and his heavenly armour in the eighteenth, and the funeral games in=
the
twenty-third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap of Thucydides, a=
nd a
lot of the Greek Testament... I wi=
sh
there was only one dialect all the same.
"I have done some mathematics, including =
the
first six and the eleventh and twelfth books of Euclid; and algebra as far =
as
simple equations.
"I know something of the Fathers, and
something of Roman and English history.
"These things are only a beginning. But I shall not make much farther advan=
ce
here, from the difficulty of getting books.
Hence I must next concentrate all my energies on settling in
Christminster. Once there I shall so advance, with the assistance I shall t=
here
get, that my present knowledge will appear to me but as childish ignorance.=
I must save money, and I will; and one =
of
those colleges shall open its doors to me--shall welcome whom now it would
spurn, if I wait twenty years for the welcome.
"I'll be D.D. before I have done!"
And then he continued to dream, and thought he
might become even a bishop by leading a pure, energetic, wise, Christian
life. And what an example he would
set! If his income were £5000 a ye=
ar, he
would give away £4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for hi=
m)
on the remainder. Well, on second
thoughts, a bishop was absurd. He =
would
draw the line at an archdeacon. Pe=
rhaps
a man could be as good and as learned and as useful in the capacity of arch=
deacon
as in that of bishop. Yet he thoug=
ht of
the bishop again.
"Meanwhile I will read, as soon as I am
settled in Christminster, the books I have not been able to get hold of her=
e:
Livy, Tacitus, Herodotus, Æschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes--"
"Ha, ha, ha!
Hoity-toity!" The soun=
ds
were expressed in light voices on the other side of the hedge, but he did n=
ot
notice them. His thoughts went on:
"--Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, Lucretius,
Epictetus, Seneca, Antoninus. Then=
I
must master other things: the Fathers thoroughly; Bede and ecclesiastical
history generally; a smattering of Hebrew--I only know the letters as
yet--"
"Hoity-toity!"
"--but I can work hard. I have staying power in abundance, than=
k God!
and it is that which tells.... Yes, Christminster shall be my Alma Mater; a=
nd
I'll be her beloved son, in whom she shall be well pleased."
In his deep concentration on these transaction=
s of
the future Jude's walk had slackened, and he was now standing quite still,
looking at the ground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic l=
antern. On a sudden something smacked him sharp=
ly in
the ear, and he became aware that a soft cold substance had been flung at h=
im,
and had fallen at his feet.
A glance told him what it was--a piece of fles=
h,
the characteristic part of a barrow-pig, which the countrymen used for grea=
sing
their boots, as it was useless for any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful hereabout, b=
eing
bred and fattened in large numbers in certain parts of North Wessex.
On the other side of the hedge was a stream,
whence, as he now for the first time realized, had come the slight sounds of
voices and laughter that had mingled with his dreams. He mounted the bank and looked over the
fence. On the further side of the =
stream
stood a small homestead, having a garden and pig-sties attached; in front o=
f it,
beside the brook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and platters
beside them containing heaps of pigs' chitterlings, which they were washing=
in
the running water. One or two pair=
s of eyes
slyly glanced up, and perceiving that his attention had at last been attrac=
ted,
and that he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspection by put=
ting
their mouths demurely into shape and recommencing their rinsing operations =
with
assiduity.
"Thank you!" said Jude severely.
"I DIDN'T throw it, I tell you!"
asserted one girl to her neighbour, as if unconscious of the young man's
presence.
"Nor I," the second answered.
"Oh, Anny, how can you!" said the th=
ird.
"If I had thrown anything at all, it
shouldn't have been THAT!"
"Pooh!
I don't care for him!" And
they laughed and continued their work, without looking up, still ostentatio=
usly
accusing each other.
Jude grew sarcastic as he wiped his face, and
caught their remarks.
"YOU didn't do it--oh no!" he said to
the up-stream one of the three.
She whom he addressed was a fine dark-eyed gir=
l,
not exactly handsome, but capable of passing as such at a little distance, =
despite
some coarseness of skin and fibre. She
had a round and prominent bosom, full lips, perfect teeth, and the rich
complexion of a Cochin hen's egg. =
She
was a complete and substantial female animal--no more, no less; and Jude was
almost certain that to her was attributable the enterprise of attracting his
attention from dreams of the humaner letters to what was simmering in the m=
inds
around him.
"That you'll never be told," said she
deedily.
"Whoever did it was wasteful of other peo=
ple's
property."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"But you want to speak to me, I
suppose?"
"Oh yes; if you like to."
"Shall I clamber across, or will you come=
to
the plank above here?"
Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for someho=
w or
other the eyes of the brown girl rested in his own when he had said the wor=
ds,
and there was a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb announcement of aff=
inity
in posse between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was concerne=
d,
had no sort of premeditation in it. She
saw that he had singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in
such cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in commonp=
lace
obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously received by
unfortunate men when the last intention of their lives is to be occupied wi=
th
the feminine.
Springing to her feet, she said: "Bring b=
ack
what is lying there."
Jude was now aware that no message on any matt=
er
connected with her father's business had prompted her signal to him. He set down his basket of tools, picked=
up
the scrap of offal, beat a pathway for himself with his stick, and got over=
the
hedge. They walked in parallel lin=
es,
one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge. As the girl drew nearer to it, she gave
without Jude perceiving it, an adroit little suck to the interior of each of
her cheeks in succession, by which curious and original manoeuvre she broug=
ht
as by magic upon its smooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she =
was
able to retain there as long as she continued to smile. This production of dimples at will was =
a not
unknown operation, which many attempted, but only a few succeeded in accomp=
lishing.
They met in the middle of the plank, and Jude, tossing back her missile, seemed to expect her to explain why she had audaciously stopped him by this novel artillery instead of by hailing him.<= o:p>
But she, slyly looking in another direction,
swayed herself backwards and forwards on her hand as it clutched the rail of
the bridge; till, moved by amatory curiosity, she turned her eyes critically
upon him.
"You don't think I would shy things at
you?"
"Oh no."
"We are doing this for my father, who
naturally doesn't want anything thrown away.
He makes that into dubbin."
She nodded towards the fragment on the grass.
"What made either of the others throw it,=
I
wonder?" Jude asked, politely accepting her assertion, though he had v=
ery
large doubts as to its truth.
"Impudence.
Don't tell folk it was I, mind!"
"How can I?
I don't know your name."
"Ah, no.
Shall I tell it to you?"
"Do!"
"Arabella Donn. I'm living here."
"I must have known it if I had often come
this way. But I mostly go straight=
along
the high-road."
"My father is a pig-breeder, and these gi=
rls
are helping me wash the innerds for black-puddings and such like."
They talked a little more and a little more, as
they stood regarding each other and leaning against the hand-rail of the
bridge. The unvoiced call of woman=
to
man, which was uttered very distinctly by Arabella's personality, held Jude=
to
the spot against his intention--almost against his will, and in a way new to
his experience. It is scarcely an
exaggeration to say that till this moment Jude had never looked at a woman =
to
consider her as such, but had vaguely regarded the sex as beings outside his
life and purposes. He gazed from her eyes to her mouth, thence to her bosom,
and to her full round naked arms, wet, mottled with the chill of the water,=
and
firm as marble.
"What a nice-looking girl you are!" =
he
murmured, though the words had not been necessary to express his sense of h=
er
magnetism.
"Ah, you should see me Sundays!" she
said piquantly.
"I don't suppose I could?" he answer=
ed
"That's for you to think on. There's nobody after me just now, though
there med be in a week or two." She
had spoken this without a smile, and the dimples disappeared.
Jude felt himself drifting strangely, but could
not help it. "Will you let
me?"
"I don't mind."
By this time she had managed to get back one
dimple by turning her face aside for a moment and repeating the odd little
sucking operation before mentioned, Jude being still unconscious of more th=
an a
general impression of her appearance.
"Next Sunday?" he hazarded. "To-morrow, that is?"=
;
"Yes."
"Shall I call?"
"Yes."
She brightened with a little glow of triumph,
swept him almost tenderly with her eyes in turning, and retracing her steps
down the brookside grass rejoined her companions.
Jude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and res=
umed
his lonely way, filled with an ardour at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just inhaled a single breath fro=
m a
new atmosphere, which had evidently been hanging round him everywhere he we=
nt,
for he knew not how long, but had somehow been divided from his actual
breathing as by a sheet of glass. =
The
intentions as to reading, working, and learning, which he had so precisely
formulated only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a curious collapse in=
to a
corner, he knew not how.
"Well, it's only a bit of fun," he s=
aid
to himself, faintly conscious that to common sense there was something lack=
ing,
and still more obviously something redundant in the nature of this girl who=
had
drawn him to her which made it necessary that he should assert mere sportiv=
eness
on his part as his reason in seeking her--something in her quite antipathet=
ic
to that side of him which had been occupied with literary study and the
magnificent Christminster dream. I=
t had been
no vestal who chose THAT missile for opening her attack on him. He saw this
with his intellectual eye, just for a short; fleeting while, as by the ligh=
t of
a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on a wall before be=
ing
enshrouded in darkness. And then t=
his
passing discriminative power was withdrawn, and Jude was lost to all condit=
ions
of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having found a
new channel for emotional interest hitherto unsuspected, though it had lain
close beside him. He was to meet t=
his
enkindling one of the other sex on the following Sunday.
Meanwhile the girl had joined her companions, =
and
she silently resumed her flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the
pellucid stream.
"Catched un, my dear?" laconically a=
sked
the girl called Anny.
"I don't know. I wish I had thrown something else than
that!" regretfully murmured Arabella.
"Lord! he's nobody, though you med think
so. He used to drive old Drusilla
Fawley's bread-cart out at Marygreen, till he 'prenticed himself at
Alfredston. Since then he's been v=
ery
stuck up, and always reading. He w=
ants
to be a scholar, they say."
"Oh, I don't care what he is, or anything
about 'n. Don't you think it, my
child!"
"Oh, don't ye! You needn't try to deceive us! What did you stay talking to him for, i=
f you
didn't want un? Whether you do or =
whether
you don't, he's as simple as a child. I
could see it as you courted on the bridge, when he looked at 'ee as if he h=
ad
never seen a woman before in his born days.
Well, he's to be had by any woman who can get him to care for her a =
bit,
if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way."
The n=
ext
day Jude Fawley was pausing in his bedroom with the sloping ceiling, lookin=
g at
the books on the table, and then at the black mark on the plaster above the=
m,
made by the smoke of his lamp in past months.
It was Sunday afternoon, four-and-twenty hours
after his meeting with Arabella Donn.
During the whole bygone week he had been resolving to set this after=
noon
apart for a special purpose,--the re-reading of his Greek Testament--his new
one, with better type than his old copy, following Griesbach's text as amen=
ded
by numerous correctors, and with variorum readings in the margin. He was proud of the book, having obtain=
ed it
by boldly writing to its London publisher, a thing he had never done before=
.
He had anticipated much pleasure in this
afternoon's reading, under the quiet roof of his great-aunt's house as
formerly, where he now slept only two nights a week. But a new thing, a great hitch, had hap=
pened
yesterday in the gliding and noiseless current of his life, and he felt as a
snake must feel who has sloughed off its winter skin, and cannot understand=
the
brightness and sensitiveness of its new one.
He would not go out to meet her, after all.
HÊ KAINÊ DIATHÊKÊ
Had he
promised to call for her? Surely he
had! She would wait indoors, poor =
girl,
and waste all her afternoon on account of him. There was a something in her,
too, which was very winning, apart from promises. He ought not to break faith with her. Even though he had only Sundays and wee=
k-day
evenings for reading he could afford one afternoon, seeing that other young=
men
afforded so many. After to-day he =
would
never probably see her again. Inde=
ed, it
would be impossible, considering what his plans were.
In short, as if materially, a compelling arm of
extraordinary muscular power seized hold of him--something which had nothin=
g in
common with the spirits and influences that had moved him hitherto. This se=
emed
to care little for his reason and his will, nothing for his so-called eleva=
ted
intentions, and moved him along, as a violent schoolmaster a schoolboy he h=
as
seized by the collar, in a direction which tended towards the embrace of a
woman for whom he had no respect, and whose life had nothing in common with=
his
own except locality.
HÊ KA=
INÊ
DIATHÊKÊ was no more heeded, and the predestinate Jude sprang up and across=
the
room. Foreseeing such an event he =
had already
arrayed himself in his best clothes. In
three minutes he was out of the house and descending by the path across the
wide vacant hollow of corn-ground which lay between the village and the
isolated house of Arabella in the dip beyond the upland. As he walked he looked at his watch. He could be back in two hours, easily, =
and a
good long time would still remain to him for reading after tea. Passing the few unhealthy fir-trees and cottage
where the path joined the highway he hastened along, and struck away to the
left, descending the steep side of the country to the west of the Brown Hou=
se. Here at the base of the chalk formation=
he
neared the brook that oozed from it, and followed the stream till he reached
her dwelling. A smell of piggeries=
came
from the back, and the grunting of the originators of that smell. He entered the garden, and knocked at t=
he
door with the knob of his stick. Somebody had seen him through the window, for a
male voice on the inside said: "Arabella!
Here's your young man come coorting!
Mizzle, my girl!" Jude winced at the words. Courting in such a businesslike aspect =
as it
evidently wore to the speaker was the last thing he was thinking of. He was going to walk with her, perhaps =
kiss
her; but "courting" was too coolly purposeful to be anything but
repugnant to his ideas. The door was opened and he entered, just as Arabella
came downstairs in radiant walking attire. "Take a chair, Mr. What's-your-name?"
said her father, an energetic, black-whiskered man, in the same businesslike
tones Jude had heard from outside. "I'd rather go out at once, wouldn't
you?" she whispered to Jude. "Yes," said he. "We'll walk up to the Brown House =
and
back, we can do it in half an hour." Arabella looked so handsome amid her untidy
surroundings that he felt glad he had come, and all the misgivings vanished
that had hitherto haunted him. First they clambered to the top of the great d=
own,
during which ascent he had occasionally to take her hand to assist her. Then they bore off to the left along the
crest into the ridgeway, which they followed till it intersected the high-r=
oad
at the Brown House aforesaid, the spot of his former fervid desires to beho=
ld Christminster. But he forgot them now. He talked the commonest local twaddle to
Arabella with greater zest than he would have felt in discussing all the
philosophies with all the Dons in the recently adored university, and passed
the spot where he had knelt to Diana and Phoebus without remembering that t=
here
were any such people in the mythology, or that the sun was anything else th=
an a
useful lamp for illuminating Arabella's face.
An indescribable lightness of heel served to lift him along; and Jud=
e,
the incipient scholar, prospective D.D., professor, bishop, or what not, fe=
lt
himself honoured and glorified by the condescension of this handsome countr=
y wench
in agreeing to take a walk with him in her Sunday frock and ribbons. They reached the Brown House barn--the point at
which he had planned to turn back. While
looking over the vast northern landscape from this spot they were struck by=
the
rising of a dense volume of smoke from the neighbourhood of the little town
which lay beneath them at a distance of a couple of miles. "It is a fire," said Arabella. "Let's run and see it--do! It is not far!" The tenderness which had grown up in Jude's bo=
som
left him no will to thwart her inclination now--which pleased him in afford=
ing
him excuse for a longer time with her.
They started off down the hill almost at a trot; but on gaining level
ground at the bottom, and walking a mile, they found that the spot of the f=
ire
was much further off than it had seemed. Having begun their journey, however, they push=
ed
on; but it was not till five o'clock that they found themselves on the scen=
e,--the
distance being altogether about half-a-dozen miles from Marygreen, and three
from Arabella's. The conflagration=
had
been got under by the time they reached it, and after a short inspection of=
the
melancholy ruins they retraced their steps--their course lying through the =
town
of Alfredston. Arabella said she would like some tea, and they
entered an inn of an inferior class, and gave their order. As it was not for beer they had a long =
time
to wait. The maid-servant recogniz=
ed
Jude, and whispered her surprise to her mistress in the background, that he=
, the
student "who kept hisself up so particular," should have suddenly=
descended
so low as to keep company with Arabella.
The latter guessed what was being said, and laughed as she met the
serious and tender gaze of her lover--the low and triumphant laugh of a
careless woman who sees she is winning her game. They sat and looked round the room, and at the
picture of Samson and Delilah which hung on the wall, and at the circular
beer-stains on the table, and at the spittoons underfoot filled with
sawdust. The whole aspect of the s=
cene
had that depressing effect on Jude which few places can produce like a tap-=
room
on a Sunday evening when the setting sun is slanting in, and no liquor is
going, and the unfortunate wayfarer finds himself with no other haven of re=
st. It began to grow dusk. They could not wait longer, really, for=
the tea,
they said. "Yet what else can=
we
do?" asked Jude. "It is =
a three-mile
walk for you." "I suppose we can have some beer," s=
aid
Arabella. "Beer, oh yes. I had forgotten that. Somehow it seems odd to come to a
public-house for beer on a Sunday evening." "But we didn't." "No, we didn't." Jude by this time
wished he was out of such an uncongenial atmosphere; but he ordered the bee=
r,
which was promptly brought. Arabella tasted it. "Ugh!" she said. Jude tasted.
"What's the matter with it?" he asked. "I don't understand beer very much=
now,
it is true. I like it well enough,=
but
it is bad to read on, and I find coffee better.
But this seems all right." "Adulterated--I can't touch it!" She mentioned three or four ingredients=
that
she detected in the liquor beyond malt and hops, much to Jude's surprise. "How much you know!" he said
good-humouredly. Nevertheless she returned to the beer and drank
her share, and they went on their way.
It was now nearly dark, and as soon as they had withdrawn from the
lights of the town they walked closer together, till they touched each
other. She wondered why he did not=
put
his arm round her waist, but he did not; he merely said what to himself see=
med
a quite bold enough thing: "Take my arm." She took it, thoroughly, up to the shoulder. He felt the warmth of her body against =
his,
and putting his stick under his other arm held with his right hand her righ=
t as
it rested in its place.
"Now we are well together, dear, aren't
we?" he observed.
"Yes," said she; adding to herself:
"Rather mild!"
"How fast I have become!" he was
thinking.
Thus they walked till they reached the foot of=
the
upland, where they could see the white highway ascending before them in the
gloom. From this point the only wa=
y of
getting to Arabella's was by going up the incline, and dipping again into h=
er
valley on the right. Before they h=
ad
climbed far they were nearly run into by two men who had been walking on the
grass unseen.
"These lovers--you find 'em out o' doors =
in
all seasons and weathers--lovers and homeless dogs only," said one of =
the
men as they vanished down the hill.
Arabella tittered lightly.
"Are we lovers?" asked Jude.
"You know best."
"But you can tell me?"
For answer she inclined her head upon his
shoulder. Jude took the hint, and
encircling her waist with his arm, pulled her to him and kissed her.
They walked now no longer arm in arm but, as s=
he
had desired, clasped together. Aft=
er
all, what did it matter since it was dark, said Jude to himself. When they were half-way up the long hil=
l they
paused as by arrangement, and he kissed her again. They reached the top, and he kissed her=
once
more.
"You can keep your arm there, if you would
like to," she said gently.
He did so, thinking how trusting she was.
Thus they slowly went towards her home. He had left his cottage at half-past th=
ree,
intending to be sitting down again to the New Testament by half-past five.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was nine o'clock when, with another =
embrace,
he stood to deliver her up at her father's door.
She asked him to come in, if only for a minute=
, as
it would seem so odd otherwise, and as if she had been out alone in the
dark. He gave way, and followed her
in. Immediately that the door was =
opened
he found, in addition to her parents, several neighbours sitting round. They
all spoke in a congratulatory manner, and took him seriously as Arabella's
intended partner.
They did not belong to his set or circle, and =
he
felt out of place and embarrassed. He
had not meant this: a mere afternoon of pleasant walking with Arabella, that
was all he had meant. He did not s=
tay
longer than to speak to her stepmother, a simple, quiet woman without featu=
res
or character; and bidding them all good night plunged with a sense of relief
into the track over the down.
But that sense was only temporary: Arabella so=
on
re-asserted her sway in his soul. =
He
walked as if he felt himself to be another man from the Jude of yesterday.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> What were his books to him? what were h=
is
intentions, hitherto adhered to so strictly, as to not wasting a single min=
ute
of time day by day?
"Wasting!" It dep=
ended
on your point of view to define that: he was just living for the first time:
not wasting life. It was better to=
love
a woman than to be a graduate, or a parson; ay, or a pope!
When he got back to the house his aunt had gon=
e to
bed, and a general consciousness of his neglect seemed written on the face =
of
all things confronting him. He went
upstairs without a light, and the dim interior of his room accosted him with
sad inquiry. There lay his book op=
en,
just as he had left it, and the capital letters on the title-page regarded =
him
with fixed reproach in the grey starlight, like the unclosed eyes of a dead
man:
HÊ KAINÊ DIATHÊKÊ
* =
* * * =
* *
Jude =
had to
leave early next morning for his usual week of absence at lodgings; and it =
was
with a sense of futility that he threw into his basket upon his tools and o=
ther
necessaries the unread book he had brought with him.
He kept his impassioned doings a secret almost
from himself. Arabella, on the contrary, made them public among all her fri=
ends
and acquaintance.
Retracing by the light of dawn the road he had
followed a few hours earlier under cover of darkness, with his sweetheart by
his side, he reached the bottom of the hill, where he walked slowly, and st=
ood still. He was on the spot where he had given h=
er the
first kiss. As the sun had only ju=
st
risen it was possible that nobody had passed there since. Jude looked on the ground and sighed. He looked closely, and could just disce=
rn in
the damp dust the imprints of their feet as they had stood locked in each
other's arms. She was not there no=
w, and
"the embroidery of imagination upon the stuff of nature" so depic=
ted
her past presence that a void was in his heart which nothing could fill.
An hour and a half later Arabella came along t=
he
same way with her two companions of the Saturday. She passed unheedingly the scene of the=
kiss,
and the willow that marked it, though chattering freely on the subject to t=
he
other two.
"And what did he tell 'ee next?"
"Then he said--" And she related almost word for word so=
me of
his tenderest speeches. If Jude ha=
d been
behind the fence he would have felt not a little surprised at learning how =
very
few of his sayings and doings on the previous evening were private.
"You've got him to care for 'ee a bit,
'nation if you han't!" murmured Anny judicially. "It's well to be you!"
In a few moments Arabella replied in a curious=
ly
low, hungry tone of latent sensuousness: "I've got him to care for me:
yes! But I want him to more than c=
are
for me; I want him to have me--to marry me!
I must have him. I can't do
without him. He's the sort of man =
I long
for. I shall go mad if I can't give
myself to him altogether! I felt I
should when I first saw him!"
"As he is a romancing, straightfor'ard,
honest chap, he's to be had, and as a husband, if you set about catching hi=
m in
the right way."
Arabella remained thinking awhile. "What med be the right way?" =
she asked.
"Oh you don't know--you don't!" said
Sarah, the third girl.
"On my word I don't!--No further, that is,
than by plain courting, and taking care he don't go too far!"
The third girl looked at the second. "She DON'T know!"
"'Tis clear she don't!" said Anny.
"And having lived in a town, too, as one =
may
say! Well, we can teach 'ee som'at=
then,
as well as you us."
"Yes.
And how do you mean--a sure way to gain a man? Take me for an innocent, and have done =
wi'
it!"
"As a husband."
"As a husband."
"A countryman that's honourable and
serious-minded such as he; God forbid that I should say a sojer, or sailor,=
or
commercial gent from the towns, or any of them that be slippery with poor
women! I'd do no friend that harm!=
"
"Well, such as he, of course!"
Arabella's companions looked at each other, and
turning up their eyes in drollery began smirking. Then one went up close to Arabella, and=
, although
nobody was near, imparted some information in a low tone, the other observi=
ng
curiously the effect upon Arabella.
"Ah!" said the last-named slowly.
"Nothing venture nothing have! Besides, you make sure that he's honour=
able
before you begin. You'd be safe en=
ough
with yours. I wish I had the
chance! Lots of girls do it; or do=
you
think they'd get married at all?"
Arabella pursued her way in silent thought.
One w=
eek's
end Jude was as usual walking out to his aunt's at Marygreen from his lodgi=
ng
in Alfredston, a walk which now had large attractions for him quite other t=
han
his desire to see his aged and morose relative.
He diverged to the right before ascending the hill with the single
purpose of gaining, on his way, a glimpse of Arabella that should not come =
into
the reckoning of regular appointments. Before quite reaching the homestead =
his
alert eye perceived the top of her head moving quickly hither and thither o=
ver
the garden hedge. Entering the gate he found that three young unfattened pi=
gs
had escaped from their sty by leaping clean over the top, and that she was
endeavouring unassisted to drive them in through the door which she had set
open. The lines of her countenance
changed from the rigidity of business to the softness of love when she saw
Jude, and she bent her eyes languishingly upon him. The animals took advantage of the pause=
by
doubling and bolting out of the way.
"They were only put in this morning!"
she cried, stimulated to pursue in spite of her lover's presence. "They were drove from Spaddleholt =
Farm
only yesterday, where Father bought 'em at a stiff price enough. They are
wanting to get home again, the stupid toads!
Will you shut the garden gate, dear, and help me to get 'em in. There are no men folk at home, only Mot=
her,
and they'll be lost if we don't mind."
He set himself to assist, and dodged this way =
and
that over the potato rows and the cabbages.
Every now and then they ran together, when he caught her for a moment
and kissed her. The first pig was =
got
back promptly; the second with some difficulty; the third a long-legged
creature, was more obstinate and agile.
He plunged through a hole in the garden hedge, and into the lane.
"He'll be lost if I don't follow 'n!"
said she. "Come along with me=
!"
She rushed in full pursuit out of the garden, =
Jude
alongside her, barely contriving to keep the fugitive in sight. Occasionally they would shout to some b=
oy to
stop the animal, but he always wriggled past and ran on as before.
"Let me take your hand, darling," sa=
id
Jude. "You are getting out of=
breath." She gave him her now hot hand with appa=
rent
willingness, and they trotted along together.
"This comes of driving 'em home," she
remarked. "They always know t=
he way
back if you do that. They ought to=
have
been carted over."
By this time the pig had reached an unfastened
gate admitting to the open down, across which he sped with all the agility =
his
little legs afforded. As soon as t=
he
pursuers had entered and ascended to the top of the high ground it became
apparent that they would have to run all the way to the farmer's if they wi=
shed
to get at him. From this summit he=
could
be seen as a minute speck, following an unerring line towards his old home.=
"It is no good!" cried Arabella. "He'll be there long before we get=
there. It don't matter now we know he's not lo=
st or
stolen on the way. They'll see it =
is
ours, and send un back. Oh dear, h=
ow hot
I be!"
Without relinquishing her hold of Jude's hand =
she
swerved aside and flung herself down on the sod under a stunted thorn,
precipitately pulling Jude on to his knees at the same time.
"Oh, I ask pardon--I nearly threw you dow=
n,
didn't I! But I am so tired!"=
She lay supine, and straight as an arrow, on t=
he
sloping sod of this hill-top, gazing up into the blue miles of sky, and sti=
ll
retaining her warm hold of Jude's hand.
He reclined on his elbow near her.
"We've run all this way for nothing,"
she went on, her form heaving and falling in quick pants, her face flushed,=
her
full red lips parted, and a fine dew of perspiration on her skin. "Well--why don't you speak, deary?=
"
"I'm blown too. It was all up hill."
They were in absolute solitude--the most appar=
ent
of all solitudes, that of empty surrounding space. Nobody could be nearer than a mile to t=
hem
without their seeing him. They wer=
e, in
fact, on one of the summits of the county, and the distant landscape around
Christminster could be discerned from where they lay. But Jude did not think of that then.
"Oh, 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,&qu=
ot; 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 b=
ack
of his head against her cheek. &qu=
ot;But
I can, perhaps, standing up." He
stood accordingly, placing himself in the direct line of her gaze.
"How stupid you are!" she said cross=
ly,
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 mizzle!" walked off quickly
homeward. Jude followed and rejoined her.
"Just one!" he coaxed.
"Shan't!" she said.
He, surprised: "What's the matter?"<= o:p>
She kept her two lips resentfully together, and
Jude followed her like a pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked be=
side
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 good-bye to him with a supercilious, affronted ai=
r.
"I expect I took too much liberty with he=
r,
somehow," Jude said to himself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on=
to
Marygreen.
On Sunday morning the interior of Arabella's h=
ome
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 mo=
ther
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 t=
he
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?"<= o:p>
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:p>
"Oh no!
But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He's on'y waiting here for an opening.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Ah well: he must walk about with somebo=
dy, I
s'pose. Young men don't mean much
now-a-days. '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 t=
he
Edlins be, this evening after tea. Or
no--there's evening service at Fensworth--you can walk to that."
"Oh?
What's up to-night, 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 y=
ou
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 t=
he
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 Rom=
ans knew
the country. Up from the level lan=
ds
below them floated the chime of church bells.
Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened, and stoppe=
d.
"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 to-night?
It is not near dark."
"Wait a moment," said she. She tried the handle of the door and fo=
und it
locked.
"Ah--they are gone to church," she
added. And searching behind the sc=
raper
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 egg-shell.=
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, an=
d it
will get hatched in less than three weeks."
"Where do you carry it?"
"Just here." She put her hand into her bosom and dre=
w out
the egg, which was wrapped in wool, outside it being a piece of pig's bladd=
er, in
case of accidents. Having exhibite=
d 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&qu=
ot;
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 have catched me a minute ago =
when
I had put the egg down! There!" she said defiantly, "I am without=
it
now!" She had quickly withdra=
wn the
egg a second time; but before he could quite reach her she had put it back =
as
quickly, laughing with the excitement of her strategy. Then there was a little struggle, Jude =
making
a plunge for it and capturing it triumphantly.
Her face flushed; and becoming suddenly conscious he flushed also.
They looked at each other, panting; till he ro=
se
and said: "One kiss, now I can do it without damage to property; and I=
'll
go!"
But she had jumped up too. "You must find me first!" she
cried.
Her lover followed her as she withdrew. It was now dark inside the room, and the
window being small he could not discover for a long time what had become of
her, till a laugh revealed her to have rushed up the stairs, whither Jude
rushed at her heels.
It wa=
s some
two months later in the year, and the pair had met constantly during the
interval. Arabella seemed dissatis=
fied;
she was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering.
One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers thereabout,=
knew
the quack well, and she began telling him of her experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he=
left
her she had grown brighter. That e=
vening
she kept an appointment with Jude, who seemed sad.
"I am going away," he said to her. "I think I ought to go. I think it will be better both for you =
and
for me. I wish some things had nev=
er
begun! I was much to blame, I know=
. But it is never too late to mend."=
Arabella began to cry. "How do you know it is not too
late?" she said. "That's=
all
very well to say! I haven't told y=
ou
yet!" and she looked into his face with streaming eyes.
"What?" he asked, turning pale. "Not...?"
"Yes!
And what shall I do if you desert me?"
"Oh, Arabella--how can you say that, my
dear! You KNOW I wouldn't desert
you!"
"Well then--"
"I have next to no wages as yet, you know=
; or
perhaps I should have thought of this before...
But, of course if that's the case, we must marry! What other thing do you think I could d=
ream
of doing?"
"I thought--I thought, deary, perhaps you
would go away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!"
"You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago=
, or
even three, of marrying. It is a
complete smashing up of my plans--I mean my plans before I knew you, my
dear. But what are they, after all=
! Dreams
about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that. Certainly we'll marry: we must!"
That night he went out alone, and walked in the
dark self-communing. He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his br=
ain,
that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, s=
uch
being the custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had
drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done, he =
was
ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a facti=
tious
belief in her. His idea of her was=
the
thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconica=
lly.
The banns were put in and published the very n=
ext
Sunday. The people of the parish a=
ll
said what a simple fool young Fawley was.
All his reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his
books to buy saucepans. Those who
guessed the probable state of affairs, Arabella's parents being among them,
declared that it was the sort of conduct they would have expected of such an
honest young man as Jude in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent
sweetheart. The parson who married=
them
seemed to think it satisfactory too. And
so, standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every o=
ther
time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe, fee=
l,
and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired during the few
preceding weeks. What was as remar=
kable as
the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at =
what
they swore.
Fawley's aunt being a baker she made him a
bride-cake, saying bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him,
poor silly fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of hi=
s living
to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his father and
mother. Of this cake Arabella took=
some
slices, wrapped them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companion=
s in
the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet "In =
remembrance
of good advice."
The prospects of the newly married couple were
certainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason's apprentice, nineteen
years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his
time. His wife was absolutely usel=
ess in
a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for =
them
to live. But the urgent need of ad=
ding
to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside
cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profi=
ts of
a vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a
pig. But it was not the sort of li=
fe he
had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston eve=
ry
day. Arabella, however, felt that all these make-shifts were temporary; she=
had
gained a husband; that was the thing--a husband with a lot of earning power=
in
him for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get frightened a
bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid books for practic=
al
undertakings.
So to the cottage he took her on the evening of
the marriage, giving up his old room at his aunt's--where so much of the ha=
rd
labour at Greek and Latin had been carried on.
A little chill overspread him at her first
unrobing. A long tail of hair, whi=
ch
Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head, was
deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking-glass which=
he
had bought her.
"What--it wasn't your own?" he said,
with a sudden distaste for her.
"Oh no--it never is nowadays with the bet=
ter
class."
"Nonsense!
Perhaps not in towns. But i=
n the
country it is supposed to be different.
Besides, you've enough of your own, surely?"
"Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more, and wh=
en I
was barmaid at Aldbrickham--"
"Barmaid at Aldbrickham?"
"Well, not exactly barmaid--I used to draw
the drink at a public-house there--just for a little time; that was all.
Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that
though this might be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many
unsophisticated girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years
without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct towards
artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts in counterfeiting at t=
he
first glimpse of it. However, perh=
aps
there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to th=
ink
no more of it.
A new-made wife can usually manage to excite
interest for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways a=
nd
means are cloudy. There is a certa=
in
piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sen=
se
of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest
bride independent awhile of the real.
Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one market=
-day
with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her former friend, whom=
she
had not seen since the wedding.
As usual they laughed before talking; the world
seemed funny to them without saying it.
"So it turned out a good plan, you see!&q=
uot;
remarked the girl to the wife. &qu=
ot;I
knew it would with such as him. He=
's a
dear good fellow, and you ought to be proud of un."
"I am," said Mrs. Fawley quietly.
"And when do you expect?"
"Ssh!
Not at all."
"What!"
"I was mistaken."
"Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep
one! Mistaken! well, that's clever=
--it's
a real stroke of genius! It is a t=
hing I
never thought o', wi' all my experience!
I never thought beyond bringing about the real thing--not that one c=
ould
sham it!"
"Don't you be too quick to cry sham! 'Twasn't sham. I didn't know."
"My word--won't he be in a taking! He'll give it to 'ee o' Saturday nights=
! Whatever it was, he'll say it was a tri=
ck--a
double one, by the Lord!"
"I'll own to the first, but not to the
second... Pooh--he won't care! He'=
ll be
glad I was wrong in what I said. H=
e'll
shake down, bless 'ee--men always do.
What can 'em do otherwise?
Married is married."
Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness t=
hat
Arabella approached the time when in the natural course of things she would
have to reveal that the alarm she had raised had been without foundation. T=
he
occasion was one evening at bedtime, and they were in their chamber in the
lonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked home from his work every
day. He had worked hard the whole =
twelve
hours, and had retired to rest before his wife.
When she came into the room he was between sleeping and waking, and =
was
barely conscious of her undressing before the little looking-glass as he la=
y.
One action of hers, however, brought him to fu=
ll
cognition. Her face being reflected
towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she was amusing herself by
artificially producing in each cheek the dimple before alluded to, a curious
accomplishment of which she was mistress, effecting it by a momentary
suction. It seemed to him for the =
first
time that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face during his
intercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the earlier weeks of th=
eir
acquaintance.
"Don't do that, Arabella!" he said
suddenly. "There is no harm i=
n it,
but--I don't like to see you."
She turned and laughed. "Lord, I didn't know you were
awake!" she said. "How
countrified you are! That's nothin=
g."
"Where did you learn it?"
"Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble w=
hen I
was at the public-house; but now they won't.
My face was fatter then."
"I don't care about dimples. I don't think they improve a woman--par=
ticularly
a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you."
"Most men think otherwise."
"I don't care what most men think, if they
do. How do you know?"
"I used to be told so when I was serving =
in
the tap-room."
"Ah--that public-house experience accounts
for your knowing about the adulteration of the ale when we went and had some
that Sunday evening. I thought whe=
n I
married you that you had always lived in your father's house."
"You ought to have known better than that,
and seen I was a little more finished than I could have been by staying whe=
re I
was born. There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, s=
o I went
away for three months."
"You'll soon have plenty to do now, dear,
won't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, of course--little things to make.&q=
uot;
"Oh."
"When will it be? Can't you tell me exactly, instead of i=
n such
general terms as you have used?"
"Tell you?"
"Yes--the date."
"There's nothing to tell. I made a mistake."
"What?"
"It was a mistake."
He sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "How can that be?"
"Women fancy wrong things sometimes."=
;
"But--! Why, of course, so unprepared as I
was, without a stick of furniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn't have
hurried on our affair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was
ready, if it had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary=
to
save you, ready or no... Good God!=
"
"Don't take on, dear. What's done can't be undone."
"I have no more to say!"
He gave the answer simply, and lay down; and t=
here
was silence between them.
When Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to =
see
the world with a different eye. As=
to
the point in question he was compelled to accept her word; in the circumsta=
nces
he could not have acted otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail?
There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, someth=
ing
wrong in a social ritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed
schemes involving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man's one opp=
ortunity
of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of contributing his u=
nits
of work to the general progress of his generation, because of a momentary
surprise by a new and transitory instinct which had nothing in it of the na=
ture
of vice, and could be only at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he had =
done,
or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught in a gin which
would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a lifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate i=
n the
fact that the immediate reason of his marriage had proved to be
non-existent. But the marriage rem=
ained.
X
The t=
ime
arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife had fattened in their s=
ty
during the autumn months, and the butchering was timed to take place as soo=
n as
it was light in the morning, so that Jude might get to Alfredston without
losing more than a quarter of a day.
The night had seemed strangely silent. Jude looked out of the window long befo=
re
dawn, and perceived that the ground was covered with snow--snow rather deep=
for
the season, it seemed, a few flakes still falling.
"I'm afraid the pig-killer won't be able =
to
come," he said to Arabella.
"Oh, he'll come. You must get up and make the water hot,=
if
you want Challow to scald him. Tho=
ugh I
like singeing best."
"I'll get up," said Jude. "I like the way of my own county.&=
quot;
He went downstairs, lit the fire under the cop=
per,
and began feeding it with bean-stalks, all the time without a candle, the b=
laze
flinging a cheerful shine into the room; though for him the sense of cheerf=
ulness
was lessened by thoughts on the reason of that blaze--to heat water to scald
the bristles from the body of an animal that as yet lived, and whose voice
could be continually heard from a corner of the garden. At half-past six, the time of appointme=
nt
with the butcher, the water boiled, and Jude's wife came downstairs.
"Is Challow come?" she asked.
"No."
They waited, and it grew lighter, with the dre=
ary
light of a snowy dawn. She went ou=
t,
gazed along the road, and returning said, "He's not coming. Drunk last night, I expect. The snow is not enough to hinder him,
surely!"
"Then we must put it off. It is only the water boiled for nothing=
. The
snow may be deep in the valley."
"Can't be put off. There's no more victuals for the pig. He ate the last mixing o' barleymeal
yesterday morning."
"Yesterday morning? What has he lived on since?"
"Nothing."
"What--he has been starving?"
"Yes.
We always do it the last day or two, to save bother with the innerds=
. What ignorance, not to know that!"=
"That accounts for his crying so. Poor creature!"
"Well--you must do the sticking--there's =
no
help for it. I'll show you how.
"Of course you shan't do it," said
Jude. "I'll do it, since it m=
ust be
done."
He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow
for the space of a couple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, =
with
the knives and ropes at hand. A ro=
bin
peered down at the preparations from the nearest tree, and, not liking the
sinister look of the scene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joined her hu=
sband,
and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the affrighted animal,
who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to repeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and toget=
her they
hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude held him
Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs to keep him from
struggling.
The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but the cry of des=
pair;
long-drawn, slow and hopeless.
"Upon my soul I would sooner have gone
without the pig than have had this to do!" said Jude. "A creature I have fed with my own
hands."
"Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife-- the one wi=
th the
point. Now whatever you do, don't =
stick
un too deep."
"I'll stick him effectually, so as to make
short work of it. That's the chief
thing."
"You must not!" she cried. "The meat must be well bled, and t=
o do that
he must die slow. We shall lose a
shilling a score if the meat is red and bloody!
Just touch the vein, that's all.
I was brought up to it, and I know.
Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long. He ought to be eight or t=
en
minutes dying, at least."
"He shall not be half a minute if I can h=
elp
it, however the meat may look," said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig's up=
turned
throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat; then plunged in the
knife with all his might.
"'Od damn it all!" she cried, "=
that
ever I should say it! You've over-=
stuck
un! And I telling you all the
time--"
"Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little
pity on the creature!"
"Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and
don't talk!"
However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been
mercifully done. The blood flowed =
out in
a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she had desired. The dying animal's cry assumed its thir=
d and
final tone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on Ar=
abella
with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing at last the
treachery of those who had seemed his only friends.
"Make un stop that!" said Arabella.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "Such a noise will bring somebody =
or
other up here, and I don't want people to know we are doing it
ourselves." Picking up the kn=
ife
from the ground whereon Jude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and
slit the windpipe. The pig was ins=
tantly
silent, his dying breath coming through the hole.
"That's better," she said.
"It is a hateful business!" said he.=
"Pigs must be killed."
The animal heaved in a final convulsion, and,
despite the rope, kicked out with all his last strength. A tablespoonful of black clot came fort=
h, the
trickling of red blood having ceased for some seconds.
"That's it; now he'll go," said
she. "Artful creatures--they =
always
keep back a drop like that as long as they can!"
The last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to
make Jude stagger, and in recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in w=
hich
the blood had been caught.
"There!" she cried, thoroughly in a
passion. "Now I can't make an=
y blackpot. There's a waste, all through you!"=
Jude put the pail upright, but only about a th=
ird
of the whole steaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed o=
ver the
snow, and forming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle--to those who saw it as
other than an ordinary obtaining of meat.
The lips and nostrils of the animal turned livid, then white, and the
muscles of his limbs relaxed.
"Thank God!" Jude said. "He's dead."
"What's God got to do with such a messy j=
ob
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 bet=
ter
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,&quo=
t;
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 do=
ubt he
was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool.
He did not like the road to Alfredston now.
"Howsomever, 'twas I put her up to it!
"'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 whe=
n he
reached it he flung his basket inside the garden-gate and passed on, determ=
ined
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 wh=
at he had
heard should lead him to say something regrettable to her he spoke little.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But Arabella was very talkative, and sa=
id
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 ca=
me
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 had=
n'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 reve=
aled
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 ri=
ght to
do such as that. The risk is hers.=
"
"I quite deny it, Bella. She might if no lifelong penalty attach=
ed to
it for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weakness of the mom=
ent
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 h=
erself
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 pu=
t it
away!"
"Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won't keep."
"Very well--do."
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, a=
nd
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 de=
ar
ancient classics on a table where they ought not to have been laid. "I won't have them books here in t=
he
way!" she cried petulantly; and seizing them one by one she began thro=
wing
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 Arabell=
a'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 floo=
r,
till Jude, incensed beyond bearing, caught her by the arms to make her leav=
e 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."<= o:p>
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 of which she went with a set face, and into the
highway. Here she began to saunter=
up
and down, perversely pulling her hair into a worse disorder than he had cau=
sed,
and unfastening several buttons of her gown.
It was a fine Sunday morning, dry, clear and frosty, and the bells of
Alfredston Church could be heard on the breeze from the north. People were going along the road, dress=
ed in
their holiday clothes; they were mainly lovers--such pairs as Jude and Arab=
ella
had been when they sported along the same track some months earlier. These
pedestrians turned to stare at the extraordinary spectacle she now presente=
d,
bonnetless, her dishevelled hair blowing in the wind, her bodice apart, her
sleeves rolled above her elbows for her work, and her hands reeking with me=
lted
fat. One of the passers said in mo=
ck
terror: "Good Lord deliver us!"
"See how he's served me!" she
cried. "Making me work Sunday
mornings when I ought to be going to my church, and tearing my hair off my =
head,
and my gown off my back!"
Jude was exasperated, and went out to drag her=
in
by main force. Then he suddenly lost his heat.
Illuminated with the sense that all was over between them, and that =
it
mattered not what she did, or he, her husband stood still, regarding her. Their lives were ruined, he thought; ru=
ined
by the fundamental error of their matrimonial union: that of having based a
permanent contract on a temporary feeling which had no necessary connection
with affinities that alone render a lifelong comradeship tolerable.
"Going to ill-use me on principle, as your
father ill-used your mother, and your father's sister ill-used her
husband?" she asked. "All you be a queer lot as husbands and
wives!"
Jude fixed an arrested, surprised look on
her. But she said no more, and con=
tinued
her saunter till she was tired. He=
left
the spot, and, after wandering vaguely a little while, walked in the direct=
ion
of Marygreen. Here he called upon =
his
great-aunt, whose infirmities daily increased.
"Aunt--did my father ill-use my mother, a=
nd
my aunt her husband?" said Jude abruptly, sitting down by the fire.
She raised her ancient eyes under the rim of t=
he
by-gone bonnet that she always wore.
"Who's been telling you that?" she said.
"I have heard it spoken of, and want to k=
now
all."
"You med so well, I s'pose; though your
wife--I reckon 'twas she--must have been a fool to open up that! There isn't much to know after all. Your father and mother couldn't get on
together, and they parted. It was =
coming
home from Alfredston market, when you were a baby--on the hill by the Brown
House barn--that they had their last difference, and took leave of one anot=
her
for the last time. Your mother soon
afterwards died--she drowned herself, in short, and your father went away w=
ith
you to South Wessex, and never came here any more."
Jude recalled his father's silence about North
Wessex and Jude's mother, never speaking of either till his dying day.
"It was the same with your father's
sister. Her husband offended her, =
and
she so disliked living with him afterwards that she went away to London with
her little maid. The Fawleys were =
not
made for wedlock: it never seemed to sit well upon us. There's sommat in our blood that won't =
take
kindly to the notion of being bound to do what we do readily enough if not
bound. That's why you ought to hav=
e hearkened
to me, and not ha' married."
"Where did Father and Mother part--by the
Brown House, did you say?"
"A little further on--where the road to
Fenworth branches off, and the handpost stands.
A gibbet once stood there not onconnected with our history. But let that be."
In the dusk of that evening Jude walked away f=
rom
his old aunt's as if to go home. B=
ut as
soon as he reached the open down he struck out upon it till he came to a la=
rge
round pond. The frost continued, t=
hough
it was not particularly sharp, and the larger stars overhead came out slow =
and
flickering. Jude put one foot on t=
he
edge of the ice, and then the other: it cracked under his weight; but this =
did not
deter him. He ploughed his way inw=
ard to
the centre, the ice making sharp noises as he went. When just about the middle he looked ar=
ound
him and gave a jump. The cracking
repeated itself; but he did not go down.
He jumped again, but the cracking had ceased. Jude went back to the edge, and stepped=
upon
the ground.
It was curious, he thought. What was he reserved for? He supposed he was not a sufficiently
dignified person for suicide. Peac=
eful death
abhorred him as a subject, and would not take him.
What could he do of a lower kind than
self-extermination; what was there less noble, more in keeping with his pre=
sent
degraded position? He could get drunk.
Of course that was it; he had forgotten. Drinking was the regular,
stereotyped resource of the despairing worthless. He began to see now why some men boozed=
at
inns. He struck down the hill nort=
hwards
and came to an obscure public-house. On entering and sitting down the sight=
of
the picture of Samson and Delilah on the wall caused him to recognize the p=
lace
as that he had visited with Arabella on that first Sunday evening of their =
courtship. He called for liquor and drank briskly =
for an
hour or more.
Staggering homeward late that night, with all =
his
sense of depression gone, and his head fairly clear still, he began to laug=
h boisterously,
and to wonder how Arabella would receive him in his new aspect. The house was in darkness when he enter=
ed,
and in his stumbling state it was some time before he could get a light. Th=
en
he found that, though the marks of pig-dressing, of fats and scallops, were
visible, the materials themselves had been taken away. A line written by his
wife on the inside of an old envelope was pinned to the cotton blower of the
fireplace:
"Have gone to my friends. Shall not return."
All the next day he remained at home, and sent=
off
the carcase of the pig to Alfredston. He
then cleaned up the premises, locked the door, put the key in a place she w=
ould
know if she came back, and returned to his masonry at Alfredston.
At night when he again plodded home he found s=
he
had not visited the house. The nex=
t day
went in the same way, and the next. Then
there came a letter from her.
That she had gone tired of him she frankly
admitted. He was such a slow old c=
oach,
and she did not care for the sort of life he led. There was no prospect of his ever bette=
ring
himself or her. She further went on to say that her parents had, as he knew,
for some time considered the question of emigrating to Australia, the pig-j=
obbing
business being a poor one nowadays. They
had at last decided to go, and she proposed to go with them, if he had no o=
bjection. A woman of her sort would have more cha=
nce
over there than in this stupid country.
Jude replied that he had not the least objecti=
on
to her going. He thought it a wise
course, since she wished to go, and one that might be to the advantage of
both. He enclosed in the packet
containing the letter the money that had been realized by the sale of the p=
ig, with
all he had besides, which was not much.
From that day he heard no more of her except
indirectly, though her father and his household did not immediately leave, =
but
waited till his goods and other effects had been sold off. When Jude learnt that there was to be an
auction at the house of the Donns he packed his own household goods into a
waggon, and sent them to her at the aforesaid homestead, that she might sell
them with the rest, or as many of them as she should choose.
He then went into lodgings at Alfredston, and =
saw
in a shopwindow the little handbill announcing the sale of his father-in-la=
w's
furniture. He noted its date, which came and passed without Jude's going ne=
ar the
place, or perceiving that the traffic out of Alfredston by the southern road
was materially increased by the auction.
A few days later he entered a dingy broker's shop in the main street=
of
the town, and amid a heterogeneous collection of saucepans, a clothes-horse,
rolling-pin, brass candlestick, swing looking-glass, and other things at the
back of the shop, evidently just brought in from a sale, he perceived a fra=
med
photograph, which turned out to be his own portrait.
It was one which he had had specially taken and
framed by a local man in bird's-eye maple, as a present for Arabella, and h=
ad
duly given her on their wedding-day. On
the back was still to be read, "Jude to Arabella," with the
date. She must have thrown it in w=
ith
the rest of her property at the auction.
"Oh," said the broker, seeing him lo=
ok
at this and the other articles in the heap, and not perceiving that the
portrait was of himself: "It is a small lot of stuff that was knocked =
down
to me at a cottage sale out on the road to Marygreen. The frame is a very useful one, if you =
take
out the likeness. You shall have it for a shilling."
The utter death of every tender sentiment in h=
is
wife, as brought home to him by this mute and undesigned evidence of her sa=
le
of his portrait and gift, was the conclusive little stroke required to demo=
lish
all sentiment in him. He paid the
shilling, took the photograph away with him, and burnt it, frame and all, w=
hen
he reached his lodging.
Two or three days later he heard that Arabella=
and
her parents had departed. He had s=
ent a
message offering to see her for a formal leave-taking, but she had said tha=
t it
would be better otherwise, since she was bent on going, which perhaps was
true. On the evening following the=
ir
emigration, when his day's work was done, he came out of doors after supper,
and strolled in the starlight along the too familiar road towards the upland
whereon had been experienced the chief emotions of his life. It seemed to be his own again.
He could not realize himself. On the old track he seemed to be a boy =
still,
hardly a day older than when he had stood dreaming at the top of that hill,
inwardly fired for the first time with ardours for Christminster and
scholarship. "Yet I am a man,=
"
he said. "I have a wife. More, I have arrived at the still riper=
stage
of having disagreed with her, disliked her, had a scuffle with her, and par=
ted from
her."
He remembered then that he was standing not far
from the spot at which the parting between his father and his mother was sa=
id
to have occurred.
A little further on was the summit whence
Christminster, or what he had taken for that city, had seemed to be
visible. A milestone, now as alway=
s,
stood at the roadside hard by. Jud=
e drew
near it, and felt rather than read the mileage to the city. He remembered that once on his way home=
he
had proudly cut with his keen new chisel an inscription on the back of that
milestone, embodying his aspirations. It had been done in the first week of=
his
apprenticeship, before he had been diverted from his purposes by an unsuita=
ble
woman. He wondered if the inscript=
ion
were legible still, and going to the back of the milestone brushed away the
nettles. By the light of a match he
could still discern what he had cut so enthusiastically so long ago:
THITHER J. F. [with a pointing finger]
The s=
ight
of it, unimpaired, within its screen of grass and nettles, lit in his soul a
spark of the old fire. Surely his =
plan
should be to move onward through good and ill--to avoid morbid sorrow even
though he did see uglinesses in the world?
Bene agere et loetari--to do good cheerfully--which he had heard to =
be
the philosophy of one Spinoza, might be his own even now.
He might battle with his evil star, and follow=
out
his original intention.
By moving to a spot a little way off he uncove=
red
the horizon in a north-easterly direction.
There actually rose the faint halo, a small dim nebulousness, hardly
recognizable save by the eye of faith. It was enough for him. He would go to Christminster as soon as=
the term
of his apprenticeship expired.
He returned to his lodgings in a better mood, =
and
said his prayers.
"Save his own soul he hath no star."--SWINBURNE.
"Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia
fecit; Tempore crevit
amor."--OVID.
The n=
ext
noteworthy move in Jude's life was that in which he appeared gliding steadi=
ly
onward through a dusky landscape of some three years' later leafage than had
graced his courtship of Arabella, and the disruption of his coarse conjugal
life with her. He was walking towa=
rds
Christminster City, at a point a mile or two to the south-west of it.
He had at last found himself clear of Marygreen
and Alfredston: he was out of his apprenticeship, and with his tools at his
back seemed to be in the way of making a new start--the start to which, bar=
ring
the interruption involved in his intimacy and married experience with Arabe=
lla,
he had been looking forward for about ten years.
Jude would now have been described as a young =
man
with a forcible, meditative, and earnest rather than handsome cast of
countenance. He was of dark complexion, with dark harmonizing eyes, and he =
wore
a closely trimmed black beard of more advanced growth than is usual at his =
age;
this, with his great mass of black curly hair, was some trouble to him in
combing and washing out the stone-dust that settled on it in the pursuit of=
his
trade. His capabilities in the lat=
ter, having
been acquired in the country, were of an all-round sort, including monument=
al
stone-cutting, gothic free-stone work for the restoration of churches, and
carving of a general kind. In Lond=
on he
would probably have become specialized and have made himself a "mouldi=
ng
mason," a "foliage sculptor"--perhaps a "statuary."=
;
He had that afternoon driven in a cart from
Alfredston to the village nearest the city in this direction, and was now
walking the remaining four miles rather from choice than from necessity, ha=
ving
always fancied himself arriving thus.
The ultimate impulse to come had had a curious
origin--one more nearly related to the emotional side of him than to the
intellectual, as is often the case with young men. One day while in lodgings at Alfredston=
he
had gone to Marygreen to see his old aunt, and had observed between the bra=
ss
candlesticks on her mantlepiece the photograph of a pretty girlish face, in=
a
broad hat with radiating folds under the brim like the rays of a halo. He had asked who she was. His grand-aunt had gruffly replied that=
she
was his cousin Sue Bridehead, of the inimical branch of the family; and on
further questioning the old woman had replied that the girl lived in Christ=
minster,
though she did not know where, or what she was doing.
His aunt would not give him the photograph.
He now paused at the top of a crooked and gent=
le
declivity, and obtained his first near view of the city. Grey-stoned and dun-roofed, it stood wi=
thin
hail of the Wessex border, and almost with the tip of one small toe within =
it,
at the northernmost point of the crinkled line along which the leisurely Th=
ames
strokes the fields of that ancient kingdom.
The buildings now lay quiet in the sunset, a vane here and there on
their many spires and domes giving sparkle to a picture of sober secondary =
and
tertiary hues.
Reaching the bottom he moved along the level w=
ay
between pollard willows growing indistinct in the twilight, and soon confro=
nted
the outmost lamps of the town--some of those lamps which had sent into the =
sky
the gleam and glory that caught his strained gaze in his days of dreaming, =
so
many years ago. They winked their =
yellow
eyes at him dubiously, and as if, though they had been awaiting him all the=
se years
in disappointment at his tarrying, they did not much want him now.
He was a species of Dick Whittington whose spi=
rit
was touched to finer issues than a mere material gain. He went along the outlying streets with=
the
cautious tread of an explorer. He =
saw
nothing of the real city in the suburbs on this side. His first want being a lodging he scrut=
inized
carefully such localities as seemed to offer on inexpensive terms the modest
type of accommodation he demanded; and after inquiry took a room in a suburb
nicknamed "Beersheba," though he did not know this at the time. Here he installed himself, and having h=
ad
some tea sallied forth.
It was a windy, whispering, moonless night.
After many turnings he came up to the first
ancient mediæval pile that he had encountered.
It was a college, as he could see by the gateway. He entered it, walked round, and penetr=
ated
to dark corners which no lamplight reached.
Close to this college was another; and a little further on another; =
and
then he began to be encircled as it were with the breath and sentiment of t=
he
venerable city. When he passed obj=
ects
out of harmony with its general expression he allowed his eyes to slip over
them as if he did not see them.
A bell began clanging, and he listened till a
hundred-and-one strokes had sounded. He
must have made a mistake, he thought: it was meant for a hundred.
When the gates were shut, and he could no long=
er
get into the quadrangles, he rambled under the walls and doorways, feeling =
with
his fingers the contours of their mouldings and carving. The minutes passed, fewer and fewer peo=
ple
were visible, and still he serpentined among the shadows, for had he not
imagined these scenes through ten bygone years, and what mattered a night's
rest for once? High against the bl=
ack
sky the flash of a lamp would show crocketed pinnacles and indented
battlements. Down obscure alleys,
apparently never trodden now by the foot of man, and whose very existence
seemed to be forgotten, there would jut into the path porticoes, oriels, do=
orways
of enriched and florid middle-age design, their extinct air being accentuat=
ed
by the rottenness of the stones. It
seemed impossible that modern thought could house itself in such decrepit a=
nd
superseded chambers.
Knowing not a human being here, Jude began to =
be
impressed with the isolation of his own personality, as with a self-spectre,
the sensation being that of one who walked but could not make himself seen =
or
heard. He drew his breath pensivel=
y,
and, seeming thus almost his own ghost, gave his thoughts to the other ghos=
tly presences
with which the nooks were haunted.
During the interval of preparation for this
venture, since his wife and furniture's uncompromising disappearance into
space, he had read and learnt almost all that could be read and learnt by o=
ne
in his position, of the worthies who had spent their youth within these rev=
erend
walls, and whose souls had haunted them in their maturer age. Some of them, by the accidents of his
reading, loomed out in his fancy disproportionately large by comparison with
the rest. The brushings of the wind
against the angles, buttresses, and door-jambs were as the passing of these
only other inhabitants, the tappings of each ivy leaf on its neighbour were=
as
the mutterings of their mournful souls, the shadows as their thin shapes in
nervous movement, making him comrades in his solitude. In the gloom it was as if he ran agains=
t them
without feeling their bodily frames.
The streets were now deserted, but on account =
of
these things he could not go in. T=
here
were poets abroad, of early date and of late, from the friend and eulogist =
of
Shakespeare down to him who has recently passed into silence, and that musi=
cal
one of the tribe who is still among us.
Speculative philosophers drew along, not always with wrinkled forehe=
ads
and hoary hair as in framed portraits, but pink-faced, slim, and active as =
in
youth; modern divines sheeted in their surplices, among whom the most real =
to
Jude Fawley were the founders of the religious school called Tractarian; the
well-known three, the enthusiast, the poet, and the formularist, the echoes=
of
whose teachings had influenced him even in his obscure home. A start of ave=
rsion
appeared in his fancy to move them at sight of those other sons of the plac=
e,
the form in the full-bottomed wig, statesman, rake, reasoner, and sceptic; =
the
smoothly shaven historian so ironically civil to Christianity; with others =
of
the same incredulous temper, who knew each quad as well as the faithful, an=
d took
equal freedom in haunting its cloisters.
He regarded the statesmen in their various typ=
es,
men of firmer movement and less dreamy air; the scholar, the speaker, the
plodder; the man whose mind grew with his growth in years, and the man whos=
e mind
contracted with the same.
The scientists and philologists followed on in=
his
mind-sight in an odd impossible combination, men of meditative faces, strai=
ned foreheads,
and weak-eyed as bats with constant research; then official characters--such
men as governor-generals and lord-lieutenants, in whom he took little inter=
est;
chief-justices and lord chancellors, silent thin-lipped figures of whom he =
knew
barely the names. A keener regard
attached to the prelates, by reason of his own former hopes. Of them he had an ample band--some men =
of heart,
others rather men of head; he who apologized for the Church in Latin; the
saintly author of the Evening Hymn; and near them the great itinerant preac=
her,
hymn-writer, and zealot, shadowed like Jude by his matrimonial difficulties=
.
Jude found himself speaking out loud, holding
conversations with them as it were, like an actor in a melodrama who
apostrophizes the audience on the other side of the footlights; till he
suddenly ceased with a start at his absurdity.
Perhaps those incoherent words of the wanderer were heard within the
walls by some student or thinker over his lamp; and he may have raised his
head, and wondered what voice it was, and what it betokened. Jude now perceived that, so far as soli=
d flesh
went, he had the whole aged city to himself with the exception of a belated
townsman here and there, and that he seemed to be catching a cold.
A voice reached him out of the shade; a real a=
nd
local voice:
"You've been a-settin' a long time on that
plinth-stone, young man. What med you be up to?"
It came from a policeman who had been observing
Jude without the latter observing him.
Jude went home and to bed, after reading up a
little about these men and their several messages to the world from a book =
or
two that he had brought with him concerning the sons of the university. As he drew towards sleep various memora=
ble
words of theirs that he had just been conning seemed spoken by them in
muttering utterances; some audible, some unintelligible to him. One of the spectres (who afterwards mou=
rned
Christminster as "the home of lost causes," though Jude did not
remember this) was now apostrophizing her thus:
"Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely,=
so
unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene! ...
Another voice was that of the Corn Law convert,
whose phantom he had just seen in the quadrangle with a great bell. Jude thought his soul might have been s=
haping
the historic words of his master-speech:
"Sir, I may be wrong, but my impression is
that my duty towards a country threatened with famine requires that that wh=
ich
has been the ordinary remedy under all similar circumstances should be reso=
rted
to now, namely, that there should be free access to the food of man from wh=
atever
quarter it may come... Deprive me =
of
office to-morrow, you can never deprive me of the consciousness that I have
exercised the powers committed to me from no corrupt or interested motives,
from no desire to gratify ambition, for no personal gain."
Then the sly author of the immortal Chapter on
Christianity: "How shall we excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan=
and
philosophic world, to those evidences [miracles] which were presented by Om=
nipotence?
... The sages of Greece and Rome t=
urned
aside from the awful spectacle, and appeared unconscious of any alterations=
in
the moral or physical government of the world."
Then the shade of the poet, the last of the
optimists:
How the world is made for each of us!<= o:p>
* * * =
* *
And=
each
of the Many helps to recruit The=
life
of the race by a general plan.
Then =
one of
the three enthusiasts he had seen just now, the author of the Apologia:
"My argument was ... that absolute certit=
ude
as to the truths of natural theology was the result of an assemblage of
concurring and converging probabilities ... that probabilities which did not
reach to logical certainty might create a mental certitude."
The second of them, no polemic, murmured quiet=
er
things:
Why should we faint, and fear to live =
alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has w=
ill'd,
we die?
He li=
kewise
heard some phrases spoken by the phantom with the short face, the genial
Spectator:
"When I look upon the tombs of the great,
every motion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful,
every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upo=
n a tombstone,
my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themsel=
ves,
I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow.&qu=
ot;
And lastly a gentle-voiced prelate spoke, duri=
ng
whose meek, familiar rhyme, endeared to him from earliest childhood, Jude f=
ell
asleep:
Teach me to live, that I may dread <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die ...
He di=
d not
wake till morning. The ghostly past
seemed to have gone, and everything spoke of to-day. He started up in bed, thinking he had
overslept himself and then said:
"By Jove--I had quite forgotten my
sweet-faced cousin, and that she's here all the time! ... and my old
schoolmaster, too." His words=
about
his schoolmaster had, perhaps, less zest in them than his words concerning =
his
cousin.
Neces=
sary
meditations on the actual, including the mean bread-and-cheese question,
dissipated the phantasmal for a while, and compelled Jude to smother high
thinkings under immediate needs. H=
e had
to get up, and seek for work, manual work; the only kind deemed by many of =
its
professors to be work at all.
Passing out into the streets on this errand he
found that the colleges had treacherously changed their sympathetic
countenances: some were pompous; some had put on the look of family vaults
above ground; something barbaric loomed in the masonries of all. The spirits of the great men had disapp=
eared.
The numberless architectural pages around him =
he
read, naturally, less as an artist-critic of their forms than as an artizan=
and
comrade of the dead handicraftsmen whose muscles had actually executed those
forms. He examined the mouldings,
stroked them as one who knew their beginning, said they were difficult or e=
asy
in the working, had taken little or much time, were trying to the arm, or
convenient to the tool.
What at night had been perfect and ideal was by
day the more or less defective real.
Cruelties, insults, had, he perceived, been inflicted on the aged
erections. The condition of several
moved him as he would have been moved by maimed sentient beings. They were wounded, broken, sloughing off
their outer shape in the deadly struggle against years, weather, and man.
The rottenness of these historical documents
reminded him that he was not, after all, hastening on to begin the morning
practically as he had intended. He=
had
come to work, and to live by work, and the morning had nearly gone. It was, in one sense, encouraging to th=
ink that
in a place of crumbling stones there must be plenty for one of his trade to=
do
in the business of renovation. He =
asked
his way to the workyard of the stone-mason whose name had been given him at=
Alfredston;
and soon heard the familiar sound of the rubbers and chisels.
The yard was a little centre of regeneration.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Here, with keen edges and smooth curves=
, were
forms in the exact likeness of those he had seen abraded and time-eaten on =
the
walls. These were the ideas in mod=
ern
prose which the lichened colleges presented in old poetry. Even some of tho=
se
antiques might have been called prose when they were new. They had done nothing but wait, and had
become poetical. How easy to the smallest building; how impossible to most =
men.
He asked for the foreman, and looked round amo=
ng
the new traceries, mullions, transoms, shafts, pinnacles, and battlements
standing on the bankers half worked, or waiting to be removed. They were marked by precision, mathemat=
ical
straightness, smoothness, exactitude: there in the old walls were the broken
lines of the original idea; jagged curves, disdain of precision, irregulari=
ty,
disarray.
For a moment there fell on Jude a true
illumination; that here in the stone yard was a centre of effort as worthy =
as
that dignified by the name of scholarly study within the noblest of the
colleges. But he lost it under str=
ess of
his old idea. He would accept any
employment which might be offered him on the strength of his late employer'=
s recommendation;
but he would accept it as a provisional thing only. This was his form of the
modern vice of unrest.
Moreover he perceived that at best only copyin=
g,
patching and imitating went on here; which he fancied to be owing to some t=
emporary
and local cause. He did not at tha=
t time
see that mediævalism was as dead as a fern-leaf in a lump of coal; that oth=
er developments
were shaping in the world around him, in which Gothic architecture and its
associations had no place. The dea=
dly
animosity of contemporary logic and vision towards so much of what he held =
in reverence
was not yet revealed to him.
Having failed to obtain work here as yet he we=
nt
away, and thought again of his cousin, whose presence somewhere at hand he
seemed to feel in wavelets of interest, if not of emotion. How he wished he had that pretty portra=
it of
her! At last he wrote to his aunt =
to send
it. She did so, with a request, ho=
wever,
that he was not to bring disturbance into the family by going to see the gi=
rl
or her relations. Jude, a ridiculo=
usly
affectionate fellow, promised nothing, put the photograph on the mantel-pie=
ce,
kissed it--he did not know why--and felt more at home. She seemed to look down and preside ove=
r his
tea. It was cheering--the one thing
uniting him to the emotions of the living city.
There remained the schoolmaster--probably now a
reverend parson. But he could not possibly hunt up such a respectable man j=
ust
yet; so raw and unpolished was his condition, so precarious were his fortun=
es. Thus he still remained in loneliness. Although people moved round him he virt=
ually
saw none. Not as yet having mingle=
d with
the active life of the place it was largely non-existent to him. But the sa=
ints
and prophets in the window-tracery, the paintings in the galleries, the
statues, the busts, the gargoyles, the corbel-heads--these seemed to breathe
his atmosphere. Like all newcomers=
to a
spot on which the past is deeply graven he heard that past announcing itself
with an emphasis altogether unsuspected by, and even incredible to, the
habitual residents.
For many days he haunted the cloisters and
quadrangles of the colleges at odd minutes in passing them, surprised by im=
pish
echoes of his own footsteps, smart as the blows of a mallet. The Christminster "sentiment,"=
; as
it had been called, ate further and further into him; till he probably knew
more about those buildings materially, artistically, and historically, than=
any
one of their inmates.
It was not till now, when he found himself
actually on the spot of his enthusiasm, that Jude perceived how far away fr=
om
the object of that enthusiasm he really was.
Only a wall divided him from those happy young contemporaries of his
with whom he shared a common mental life; men who had nothing to do from
morning till night but to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. Only a wall--but what a wall!
Every day, every hour, as he went in search of
labour, he saw them going and coming also, rubbed shoulders with them, heard
their voices, marked their movements.
The conversation of some of the more thoughtful among them seemed
oftentimes, owing to his long and persistent preparation for this place, to=
be
peculiarly akin to his own thoughts. Yet
he was as far from them as if he had been at the antipodes. Of course he was. He was a young workman in a white blous=
e, and
with stone-dust in the creases of his clothes; and in passing him they did =
not
even see him, or hear him, rather saw through him as through a pane of glas=
s at
their familiars beyond. Whatever they were to him, he to them was not on the
spot at all; and yet he had fancied he would be close to their lives by com=
ing
there.
But the future lay ahead after all; and if he
could only be so fortunate as to get into good employment he would put up w=
ith
the inevitable. So he thanked God =
for
his health and strength, and took courage.
For the present he was outside the gates of everything, colleges inc=
luded:
perhaps some day he would be inside.
Those palaces of light and leading; he might some day look down on t=
he world
through their panes.
At length he did receive a message from the
stone-mason's yard--that a job was waiting for him. It was his first encouragement, and he =
closed
with the offer promptly.
He was young and strong, or he never could have
executed with such zest the undertakings to which he now applied himself, s=
ince
they involved reading most of the night after working all the day. First he bought a shaded lamp for four =
and
six-pence, and obtained a good light.
Then he got pens, paper, and such other necessary books as he had be=
en
unable to obtain elsewhere. Then, =
to the
consternation of his landlady, he shifted all the furniture of his room--a
single one for living and sleeping--rigged up a curtain on a rope across th=
e middle,
to make a double chamber out of one, hung up a thick blind that nobody shou=
ld
know how he was curtailing the hours of sleep, laid out his books, and sat
down.
Having been deeply encumbered by marrying, get=
ting
a cottage, and buying the furniture which had disappeared in the wake of his
wife, he had never been able to save any money since the time of those disa=
strous
ventures, and till his wages began to come in he was obliged to live in the
narrowest way. After buying a book=
or
two he could not even afford himself a fire; and when the nights reeked with
the raw and cold air from the Meadows he sat over his lamp in a great-coat,
hat, and woollen gloves.
From his window he could perceive the spire of=
the
cathedral, and the ogee dome under which resounded the great bell of the
city. The tall tower, tall belfry
windows, and tall pinnacles of the college by the bridge he could also get a
glimpse of by going to the staircase. These objects he used as stimulants w=
hen
his faith in the future was dim.
Like enthusiasts in general he made no inquiri=
es
into details of procedure. Picking=
up
general notions from casual acquaintance, he never dwelt upon them. For the present, he said to himself, th=
e one thing
necessary was to get ready by accumulating money and knowledge, and await
whatever chances were afforded to such an one of becoming a son of the
University. "For wisdom is a
defence, and money is a defence; but the excellency of knowledge is, that
wisdom giveth life to them that have it."
His desire absorbed him, and left no part of him to weigh its
practicability.
At this time he received a nervously anxious
letter from his poor old aunt, on the subject which had previously distress=
ed
her--a fear that Jude would not be strong-minded enough to keep away from h=
is
cousin Sue Bridehead and her relations.
Sue's father, his aunt believed, had gone back to London, but the gi=
rl
remained at Christminster. To make=
her
still more objectionable she was an artist or designer of some sort in what=
was
called an ecclesiastical warehouse, which was a perfect seed-bed of idolatr=
y,
and she was no doubt abandoned to mummeries on that account--if not quite a
Papist. (Miss Drusilla Fawley was of her date, Evangelical.)
As Jude was rather on an intellectual track th=
an a
theological, this news of Sue's probable opinions did not much influence him
one way or the other, but the clue to her whereabouts was decidedly
interesting. With an altogether singular pleasure he walked at his earliest
spare minutes past the shops answering to his great-aunt's description; and=
beheld
in one of them a young girl sitting behind a desk, who was suspiciously like
the original of the portrait. He
ventured to enter on a trivial errand, and having made his purchase lingere=
d on
the scene. The shop seemed to be k=
ept
entirely by women. It contained An=
glican
books, stationery, texts, and fancy goods: little plaster angels on bracket=
s,
Gothic-framed pictures of saints, ebony crosses that were almost crucifixes,
prayer-books that were almost missals. He felt very shy of looking at the g=
irl
in the desk; she was so pretty that he could not believe it possible that s=
he
should belong to him. Then she spo=
ke to
one of the two older women behind the counter; and he recognized in the acc=
ents
certain qualities of his own voice; softened and sweetened, but his own.
A L L E L U J A
"=
;A
sweet, saintly, Christian business, hers!" thought he.
Her presence here was now fairly enough explai=
ned,
her skill in work of this sort having no doubt been acquired from her fathe=
r's occupation
as an ecclesiastical worker in metal.
The lettering on which she was engaged was clearly intended to be fi=
xed
up in some chancel to assist devotion.
He came out.
It would have been easy to speak to her there and then, but it seemed
scarcely honourable towards his aunt to disregard her request so
incontinently. She had used him ro=
ughly,
but she had brought him up: and the fact of her being powerless to control =
him lent
a pathetic force to a wish that would have been inoperative as an argument.=
So Jude gave no sign. He would not call upon Sue just yet. And how possible it was that she had in=
herited
the antipathies of her family, and would scorn him, as far as a Christian
could, particularly when he had told her that unpleasant part of his history
which had resulted in his becoming enchained to one of her own sex whom she
would certainly not admire.
Thus he kept watch over her, and liked to feel=
she
was there. The consciousness of her living presence stimulated him. But she remained more or less an ideal
character, about whose form he began to weave curious and fantastic day-dre=
ams.
Between two and three weeks afterwards Jude was
engaged with some more men, outside Crozier College in Old-time Street, in
getting a block of worked freestone from a waggon across the pavement, befo=
re hoisting
it to the parapet which they were repairing.
Standing in position the head man said, "Spaik when he heave!
He-ho!" And they heaved.
All of a sudden, as he lifted, his cousin stood
close to his elbow, pausing a moment on the bend of her foot till the
obstructing object should have been removed.
She looked right into his face with liquid, untranslatable eyes, tha=
t combined,
or seemed to him to combine, keenness with tenderness, and mystery with bot=
h,
their expression, as well as that of her lips, taking its life from some wo=
rds
just spoken to a companion, and being carried on into his face quite
unconsciously. She no more observe=
d his
presence than that of the dust-motes which his manipulations raised into the
sunbeams.
His closeness to her was so suggestive that he
trembled, and turned his face away with a shy instinct to prevent her
recognizing him, though as she had never once seen him she could not possib=
ly
do so; and might very well never have heard even his name. He could perceive that though she was a
country-girl at bottom, a latter girlhood of some years in London, and a
womanhood here, had taken all rawness out of her.
When she was gone he continued his work,
reflecting on her. He had been so =
caught
by her influence that he had taken no count of her general mould and
build. He remembered now that she =
was
not a large figure, that she was light and slight, of the type dubbed elega=
nt. That
was about all he had seen. There w=
as
nothing statuesque in her; all was nervous motion. She was mobile, living, yet a painter m=
ight not
have called her handsome or beautiful.
But the much that she was surprised him.
She was quite a long way removed from the rusticity that was his.
From this moment the emotion which had been
accumulating in his breast as the bottled-up effect of solitude and the
poetized locality he dwelt in, insensibly began to precipitate itself on th=
is half-visionary
form; and he perceived that, whatever his obedient wish in a contrary
direction, he would soon be unable to resist the desire to make himself kno=
wn
to her.
He affected to think of her quite in a family =
way,
since there were crushing reasons why he should not and could not think of =
her
in any other.
The first reason was that he was married, and =
it
would be wrong. The second was that they were cousins. It was not well for cousins to fall in =
love
even when circumstances seemed to favour the passion. The third: even were =
he
free, in a family like his own where marriage usually meant a tragic sadnes=
s,
marriage with a blood-relation would duplicate the adverse conditions, and a
tragic sadness might be intensified to a tragic horror.
Therefore, again, he would have to think of Sue
with only a relation's mutual interest in one belonging to him; regard her =
in a
practical way as some one to be proud of; to talk and nod to; later on, to =
be
invited to tea by, the emotion spent on her being rigorously that of a kins=
man
and well-wisher. So would she be t=
o him a
kindly star, an elevating power, a companion in Anglican worship, a tender
friend.
But u=
nder
the various deterrent influences Jude's instinct was to approach her timidl=
y,
and the next Sunday he went to the morning service in the Cathedral church =
of
Cardinal College to gain a further view of her, for he had found that she
frequently attended there.
She did not come, and he awaited her in the
afternoon, which was finer. He kne=
w that
if she came at all she would approach the building along the eastern side of
the great green quadrangle from which it was accessible, and he stood in a
corner while the bell was going. A=
few
minutes before the hour for service she appeared as one of the figures walk=
ing
along under the college walls, and at sight of her he advanced up the side
opposite, and followed her into the building, more than ever glad that he h=
ad
not as yet revealed himself. To se=
e her,
and to be himself unseen and unknown, was enough for him at present.
He lingered awhile in the vestibule, and the
service was some way advanced when he was put into a seat. It was a louring, mournful, still after=
noon,
when a religion of some sort seems a necessity to ordinary practical men, a=
nd
not only a luxury of the emotional and leisured classes. In the dim light and the baffling glare=
of the
clerestory windows he could discern the opposite worshippers indistinctly o=
nly,
but he saw that Sue was among them. He
had not long discovered the exact seat that she occupied when the chanting =
of
the 119th Psalm in which the choir was engaged reached its second part, In =
quo
corriget, the organ changing to a pathetic Gregorian tune as the singers ga=
ve
forth:
Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse =
his
way?
It wa=
s the
very question that was engaging Jude's attention at this moment. What a wicked worthless fellow he had b=
een to
give vent as he had done to an animal passion for a woman, and allow it to =
lead
to such disastrous consequences; then to think of putting an end to himself;
then to go recklessly and get drunk. The
great waves of pedal music tumbled round the choir, and, nursed on the
supernatural as he had been, it is not wonderful that he could hardly belie=
ve
that the psalm was not specially set by some regardful Providence for this =
moment
of his first entry into the solemn building.
And yet it was the ordinary psalm for the twenty-fourth evening of t=
he
month.
The girl for whom he was beginning to nourish =
an
extraordinary tenderness was at this time ensphered by the same harmonies as
those which floated into his ears; and the thought was a delight to him. She
was probably a frequenter of this place, and, steeped body and soul in chur=
ch
sentiment as she must be by occupation and habit, had, no doubt, much in co=
mmon
with him. To an impressionable and
lonely young man the consciousness of having at last found anchorage for his
thoughts, which promised to supply both social and spiritual possibilities,=
was
like the dew of Hermon, and he remained throughout the service in a sustain=
ing
atmosphere of ecstasy.
Though he was loth to suspect it, some people =
might
have said to him that the atmosphere blew as distinctly from Cyprus as from
Galilee.
Jude waited till she had left her seat and pas=
sed
under the screen before he himself moved.
She did not look towards him, and by the time he reached the door sh=
e was
half-way down the broad path. Being dressed up in his Sunday suit he was
inclined to follow her and reveal himself.
But he was not quite ready; and, alas, ought he to do so with the ki=
nd
of feeling that was awakening in him?
For though it had seemed to have an ecclesiast=
ical
basis during the service, and he had persuaded himself that such was the ca=
se,
he could not altogether be blind to the real nature of the magnetism. She w=
as
such a stranger that the kinship was affectation, and he said, "It can=
't be! I, a man with a wife, must not know
her!" Still Sue WAS his own k=
in,
and the fact of his having a wife, even though she was not in evidence in t=
his
hemisphere, might be a help in one sense.
It would put all thought of a tender wish on his part out of Sue's m=
ind,
and make her intercourse with him free and fearless. It was with some heart=
ache
that he saw how little he cared for the freedom and fearlessness that would
result in her from such knowledge.
Some little time before the date of this servi=
ce in
the cathedral the pretty, liquid-eyed, light-footed young woman Sue Bridehe=
ad
had an afternoon's holiday, and leaving the ecclesiastical establishment in=
which
she not only assisted but lodged, took a walk into the country with a book =
in
her hand. It was one of those clou=
dless
days which sometimes occur in Wessex and elsewhere between days of cold and
wet, as if intercalated by caprice of the weather-god. She went along for a mile or two until =
she
came to much higher ground than that of the city she had left behind her. The road passed between green fields, a=
nd
coming to a stile Sue paused there, to finish the page she was reading, and
then looked back at the towers and domes and pinnacles new and old.
On the other side of the stile, in the footpat=
h, she
beheld a foreigner with black hair and a sallow face, sitting on the grass =
beside
a large square board whereon were fixed, as closely as they could stand, a
number of plaster statuettes, some of them bronzed, which he was re-arrangi=
ng
before proceeding with them on his way. They were in the main reduced copie=
s of
ancient marbles, and comprised divinities of a very different character from
those the girl was accustomed to see portrayed, among them being a Venus of=
standard
pattern, a Diana, and, of the other sex, Apollo, Bacchus, and Mars. Though the figures were many yards away=
from
her the south-west sun brought them out so brilliantly against the green he=
rbage
that she could discern their contours with luminous distinctness; and being
almost in a line between herself and the church towers of the city they awo=
ke
in her an oddly foreign and contrasting set of ideas by comparison. The man rose, and, seeing her, politely=
took
off his cap, and cried "I-i-i-mages!" in an accent that agreed wi=
th
his appearance. In a moment he
dexterously lifted upon his knee the great board with its assembled
notabilities divine and human, and raised it to the top of his head, bringi=
ng
them on to her and resting the board on the stile. First he offered her his smaller wares-=
-the
busts of kings and queens, then a minstrel, then a winged Cupid. She shook her head.
"How much are these two?" she said,
touching with her finger the Venus and the Apollo--the largest figures on t=
he
tray.
He said she should have them for ten shillings=
.
"I cannot afford that," said Sue.
When they were paid for, and the man had gone,=
she
began to be concerned as to what she should do with them. They seemed so very large now that they=
were
in her possession, and so very naked. Being of a nervous temperament she
trembled at her enterprise. When she handled them the white pipeclay came o=
ff
on her gloves and jacket. After ca=
rrying
them along a little way openly an idea came to her, and, pulling some huge
burdock leaves, parsley, and other rank growths from the hedge, she wrapped=
up
her burden as well as she could in these, so that what she carried appeared=
to
be an enormous armful of green stuff gathered by a zealous lover of nature.=
"Well, anything is better than those
everlasting church fallals!" she said.
But she was still in a trembling state, and seemed almost to wish she
had not bought the figures.
Occasionally peeping inside the leaves to see =
that
Venus's arm was not broken, she entered with her heathen load into the most
Christian city in the country by an obscure street running parallel to the =
main
one, and round a corner to the side door of the establishment to which she =
was
attached. Her purchases were taken
straight up to her own chamber, and she at once attempted to lock them in a=
box
that was her very own property; but finding them too cumbersome she wrapped=
them
in large sheets of brown paper, and stood them on the floor in a corner.
The mistress of the house, Miss Fontover, was =
an
elderly lady in spectacles, dressed almost like an abbess; a dab at Ritual,=
as
become one of her business, and a worshipper at the ceremonial church of St=
. Silas,
in the suburb of Beersheba before-mentioned, which Jude also had begun to
attend. She was the daughter of a
clergyman in reduced circumstances, and at his death, which had occurred
several years before this date, she boldly avoided penury by taking over a
little shop of church requisites and developing it to its present creditabl=
e proportions. She wore a cross and beads round her ne=
ck as
her only ornament, and knew the Christian Year by heart.
She now came to call Sue to tea, and, finding =
that
the girl did not respond for a moment, entered the room just as the other w=
as
hastily putting a string round each parcel.
"Something you have been buying, Miss
Bridehead?" she asked, regarding the enwrapped objects.
"Yes--just something to ornament my
room," said Sue.
"Well, I should have thought I had put en=
ough
here already," said Miss Fontover, looking round at the Gothic-framed
prints of saints, the Church-text scrolls, and other articles which, having
become too stale to sell, had been used to furnish this obscure chamber.
"Oh--I bought them of a travelling man who
sells casts--"
"Two saints?"
"Yes."
"What ones?"
"St. Peter and St.--St. Mary Magdalen.&qu=
ot;
"Well--now come down to tea, and go and
finish that organ-text, if there's light enough afterwards."
These little obstacles to the indulgence of wh=
at
had been the merest passing fancy created in Sue a great zest for unpacking=
her
objects and looking at them; and at bedtime, when she was sure of being und=
isturbed,
she unrobed the divinities in comfort.
Placing the pair of figures on the chest of drawers, a candle on each
side of them, she withdrew to the bed, flung herself down thereon, and bega=
n reading
a book she had taken from her box, which Miss Fontover knew nothing of. It was a volume of Gibbon, and she read=
the
chapter dealing with the reign of Julian the Apostate. Occasionally she looked up at the statu=
ettes,
which appeared strange and out of place, there happening to be a Calvary pr=
int
hanging between them, and, as if the scene suggested the action, she at len=
gth
jumped up and withdrew another book from her box--a volume of verse--and tu=
rned
to the familiar poem--
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean: =
The world has grown grey from thy brea=
th!
which=
she
read to the end. Presently she put=
out
the candles, undressed, and finally extinguished her own light.
She was of an age which usually sleeps soundly,
yet to-night she kept waking up, and every time she opened her eyes there w=
as
enough diffused light from the street to show her the white plaster figures=
, standing
on the chest of drawers in odd contrast to their environment of text and
martyr, and the Gothic-framed Crucifix-picture that was only discernible no=
w as
a Latin cross, the figure thereon being obscured by the shades.
On one of these occasions the church clocks st=
ruck
some small hour. It fell upon the ears of another person who sat bending ov=
er
his books at a not very distant spot in the same city. Being Saturday night the morrow was one=
on
which Jude had not set his alarm-clock to call him at his usually early tim=
e,
and hence he had stayed up, as was his custom, two or three hours later tha=
n he
could afford to do on any other day of the week. Just then he was earnestly reading from=
his
Griesbach's text. At the very time=
that
Sue was tossing and staring at her figures, the policeman and belated citiz=
ens
passing along under his window might have heard, if they had stood still, s=
trange
syllables mumbled with fervour within--words that had for Jude an indescrib=
able
enchantment: inexplicable sounds something like these:--
"All hemin heis Theos ho Pater, ex hou ta
panta, kai hemeis eis auton:"
Till the sounds rolled with reverent loudness,=
as
a book was heard to close:--
"Kai heis Kurios Iesous Christos, di hou =
ta
panta kai hemeis di autou!"
He wa=
s a
handy man at his trade, an all-round man, as artizans in country-towns are =
apt
to be. In London the man who carve=
s the
boss or knob of leafage declines to cut the fragment of moulding which merg=
es
in that leafage, as if it were a degradation to do the second half of one
whole. When there was not much Got=
hic
moulding for Jude to run, or much window-tracery on the bankers, he would go
out lettering monuments or tombstones, and take a pleasure in the change of
handiwork.
The next time that he saw her was when he was =
on a
ladder executing a job of this sort inside one of the churches. There was a short morning service, and =
when
the parson entered Jude came down from his ladder, and sat with the half-do=
zen
people forming the congregation, till the prayer should be ended, and he co=
uld
resume his tapping. He did not obs=
erve
till the service was half over that one of the women was Sue, who had perfo=
rce
accompanied the elderly Miss Fontover thither.
Jude sat watching her pretty shoulders, her ea=
sy,
curiously nonchalant risings and sittings, and her perfunctory genuflexions=
, and
thought what a help such an Anglican would have been to him in happier
circumstances. It was not so much =
his
anxiety to get on with his work that made him go up to it immediately the
worshipers began to take their leave: it was that he dared not, in this holy
spot, confront the woman who was beginning to influence him in such an inde=
scribable
manner. Those three enormous reaso=
ns why
he must not attempt intimate acquaintance with Sue Bridehead, now that his =
interest
in her had shown itself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind, loomed as
stubbornly as ever. But it was also
obvious that man could not live by work alone; that the particular man Jude=
, at
any rate, wanted something to love. Some
men would have rushed incontinently to her, snatched the pleasure of easy
friendship which she could hardly refuse, and have left the rest to
chance. Not so Jude--at first.
But as the days, and still more particularly t=
he
lonely evenings, dragged along, he found himself, to his moral consternatio=
n, to
be thinking more of her instead of thinking less of her, and experiencing a
fearful bliss in doing what was erratic, informal, and unexpected. Surrounded by her influence all day, wa=
lking
past the spots she frequented, he was always thinking of her, and was oblig=
ed to
own to himself that his conscience was likely to be the loser in this battl=
e.
To be sure she was almost an ideality to him
still. Perhaps to know her would b=
e to
cure himself of this unexpected and unauthorized passion. A voice whispered that, though he desir=
ed to
know her, he did not desire to be cured.
There was not the least doubt that from his own
orthodox point of view the situation was growing immoral. For Sue to be the loved one of a man wh=
o was
licensed by the laws of his country to love Arabella and none other unto his
life's end, was a pretty bad second beginning when the man was bent on such=
a
course as Jude purposed. This conv=
iction
was so real with him that one day when, as was frequent, he was at work in a
neighbouring village church alone, he felt it to be his duty to pray against
his weakness. But much as he wishe=
d to be
an exemplar in these things he could not get on. It was quite impossible, he found, to a=
sk to
be delivered from temptation when your heart's desire was to be tempted unto
seventy times seven. So he excused
himself. "After all," he=
said,
"it is not altogether an erotolepsy that is the matter with me, as at =
that
first time. I can see that she is exceptionally bright; and it is partly a =
wish
for intellectual sympathy, and a craving for loving-kindness in my solitude=
." Thus he went on adoring her, fearing to
realize that it was human perversity.
For whatever Sue's virtues, talents, or ecclesiastical saturation, it
was certain that those items were not at all the cause of his affection for
her.
On an afternoon at this time a young girl ente=
red
the stone-mason's yard with some hesitation, and, lifting her skirts to avo=
id
draggling them in the white dust, crossed towards the office.
"That's a nice girl," said one of the
men known as Uncle Joe.
"Who is she?" asked another.
"I don't know--I've seen her about here a=
nd
there. Why, yes, she's the daughte=
r of
that clever chap Bridehead who did all the wrought ironwork at St. Silas' t=
en
years ago, and went away to London afterwards.
I don't know what he's doing now--not much I fancy--as she's come ba=
ck
here."
Meanwhile the young woman had knocked at the
office door and asked if Mr. Jude Fawley was at work in the yard. It so happened that Jude had gone out
somewhere or other that afternoon, which information she received with a lo=
ok
of disappointment, and went away immediately. When Jude returned they told =
him,
and described her, whereupon he exclaimed, "Why--that's my cousin
Sue!"
He looked along the street after her, but she =
was
out of sight. He had no longer any
thought of a conscientious avoidance of her, and resolved to call upon her =
that
very evening. And when he reached =
his
lodging he found a note from her--a first note--one of those documents whic=
h,
simple and commonplace in themselves, are seen retrospectively to have been
pregnant with impassioned consequences. The very unconsciousness of a loomi=
ng
drama which is shown in such innocent first epistles from women to men, or =
vice
versa, makes them, when such a drama follows, and they are read over by the
purple or lurid light of it, all the more impressive, solemn, and in cases,=
terrible.
Sue's was of the most artless and natural
kind. She addressed him as her dear
cousin Jude; said she had only just learnt by the merest accident that he w=
as
living in Christminster, and reproached him with not letting her know. They might have had such nice times tog=
ether,
she said, for she was thrown much upon herself, and had hardly any congenial
friend. But now there was every
probability of her soon going away, so that the chance of companionship wou=
ld
be lost perhaps for ever.
A cold sweat overspread Jude at the news that =
she
was going away. That was a contingency he had never thought of, and it spur=
red
him to write all the more quickly to her.
He would meet her that very evening, he said, one hour from the time=
of
writing, at the cross in the pavement which marked the spot of the Martyrdo=
ms.
When he had despatched the note by a boy he
regretted that in his hurry he should have suggested to her to meet him out=
of
doors, when he might have said he would call upon her. It was, in fact, the country custom to =
meet
thus, and nothing else had occurred to him. Arabella had been met in the sa=
me
way, unfortunately, and it might not seem respectable to a dear girl like
Sue. However, it could not be help=
ed
now, and he moved towards the point a few minutes before the hour, under the
glimmer of the newly lighted lamps.
The broad street was silent, and almost desert=
ed,
although it was not late. He saw a
figure on the other side, which turned out to be hers, and they both conver=
ged
towards the crossmark at the same moment.
Before either had reached it she called out to him:
"I am not going to meet you just there, f=
or the
first time in my life! Come further
on."
The voice, though positive and silvery, had be=
en
tremulous. They walked on in paral=
lel
lines, and, waiting her pleasure, Jude watched till she showed signs of clo=
sing
in, when he did likewise, the place being where the carriers' carts stood in
the daytime, though there was none on the spot then.
"I am sorry that I asked you to meet me, =
and
didn't call," began Jude with the bashfulness of a lover. "But I thought it would save time =
if we
were going to walk."
"Oh--I don't mind that," she said wi=
th
the freedom of a friend. "I h=
ave
really no place to ask anybody in to.
What I meant was that the place you chose was so horrid--I suppose I
ought not to say horrid--I mean gloomy and inauspicious in its associations=
... But isn't it funny to begin like this, =
when I
don't know you yet?" She look=
ed him
up and down curiously, though Jude did not look much at her.
"You seem to know me more than I know
you," she added.
"Yes--I have seen you now and then."=
"And you knew who I was, and didn't
speak? And now I am going away!&qu=
ot;
"Yes.
That's unfortunate. I have =
hardly
any other friend. I have, indeed, =
one
very old friend here somewhere, but I don't quite like to call on him just
yet. I wonder if you know anything=
of him--Mr.
Phillotson? A parson somewhere abo=
ut the
county I think he is."
"No--I only know of one Mr. Phillotson. He lives a little way out in the countr=
y, at
Lumsdon. He's a village
schoolmaster."
"Ah! =
span>I
wonder if he's the same. Surely it=
is
impossible! Only a schoolmaster
still! Do you know his Christian
name--is it Richard?"
"Yes--it is; I've directed books to him,
though I've never seen him."
"Then he couldn't do it!"
Jude's countenance fell, for how could he succ=
eed
in an enterprise wherein the great Phillotson had failed? He would have had a day of despair if t=
he
news had not arrived during his sweet Sue's presence, but even at this mome=
nt
he had visions of how Phillotson's failure in the grand university scheme w=
ould
depress him when she had gone.
"As we are going to take a walk, suppose =
we
go and call upon him?" said Jude suddenly.
"It is not late."
She agreed, and they went along up a hill, and
through some prettily wooded country.
Presently the embattled tower and square turret of the church rose i=
nto
the sky, and then the school-house. They inquired of a person in the street=
if
Mr. Phillotson was likely to be at home, and were informed that he was alwa=
ys
at home. A knock brought him to the
school-house door, with a candle in his hand and a look of inquiry on his f=
ace,
which had grown thin and careworn since Jude last set eyes on him.
That after all these years the meeting with Mr.
Phillotson should be of this homely complexion destroyed at one stroke the =
halo
which had surrounded the school-master's figure in Jude's imagination ever =
since
their parting. It created in him a=
t the
same time a sympathy with Phillotson as an obviously much chastened and
disappointed man. Jude told him his name, and said he had come to see him a=
s an
old friend who had been kind to him in his youthful days.
"I don't remember you in the least,"
said the school-master thoughtfully.
"You were one of my pupils, you say? Yes, no doubt; but they number so many
thousands by this time of my life, and have naturally changed so much, that=
I
remember very few except the quite recent ones."
"It was out at Marygreen," said Jude,
wishing he had not come.
"Yes.
I was there a short time. A=
nd is
this an old pupil, too?"
"No--that's my cousin... I wrote to you for some grammars, if yo=
u recollect,
and you sent them?"
"Ah--yes!--I do dimly recall that
incident."
"It was very kind of you to do it. And it was you who first started me on =
that
course. On the morning you left
Marygreen, when your goods were on the waggon, you wished me good-bye, and =
said
your scheme was to be a university man and enter the Church--that a degree =
was
the necessary hall-mark of one who wanted to do anything as a theologian or
teacher."
"I remember I thought all that privately;=
but
I wonder I did not keep my own counsel.
The idea was given up years ago."
"I have never forgotten it. It was that which brought me to this pa=
rt of
the country, and out here to see you to-night."
"Come in," said Phillotson. "And your cousin, too."
They entered the parlour of the school-house,
where there was a lamp with a paper shade, which threw the light down on th=
ree
or four books. Phillotson took it =
off,
so that they could see each other better, and the rays fell on the nervous
little face and vivacious dark eyes and hair of Sue, on the earnest feature=
s of
her cousin, and on the schoolmaster's own maturer face and figure, showing =
him to
be a spare and thoughtful personage of five-and-forty, with a thin-lipped,
somewhat refined mouth, a slightly stooping habit, and a black frock coat,
which from continued frictions shone a little at the shoulder-blades, the
middle of the back, and the elbows.
The old friendship was imperceptibly renewed, =
the
schoolmaster speaking of his experiences, and the cousins of theirs. He told them that he still thought of the
Church sometimes, and that though he could not enter it as he had intended =
to
do in former years he might enter it as a licentiate. Meanwhile, he said, he was comfortable =
in his
present position, though he was in want of a pupil-teacher.
They did not stay to supper, Sue having to be
indoors before it grew late, and the road was retraced to Christminster.
"Why must you leave Christminster?" =
he
said regretfully. "How can yo=
u do
otherwise than cling to a city in whose history such men as Newman, Pusey,
Ward, Keble, loom so large!"
"Yes--they do. Though how large do they loom in the hi= story of the world? ... What a funny rea= son for caring to stay! I should never= have thought of it!" She laughed.<= o:p>
"Well--I must go," she continued.
"How did that happen?"
"She broke some statuary of mine."
"Oh?
Wilfully?"
"Yes.
She found it in my room, and though it was my property she threw it =
on
the floor and stamped on it, because it was not according to her taste, and
ground the arms and the head of one of the figures all to bits with her hee=
l--a
horrid thing!"
"Too Catholic-Apostolic for her, I
suppose? No doubt she called them =
popish
images and talked of the invocation of saints."
"No...
No, she didn't do that. She=
saw
the matter quite differently."
"Ah!
Then I am surprised!"
"Yes.
It was for quite some other reason that she didn't like my patron-sa=
ints. So I was led to retort upon her; and th=
e end
of it was that I resolved not to stay, but to get into an occupation in whi=
ch I
shall be more independent."
"Why don't you try teaching again? You once did, I heard."
"I never thought of resuming it; for I was
getting on as an art-designer."
"DO let me ask Mr. Phillotson to let you =
try
your hand in his school? If you li=
ke it,
and go to a training college, and become a first-class certificated mistres=
s,
you get twice as large an income as any designer or church artist, and twic=
e as
much freedom."
"Well--ask him. Now I must go in. Good-bye, dear Jude! I am so glad we have met at last. We needn't quarrel because our parents =
did,
need we?"
Jude did not like to let her see quite how muc=
h he
agreed with her, and went his way to the remote street in which he had his
lodging.
To keep Sue Bridehead near him was now a desire
which operated without regard of consequences, and the next evening he again
set out for Lumsdon, fearing to trust to the persuasive effects of a note o=
nly. The school-master was unprepared for su=
ch a
proposal.
"What I rather wanted was a second year's
transfer, as it is called," he said.
"Of course your cousin would do, personally; but she has had no
experience. Oh--she has, has she?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Does she really think of adopting teach=
ing as
a profession?"
Jude said she was disposed to do so, he though=
t,
and his ingenious arguments on her natural fitness for assisting Mr.
Phillotson, of which Jude knew nothing whatever, so influenced the schoolma=
ster
that he said he would engage her, assuring Jude as a friend that unless his=
cousin
really meant to follow on in the same course, and regarded this step as the
first stage of an apprenticeship, of which her training in a normal school
would be the second stage, her time would be wasted quite, the salary being
merely nominal.
The day after this visit Phillotson received a
letter from Jude, containing the information that he had again consulted his
cousin, who took more and more warmly to the idea of tuition; and that she =
had
agreed to come. It did not occur f=
or a
moment to the schoolmaster and recluse that Jude's ardour in promoting the =
arrangement
arose from any other feelings towards Sue than the instinct of co-operation
common among members of the same family.
The
schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school, both being
modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old house in which his
teacher Sue had a lodging. The
arrangement had been concluded very quickly.
A pupil-teacher who was to have been transferred to Mr. Phillotson's
school had failed him, and Sue had been taken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as th=
ese could
only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose approval was
necessary to make them permanent. =
Having
taught for some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation=
of late,
Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought there would=
be
no difficulty in retaining her services, which he already wished to do, tho=
ugh
she had only been with him three or four weeks.
He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her; and what
master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half his
labour?
It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in
the morning and he was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, whe=
n he
would follow. At twenty minutes to=
nine
she did cross, a light hat tossed on her head; and he watched her as a
curiosity. A new emanation, which =
had
nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this
morning. He went to the school als=
o, and
Sue remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day under
his eye. She certainly was an exce=
llent
teacher.
It was part of his duty to give her private
lessons in the evening, and some article in the Code made it necessary that=
a
respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teac=
her
and the taught were of different sexes.
Richard Phillotson thought of the absurdity of the regulation in this
case, when he was old enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully act=
ed
up to it; and sat down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at wh=
ose
house Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing.
The regulation was, indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other
sitting-room in the dwelling.
Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic th=
at
they were working at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inqui=
ring
smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all
that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not really thinking of t=
he
arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel way which somehow seemed strange =
to
him as preceptor. Perhaps she knew=
that
he was thinking of her thus.
For a few weeks their work had gone on with a
monotony which in itself was a delight to him.
Then it happened that the children were to be taken to Christminster=
to
see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which
schools were admitted at a penny a head in the interests of education. They marched along the road two and two=
, she
beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade, her little thumb cocked up
against its stem; and Phillotson behind in his long dangling coat, handling=
his
walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since h=
er arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and dust, =
and
when they entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselve=
s. The
model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment, and the
proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his features, wal=
ked
round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the young people the various
quarters and places known to them by name from reading their Bibles; Mount
Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the City of Zion, the walls and the gate=
s,
outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mou=
nd a
little white cross. The spot, he s=
aid,
was Calvary.
"I think," said Sue to the schoolmas=
ter,
as she stood with him a little in the background, "that this model,
elaborate as it is, is a very imaginary production. How does anybody know that Jerusalem wa=
s like
this in the time of Christ? I am s=
ure
this man doesn't."
"It is made after the best conjectural ma=
ps,
based on actual visits to the city as it now exists."
"I fancy we have had enough of
Jerusalem," she said, "considering we are not descended from the
Jews. There was nothing first-rate=
about
the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome, Alexandri=
a,
and other old cities."
"But my dear girl, consider what it is to
us!"
She was silent, for she was easily repressed; =
and
then perceived behind the group of children clustered round the model a you=
ng
man in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent ins=
pection
of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost hidden from view by t=
he
Mount of Olives. "Look at your
cousin Jude," continued the schoolmaster.
"He doesn't think we have had enough of Jerusalem!"
"Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in= her quick, light voice. "Jude--how seriously you are going into it!"<= o:p>
Jude started up from his reverie, and saw
her. "Oh--Sue!" he said,=
with
a glad flush of embarrassment.
"These are your school-children, of course! I saw that schools were admitted in the
afternoons, and thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that=
I
didn't remember where I was. How it
carries one back, doesn't it! I co=
uld examine
it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately; for I am in the
middle of a job out here."
"Your cousin is so terribly clever that s=
he
criticizes it unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured
satire. "She is quite sceptic=
al as
to its correctness."
"No, Mr. Phillotson, I am
not--altogether! I hate to be what=
is called
a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered Sue
sensitively. "I only meant--I=
don't
know what I meant--except that it was what you don't understand!"
"I know your meaning," said Jude
ardently (although he did not). "And I think you are quite right."=
;
"That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in
me!" She impulsively seized h=
is
hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned away to Jud=
e,
her voice revealing a tremor which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled=
for
by sarcasm so gentle. She had not =
the
least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this moment=
ary
revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was building up thereby =
in
the futures of both.
The model wore too much of an educational aspe=
ct
for the children not to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon
they were all marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work. He watched the juvenile flock in their =
clean
frocks and pinafores, filing down the street towards the country beside
Phillotson and Sue, and a sad, dissatisfied sense of being out of the schem=
e of
the latters' lives had possession of him.
Phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them on Friday evenin=
g,
when there would be no lessons to give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promise=
d to
avail himself of the opportunity.
Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved
homewards, and the next day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class,
Phillotson was surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a
perspective view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place.
"I thought you took no interest in the mo=
del,
and hardly looked at it?" he said.
"I hardly did," said she, "but I
remembered that much of it."
"It is more than I had remembered
myself."
Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time
paying "surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teachi=
ng unawares;
and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of the =
door
was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman, the king of terrors--to pupi=
l-teachers.
To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; =
like
the lady in the story he had been played that trick too many times to be
unprepared. But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back
was towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind her=
and
watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of his
presence. She turned, and realized=
that
an oft-dreaded moment had come. The
effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of fright. Phillotson, with a strange instinct of
solicitude quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent
her falling from faintness. She so=
on
recovered herself, and laughed; but when the inspector had gone there was a
reaction, and she was so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and =
gave
her some brandy to bring her round. She
found him holding her hand.
"You ought to have told me," she gas=
ped
petulantly, "that one of the inspector's surprise-visits was
imminent! Oh, what shall I do! Now he'll write and tell the managers t=
hat I
am no good, and I shall be disgraced for ever!"
"He won't do that, my dear little girl. You are the best teacher ever I had!&qu=
ot;
He looked so gently at her that she was moved,=
and
regretted that she had upbraided him.
When she was better she went home.
Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatien=
tly
for Friday. On both Wednesday and
Thursday he had been so much under the influence of his desire to see her t=
hat
he walked after dark some distance along the road in the direction of the
village, and, on returning to his room to read, found himself quite unable =
to
concentrate his mind on the page. =
On
Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought Sue would like to see
him, and made a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that the evening was
wet. The trees overhead deepened t=
he
gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with
forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her he
also knew that he could not be more to her than he was.
On turning the corner and entering the village=
the
first sight that greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella
coming out of the vicarage gate. H=
e was
too far back for them to notice him, but he knew in a moment that they were=
Sue
and Phillotson. The latter was hol=
ding
the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently been paying a visit to t=
he
vicar--probably on some business connected with the school work. And as they walked along the wet and de=
serted
lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist; whereupon she
gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it remain, looking quick=
ly
round her with an air of misgiving. She
did not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who sank
into the hedge like one struck with a blight.
There he remained hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she=
had
passed in, Phillotson going on to the school hard by.
"Oh, he's too old for her--too old!"
cried Jude in all the terrible sickness of hopeless, handicapped love.
He could not interfere. Was he not Arabella's? He was unable to go on further, and ret=
raced
his steps towards Christminster. E=
very tread
of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account stand in the sc=
hoolmaster's
way with Sue. Phillotson was perha=
ps twenty
years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made in such condition=
s of
age. The ironical clinch to his so=
rrow
was given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the schoo=
lmaster
had been brought about entirely by himself.
Jude'=
s old
and embittered aunt lay unwell at Marygreen, and on the following Sunday he
went to see her--a visit which was the result of a victorious struggle agai=
nst
his inclination to turn aside to the village of Lumsdon and obtain a misera=
ble
interview with his cousin, in which the word nearest his heart could not be
spoken, and the sight which had tortured him could not be revealed.
His aunt was now unable to leave her bed, and a
great part of Jude's short day was occupied in making arrangements for her
comfort. The little bakery busines=
s had
been sold to a neighbour, and with the proceeds of this and her savings she=
was
comfortably supplied with necessaries and more, a widow of the same village=
living
with her and ministering to her wants.
It was not till the time had nearly come for him to leave that he
obtained a quiet talk with her, and his words tended insensibly towards his
cousin.
"Was Sue born here?"
"She was--in this room. They were living here at that time. What made 'ee ask that?"
"Oh--I wanted to know."
"Now you've been seeing her!" said t=
he
harsh old woman. "And what di=
d I
tell 'ee?"
"Well--that I was not to see her."
"Have you gossiped with her?"
"Yes."
"Then don't keep it up. She was brought up by her father to hat=
e her mother's
family; and she'll look with no favour upon a working chap like you--a town=
ish
girl as she's become by now. I nev=
er
cared much about her. A pert little
thing, that's what she was too often, with her tight-strained nerves. Many's the time I've smacked her for he=
r impertinence. Why, one day when she was walking into =
the
pond with her shoes and stockings off, and her petticoats pulled above her =
knees,
afore I could cry out for shame, she said: 'Move on, Aunty! This is no sight
for modest eyes!'"
"She was a little child then."
"She was twelve if a day."
"Well--of course. But now she's older she's of a thoughtf=
ul, quivering,
tender nature, and as sensitive as--"
"Jude!" cried his aunt, springing up=
in
bed. "Don't you be a fool abo=
ut
her!"
"No, no, of course not."
"Your marrying that woman Arabella was ab=
out
as bad a thing as a man could possibly do for himself by trying hard. But she's gone to the other side of the
world, and med never trouble you again.
And there'll be a worse thing if you, tied and bound as you be, shou=
ld have
a fancy for Sue. If your cousin is=
civil
to you, take her civility for what it is worth.
But anything more than a relation's good wishes it is stark madness =
for
'ee to give her. If she's townish =
and
wanton it med bring 'ee to ruin."
"Don't say anything against her, Aunt!
A relief was afforded to him by the entry of t=
he
companion and nurse of his aunt, who must have been listening to the
conversation, for she began a commentary on past years, introducing Sue
Bridehead as a character in her recollections.
She described what an odd little maid Sue had been when a pupil at t=
he
village school across the green opposite, before her father went to London-=
-how,
when the vicar arranged readings and recitations, she appeared on the platf=
orm,
the smallest of them all, "in her little white frock, and shoes, and p=
ink sash";
how she recited "Excelsior," "There was a sound of revelry b=
y night,"
and "The Raven"; how during the delivery she would knit her little
brows and glare round tragically, and say to the empty air, as if some real
creature stood there--
"Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven=
, wandering from the Nightly shore, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!&quo=
t;
"=
;She'd
bring up the nasty carrion bird that clear," corroborated the sick wom=
an
reluctantly, "as she stood there in her little sash and things, that y=
ou
could see un a'most before your very eyes.
You too, Jude, had the same trick as a child of seeming to see thing=
s in
the air."
The neighbour told also of Sue's accomplishmen=
ts
in other kinds:
"She was not exactly a tomboy, you know; =
but
she could do things that only boys do, as a rule. I've seen her hit in and steer down the=
long
slide on yonder pond, with her little curls blowing, one of a file of twenty
moving along against the sky like shapes painted on glass, and up the back
slide without stopping. All boys e=
xcept herself;
and then they'd cheer her, and then she'd say, 'Don't be saucy, boys,' and
suddenly run indoors. They'd try t=
o coax
her out again. But 'a wouldn't
come."
These retrospective visions of Sue only made J=
ude
the more miserable that he was unable to woo her, and he left the cottage of
his aunt that day with a heavy heart. He
would fain have glanced into the school to see the room in which Sue's litt=
le
figure had so glorified itself; but he checked his desire and went on.
It being Sunday evening some villagers who had
known him during his residence here were standing in a group in their best
clothes. Jude was startled by a sa=
lute
from one of them:
"Ye've got there right enough, then!"=
;
Jude showed that he did not understand.
"Why, to the seat of l'arning--the 'City =
of
Light' you used to talk to us about as a little boy! Is it all you expected of it?"
"Yes; more!" cried Jude.
"When I was there once for an hour I didn=
't
see much in it for my part; auld crumbling buildings, half church, half
almshouse, and not much going on at that."
"You are wrong, John; there is more going=
on
than meets the eye of a man walking through the streets. It is a unique centre of thought and
religion--the intellectual and spiritual granary of this country. All that
silence and absence of goings-on is the stillness of infinite motion--the s=
leep
of the spinning-top, to borrow the simile of a well-known writer."
"Oh, well, it med be all that, or it med
not. As I say, I didn't see nothin=
g of
it the hour or two I was there; so I went in and had a pot o' beer, and a p=
enny
loaf, and a ha'porth o' cheese, and waited till it was time to come along
home. You've j'ined a college by t=
his time,
I suppose?"
"Ah, no!" said Jude. "I am almost as far off that as
ever."
"How so?"
Jude slapped his pocket.
"Just what we thought! Such places be not for such as you--onl=
y for them
with plenty o' money."
"There you are wrong," said Jude, wi=
th
some bitterness. "They are fo=
r such
ones!"
Still, the remark was sufficient to withdraw
Jude's attention from the imaginative world he had lately inhabited, in whi=
ch
an abstract figure, more or less himself, was steeping his mind in a
sublimation of the arts and sciences, and making his calling and election s=
ure to
a seat in the paradise of the learned.
He was set regarding his prospects in a cold northern light. He had lately felt that he could not qu=
ite
satisfy himself in his Greek--in the Greek of the dramatists particularly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So fatigued was he sometimes after his =
day's
work that he could not maintain the critical attention necessary for thorou=
gh
application. He felt that he wante=
d a coach--a
friend at his elbow to tell him in a moment what sometimes would occupy him=
a
weary month in extracting from unanticipative, clumsy books.
It was decidedly necessary to consider facts a
little more closely than he had done of late.
What was the good, after all, of using up his spare hours in a vague
labour called "private study" without giving an outlook on
practicabilities?
"I ought to have thought of this
before," he said, as he journeyed back.
"It would have been better never to have embarked in the scheme=
at
all than to do it without seeing clearly where I am going, or what I am aim=
ing
at... This hovering outside the wa=
lls of
the colleges, as if expecting some arm to be stretched out from them to lif=
t me
inside, won't do! I must get speci=
al
information."
The next week accordingly he sought it. What at first seemed an opportunity occ=
urred
one afternoon when he saw an elderly gentleman, who had been pointed out as=
the
head of a particular college, walking in the public path of a parklike
enclosure near the spot at which Jude chanced to be sitting. The gentleman came nearer, and Jude loo=
ked
anxiously at his face. It seemed b=
enign,
considerate, yet rather reserved. =
On
second thoughts Jude felt that he could not go up and address him; but he w=
as
sufficiently influenced by the incident to think what a wise thing it would=
be
for him to state his difficulties by letter to some of the best and most
judicious of these old masters, and obtain their advice.
During the next week or two he accordingly pla=
ced
himself in such positions about the city as would afford him glimpses of
several of the most distinguished among the provosts, wardens, and other he=
ads
of houses; and from those he ultimately selected five whose physiognomies
seemed to say to him that they were appreciative and far-seeing men. To these five he addressed letters, bri=
efly
stating his difficulties, and asking their opinion on his stranded situatio=
n.
When the letters were posted Jude mentally beg=
an
to criticize them; he wished they had not been sent. "It is just one of those intrusive,
vulgar, pushing, applications which are so common in these days," he
thought. "Why couldn't I know
better than address utter strangers in such a way? I may be an impostor, an idle scamp, a =
man with
a bad character, for all that they know to the contrary... Perhaps that's w=
hat
I am!"
Nevertheless, he found himself clinging to the
hope of some reply as to his one last chance of redemption. He waited day after day, saying that it=
was
perfectly absurd to expect, yet expecting. While he waited he was suddenly
stirred by news about Phillotson. Phillotson was giving up the school near
Christminster, for a larger one further south, in Mid-Wessex. What this meant; how it would affect his
cousin; whether, as seemed possible, it was a practical move of the
schoolmaster's towards a larger income, in view of a provision for two inst=
ead
of one, he would not allow himself to say. And the tender relations between
Phillotson and the young girl of whom Jude was passionately enamoured
effectually made it repugnant to Jude's tastes to apply to Phillotson for
advice on his own scheme.
Meanwhile the academic dignitaries to whom Jude
had written vouchsafed no answer, and the young man was thus thrown back en=
tirely
on himself, as formerly, with the added gloom of a weakened hope. By indirect inquiries he soon perceived
clearly what he had long uneasily suspected, that to qualify himself for
certain open scholarships and exhibitions was the only brilliant course.
The other course, that of buying himself in, s=
o to
speak, seemed the only one really open to men like him, the difficulty being
simply of a material kind. With th=
e help
of his information he began to reckon the extent of this material obstacle,=
and
ascertained, to his dismay, that, at the rate at which, with the best of
fortune, he would be able to save money, fifteen years must elapse before he
could be in a position to forward testimonials to the head of a college and
advance to a matriculation examination.
The undertaking was hopeless.
He saw what a curious and cunning glamour the
neighbourhood of the place had exercised over him. To get there and live there, to move am=
ong
the churches and halls and become imbued with the genius loci, had seemed to
his dreaming youth, as the spot shaped its charms to him from its halo on t=
he
horizon, the obvious and ideal thing to do.
"Let me only get there," he had said with the fatuousness =
of
Crusoe over his big boat, "and the rest is but a matter of time and
energy." It would have been f=
ar
better for him in every way if he had never come within sight and sound of =
the
delusive precincts, had gone to some busy commercial town with the sole obj=
ect of
making money by his wits, and thence surveyed his plan in true perspective.=
Well, all that was clear to him amounte=
d to
this, that the whole scheme had burst up, like an iridescent soap-bubble, u=
nder
the touch of a reasoned inquiry. He
looked back at himself along the vista of his past years, and his thought w=
as
akin to Heine's:
Above the youth's inspired and flashin=
g eyes
I see the motley mocking fool's-=
cap
rise!
Fortu=
nately
he had not been allowed to bring his disappointment into his dear Sue's lif=
e by
involving her in this collapse. An=
d the painful
details of his awakening to a sense of his limitations should now be spared=
her
as far as possible. After all, she=
had
only known a little part of the miserable struggle in which he had been eng=
aged
thus unequipped, poor, and unforeseeing.
He always remembered the appearance of the
afternoon on which he awoke from his dream.
Not quite knowing what to do with himself, he went up to an octagonal
chamber in the lantern of a singularly built theatre that was set amidst th=
is
quaint and singular city. It had w=
indows
all round, from which an outlook over the whole town and its edifices could=
be
gained. Jude's eyes swept all the =
views in
succession, meditatively, mournfully, yet sturdily. Those buildings and their associations =
and
privileges were not for him. From =
the looming
roof of the great library, into which he hardly ever had time to enter, his
gaze travelled on to the varied spires, halls, gables, streets, chapels,
gardens, quadrangles, which composed the ensemble of this unrivalled
panorama. He saw that his destiny =
lay
not with these, but among the manual toilers in the shabby purlieu which he=
himself
occupied, unrecognized as part of the city at all by its visitors and
panegyrists, yet without whose denizens the hard readers could not read nor=
the
high thinkers live.
He looked over the town into the country beyon=
d,
to the trees which screened her whose presence had at first been the suppor=
t of
his heart, and whose loss was now a maddening torture. But for this blow he might have borne w=
ith
his fate. With Sue as companion he=
could
have renounced his ambitions with a smile.
Without her it was inevitable that the reaction from the long strain=
to
which he had subjected himself should affect him disastrously. Phillotson had no doubt passed through a
similar intellectual disappointment to that which now enveloped him. But the schoolmaster had been since ble=
st
with the consolation of sweet Sue, while for him there was no consoler.
Descending to the streets, he went listlessly
along till he arrived at an inn, and entered it. Here he drank several glasses of beer i=
n rapid
succession, and when he came out it was night.
By the light of the flickering lamps he rambled home to supper, and =
had
not long been sitting at table when his landlady brought up a letter that h=
ad
just arrived for him. She laid it =
down
as if impressed with a sense of its possible importance, and on looking at =
it
Jude perceived that it bore the embossed stamp of one of the colleges whose
heads he had addressed. "ONE-=
-at
last!" cried Jude.
The communication was brief, and not exactly w=
hat
he had expected; though it really was from the master in person. It ran thus:
BIBLIOLL COLLEGE.
SIR=
,--I
have read your letter with interest; and, judging from your description of yourself as a
working-man, I venture to think =
that
you will have a much better chance of
success in life by remaining in your own sphere and sticking to your trade than by adoptin=
g any
other course. That, therefore, i=
s what
I advise you to do. Yours faithfully,
T.
TETUPHENAY.
To =
Mr. J.
FAWLEY, Stone-mason.
This
terribly sensible advice exasperated Jude.
He had known all that before. He
knew it was true. Yet it seemed a =
hard
slap after ten years of labour, and its effect upon him just now was to make
him rise recklessly from the table, and, instead of reading as usual, to go
downstairs and into the street. He=
stood
at a bar and tossed off two or three glasses, then unconsciously sauntered
along till he came to a spot called The Fourways in the middle of the city,
gazing abstractedly at the groups of people like one in a trance, till, com=
ing
to himself, he began talking to the policeman fixed there.
That officer yawned, stretched out his elbows, elevated himself an inch and a half on the balls of his toes, smiled, and looking humorously at Jude, said, "You've had a wet, young man."<= o:p>
"No; I've only begun," he replied cy=
nically.
Whatever his wetness, his brains were dry
enough. He only heard in part the
policeman's further remarks, having fallen into thought on what struggling
people like himself had stood at that crossway, whom nobody ever thought of
now. It had more history than the =
oldest
college in the city. It was litera=
lly
teeming, stratified, with the shades of human groups, who had met there for
tragedy, comedy, farce; real enactments of the intensest kind. At Fourways men had stood and talked of
Napoleon, the loss of America, the execution of King Charles, the burning of
the Martyrs, the Crusades, the Norman Conquest, possibly of the arrival of
Caesar. Here the two sexes had met=
for
loving, hating, coupling, parting; had waited, had suffered, for each other;
had triumphed over each other; cursed each other in jealousy, blessed each
other in forgiveness.
He began to see that the town life was a book =
of
humanity infinitely more palpitating, varied, and compendious than the gown
life. These struggling men and women before him were the reality of Christm=
inster,
though they knew little of Christ or Minster. That was one of the humours of
things. The floating population of
students and teachers, who did know both in a way, were not Christminster i=
n a
local sense at all.
He looked at his watch, and, in pursuit of this
idea, he went on till he came to a public hall, where a promenade concert w=
as
in progress. Jude entered, and found the room full of shop youths and girls=
, soldiers,
apprentices, boys of eleven smoking cigarettes, and light women of the more
respectable and amateur class. He =
had
tapped the real Christminster life. A
band was playing, and the crowd walked about and jostled each other, and ev=
ery
now and then a man got upon a platform and sang a comic song.
The spirit of Sue seemed to hover round him and
prevent his flirting and drinking with the frolicsome girls who made
advances--wistful to gain a little joy.
At ten o'clock he came away, choosing a circuitous route homeward to
pass the gates of the college whose head had just sent him the note.
The gates were shut, and, by an impulse, he to=
ok
from his pocket the lump of chalk which as a workman he usually carried the=
re,
and wrote along the wall:
"I have understanding as well as you; I am
not inferior to you: yea, who knoweth not such things as these?"--Job =
xii.
3.
The s=
troke
of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning he laughed at his
self-conceit. But the laugh was not a healthy one. He re-read the letter fr=
om
the master, and the wisdom in its lines, which had at first exasperated him,
chilled and depressed him now. He saw himself as a fool indeed.
Deprived of the objects of both intellect and
emotion, he could not proceed to his work.
Whenever he felt reconciled to his fate as a student, there came to
disturb his calm his hopeless relations with Sue. That the one affined soul he had ever m=
et was
lost to him through his marriage returned upon him with cruel persistency,
till, unable to bear it longer, he again rushed for distraction to the real
Christminster life. He now sought =
it out
in an obscure and low-ceiled tavern up a court which was well known to cert=
ain
worthies of the place, and in brighter times would have interested him simp=
ly by
its quaintness. Here he sat more o=
r less
all the day, convinced that he was at bottom a vicious character, of whom it
was hopeless to expect anything.
In the evening the frequenters of the house
dropped in one by one, Jude still retaining his seat in the corner, though =
his
money was all spent, and he had not eaten anything the whole day except a
biscuit. He surveyed his gathering companions with all the equanimity and
philosophy of a man who has been drinking long and slowly, and made friends
with several: to wit, Tinker Taylor, a decayed church-ironmonger who appear=
ed
to have been of a religious turn in earlier years, but was somewhat blasphe=
mous
now; also a red-nosed auctioneer; also two Gothic masons like himself, call=
ed
Uncle Jim and Uncle Joe. There were
present, too, some clerks, and a gown- and surplice-maker's assistant; two
ladies who sported moral characters of various depths of shade, according to
their company, nicknamed "Bower o' Bliss" and "Freckles"=
;;
some horsey men "in the know" of betting circles; a travelling ac=
tor
from the theatre, and two devil-may-care young men who proved to be gownless
undergraduates; they had slipped in by stealth to meet a man about bull-pup=
s, and
stayed to drink and smoke short pipes with the racing gents aforesaid, look=
ing
at their watches every now and then.
The conversation waxed general. Christminster society was criticized, t=
he
dons, magistrates, and other people in authority being sincerely pitied for
their shortcomings, while opinions on how they ought to conduct themselves =
and
their affairs to be properly respected, were exchanged in a large-minded and
disinterested manner.
Jude Fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery,
and aplomb of a strong-brained fellow in liquor, threw in his remarks somew=
hat peremptorily;
and his aims having been what they were for so many years, everything the
others said turned upon his tongue, by a sort of mechanical craze, to the
subject of scholarship and study, the extent of his own learning being dwelt
upon with an insistence that would have appeared pitiable to himself in his
sane hours.
"I don't care a damn," he was saying,
"for any provost, warden, principal, fellow, or cursed master of arts =
in
the university! What I know is tha=
t I'd
lick 'em on their own ground if they'd give me a chance, and show 'em a few
things they are not up to yet!"
"Hear, hear!" said the undergraduates
from the corner, where they were talking privately about the pups.
"You always was fond o' books, I've
heard," said Tinker Taylor, "and I don't doubt what you state.
"You aim at the Church, I believe?" =
said
Uncle Joe. "If you are such a
scholar as to pitch yer hopes so high as that, why not give us a specimen of
your scholarship? Canst say the Cr=
eed in
Latin, man? That was how they once put it to a chap down in my country.&quo=
t;
"I should think so!" said Jude
haughtily.
"Not he!
Like his conceit!" screamed one of the ladies.
"Just you shut up, Bower o' Bliss!" =
said
one of the undergraduates. "Silence!"
He drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rapped with it on the count=
er,
and announced, "The gentleman in the corner is going to rehearse the
Articles of his Belief, in the Latin tongue, for the edification of the
company."
"I won't!" said Jude.
"Yes--have a try!" said the
surplice-maker.
"You can't!" said Uncle Joe.
"Yes, he can!" said Tinker Taylor.
"I'll swear I can!" said Jude. "Well, come now, stand me a small =
Scotch
cold, and I'll do it straight off."
"That's a fair offer," said the
undergraduate, throwing down the money for the whisky.
The barmaid concocted the mixture with the bea=
ring
of a person compelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species, and t=
he glass
was handed across to Jude, who, having drunk the contents, stood up and beg=
an
rhetorically, without hesitation:
"Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem,
Factorem coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium."
"Good!
Excellent Latin!" cried one of the undergraduates, who, however,
had not the slightest conception of a single word.
A silence reigned among the rest in the bar, a=
nd
the maid stood still, Jude's voice echoing sonorously into the inner parlou=
r,
where the landlord was dozing, and bringing him out to see what was going o=
n. Jude had declaimed steadily ahead, and =
was
continuing:
"Crucifixus etiam pro nobis: sub Pontio
Pilato passus, et sepultus est. Et
resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas."
"That's the Nicene," sneered the sec=
ond
undergraduate. "And we wanted=
the
Apostles'!"
"You didn't say so! And every fool knows, except you, that =
the Nicene
is the most historic creed!"
"Let un go on, let un go on!" said t=
he
auctioneer.
But Jude's mind seemed to grow confused soon, =
and
he could not get on. He put his ha=
nd to
his forehead, and his face assumed an expression of pain.
"Give him another glass--then he'll fetch=
up
and get through it," said Tinker Taylor.
Somebody threw down threepence, the glass was
handed, Jude stretched out his arm for it without looking, and having swall=
owed
the liquor, went on in a moment in a revived voice, raising it as he neared=
the
end with the manner of a priest leading a congregation:
"Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et
vivificantem, qui ex Patre Filioque procedit.
Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur. Qui locutus est per prophetas.
"Et unam Catholicam et Apostolicam
Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum Baptisma=
in
remissionem peccatorum. Et exspecto
Resurrectionem mortuorum. Et vitam=
venturi
saeculi. Amen."
"Well done!" said several, enjoying =
the
last word, as being the first and only one they had recognized.
Then Jude seemed to shake the fumes from his
brain, as he stared round upon them.
"You pack of fools!" he cried. "Which one of you knows whether I =
have
said it or no? It might have been =
the
Ratcatcher's Daughter in double Dutch for all that your besotted heads can
tell! See what I have brought myse=
lf
to--the crew I have come among!"
The landlord, who had already had his license
endorsed for harbouring queer characters, feared a riot, and came outside t=
he
counter; but Jude, in his sudden flash of reason, had turned in disgust and
left the scene, the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.
He hastened down the lane and round into the
straight broad street, which he followed till it merged in the highway, and=
all
sound of his late companions had been left behind. Onward he still went, under the influen=
ce of
a childlike yearning for the one being in the world to whom it seemed possi=
ble
to fly--an unreasoning desire, whose ill judgement was not apparent to him
now. In the course of an hour, whe=
n it
was between ten and eleven o'clock, he entered the village of Lumsdon, and
reaching the cottage, saw that a light was burning in a downstairs room, wh=
ich
he assumed, rightly as it happened, to be hers.
Jude stepped close to the wall, and tapped with
his finger on the pane, saying impatiently, "Sue, Sue!"
She must have recognized his voice, for the li=
ght
disappeared from the apartment, and in a second or two the door was unlocked
and opened, and Sue appeared with a candle in her hand.
"Is it Jude?
Yes, it is! My dear, dear c=
ousin,
what's the matter?"
"Oh, I am--I couldn't help coming, Sue!&q=
uot;
said he, sinking down upon the doorstep.
"I am so wicked, Sue--my heart is nearly broken, and I could not
bear my life as it was! So I have =
been
drinking, and blaspheming, or next door to it, and saying holy things in di=
sreputable
quarters--repeating in idle bravado words which ought never to be uttered b=
ut
reverently! Oh, do anything with m=
e, Sue--kill
me--I don't care! Only don't hate =
me and
despise me like all the rest of the world!"
"You are ill, poor dear! No, I won't despise you; of course I wo=
n't! Come
in and rest, and let me see what I can do for you. Now lean on me, and don't mind." With one hand holding the candle and the
other supporting him, she led him indoors, and placed him in the only easy =
chair
the meagrely furnished house afforded, stretching his feet upon another, an=
d pulling
off his boots. Jude, now getting t=
owards
his sober senses, could only say, "Dear, dear Sue!" in a voice br=
oken
by grief and contrition.
She asked him if he wanted anything to eat, bu=
t he
shook his head. Then telling him to go to sleep, and that she would come do=
wn
early in the morning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night and
ascended the stairs.
Almost immediately he fell into a heavy slumbe=
r,
and did not wake till dawn. At fir=
st he
did not know where he was, but by degrees his situation cleared to him, and=
he
beheld it in all the ghastliness of a right mind. She knew the worst of him--the very
worst. How could he face her now?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She would soon be coming down to see ab=
out breakfast,
as she had said, and there would he be in all his shame confronting her.
His fixed idea was to get away to some obscure
spot and hide, and perhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him was
Marygreen. He called at his lodging in Christminster, where he found awaiti=
ng him
a note of dismissal from his employer; and having packed up he turned his b=
ack
upon the city that had been such a thorn in his side, and struck southward =
into
Wessex. He had no money left in his
pocket, his small savings, deposited at one of the banks in Christminster,
having fortunately been left untouched.
To get to Marygreen, therefore, his only course was walking; and the
distance being nearly twenty miles, he had ample time to complete on the wa=
y the
sobering process begun in him.
At some hour of the evening he reached
Alfredston. Here he pawned his
waistcoat, and having gone out of the town a mile or two, slept under a rick
that night. At dawn he rose, shook=
off
the hayseeds and stems from his clothes, and started again, breasting the l=
ong
white road up the hill to the downs, which had been visible to him a long w=
ay
off, and passing the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved his hopes
years ago.
He reached the ancient hamlet while the people
were at breakfast. Weary and mud-bespattered, but quite possessed of his
ordinary clearness of brain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did so=
what
a poor Christ he made. Seeing a tr=
ough
of water near he bathed his face, and went on to the cottage of his great-a=
unt,
whom he found breakfasting in bed, attended by the woman who lived with her=
.
"What--out o' work?" asked his relat=
ive,
regarding him through eyes sunken deep, under lids heavy as pot-covers, no
other cause for his tumbled appearance suggesting itself to one whose whole
life had been a struggle with material things.
"Yes," said Jude heavily. "I think I must have a little
rest."
Refreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his=
old
room and lay down in his shirt-sleeves, after the manner of the artizan.
If he had been a woman he must have screamed u=
nder
the nervous tension which he was now undergoing. But that relief being denied to his vir=
ility,
he clenched his teeth in misery, bringing lines about his mouth like those =
in
the Laocoön, and corrugations between his brows.
A mournful wind blew through the trees, and
sounded in the chimney like the pedal notes of an organ. Each ivy leaf overgrowing the wall of t=
he
churchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned, pecked its neighbour smartly,
and the vane on the new Victorian-Gothic church in the new spot had already
begun to creak. Yet apparently it =
was
not always the outdoor wind that made the deep murmurs; it was a voice. He
guessed its origin in a moment or two; the curate was praying with his aunt=
in
the adjoining room. He remembered =
her
speaking of him. Presently the sounds ceased, and a step seemed to cross the
landing. Jude sat up, and shouted "Hoi!"
The step made for his door, which was open, an=
d a
man looked in. It was a young clergyman.
"I think you are Mr. Highridge," said
Jude. "My aunt has mentioned =
you
more than once. Well, here I am, j=
ust
come home; a fellow gone to the bad; though I had the best intentions in the
world at one time. Now I am melanc=
holy
mad, what with drinking and one thing and another."
Slowly Jude unfolded to the curate his late pl=
ans
and movements, by an unconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual a=
nd
ambitious side of his dream, and more upon the theological, though this had=
, up
till now, been merely a portion of the general plan of advancement.
"Now I know I have been a fool, and that
folly is with me," added Jude in conclusion. "And I don't regret the collapse o=
f my university
hopes one jot. I wouldn't begin ag=
ain if
I were sure to succeed. I don't ca=
re for
social success any more at all. Bu=
t I do
feel I should like to do some good thing; and I bitterly regret the Church,=
and
the loss of my chance of being her ordained minister."
The curate, who was a new man to this neighbou=
rhood,
had grown deeply interested, and at last he said: "If you feel a real =
call
to the ministry, and I won't say from your conversation that you do not, fo=
r it
is that of a thoughtful and educated man, you might enter the Church as a
licentiate. Only you must make up =
your
mind to avoid strong drink."
"I could avoid that easily enough, if I h=
ad
any kind of hope to support me!"
&qu=
ot;For
there was no other girl, O bridegroom, like her!"--SAPPHO (H. T. Wharto=
n).
It wa=
s a
new idea--the ecclesiastical and altruistic life as distinct from the
intellectual and emulative life. A=
man
could preach and do good to his fellow-creatures without taking double-firs=
ts
in the schools of Christminster, or having anything but ordinary knowledge.=
The
old fancy which had led on to the culminating vision of the bishopric had n=
ot
been an ethical or theological enthusiasm at all, but a mundane ambition
masquerading in a surplice. He fea=
red
that his whole scheme had degenerated to, even though it might not have ori=
ginated
in, a social unrest which had no foundation in the nobler instincts; which =
was
purely an artificial product of civilization. There were thousands of young=
men
on the same self-seeking track at the present moment. The sensual hind who ate, drank, and li=
ved carelessly
with his wife through the days of his vanity was a more likable being than =
he.
But to enter the Church in such an unscholarly=
way
that he could not in any probability rise to a higher grade through all his
career than that of the humble curate wearing his life out in an obscure
village or city slum--that might have a touch of goodness and greatness in =
it;
that might be true religion, and a purgatorial course worthy of being follo=
wed
by a remorseful man.
The favourable light in which this new thought
showed itself by contrast with his foregone intentions cheered Jude, as he =
sat
there, shabby and lonely; and it may be said to have given, during the next=
few
days, the coup de grâce to his intellectual career--a career which had exte=
nded
over the greater part of a dozen years.
He did nothing, however, for some long stagnant time to advance his =
new desire,
occupying himself with little local jobs in putting up and lettering headst=
ones
about the neighbouring villages, and submitting to be regarded as a social
failure, a returned purchase, by the half-dozen or so of farmers and other
country-people who condescended to nod to him.
The human interest of the new intention--and a
human interest is indispensable to the most spiritual and self-sacrificing-=
-was
created by a letter from Sue, bearing a fresh postmark. She evidently wrote with anxiety, and t=
old
very little about her own doings, more than that she had passed some sort of
examination for a Queen's Scholarship, and was going to enter a training
college at Melchester to complete herself for the vocation she had chosen,
partly by his influence. There was=
a
theological college at Melchester; Melchester was a quiet and soothing plac=
e,
almost entirely ecclesiastical in its tone; a spot where worldly learning a=
nd
intellectual smartness had no establishment; where the altruistic feeling t=
hat
he did possess would perhaps be more highly estimated than a brilliancy whi=
ch
he did not.
As it would be necessary that he should contin=
ue
for a time to work at his trade while reading up Divinity, which he had
neglected at Christminster for the ordinary classical grind, what better co=
urse
for him than to get employment at the further city, and pursue this plan of
reading? That his excessive human
interest in the new place was entirely of Sue's making, while at the same t=
ime
Sue was to be regarded even less than formerly as proper to create it, had =
an ethical
contradictoriness to which he was not blind.
But that much he conceded to human frailty, and hoped to learn to lo=
ve
her only as a friend and kinswoman.
He considered that he might so mark out his co=
ming
years as to begin his ministry at the age of thirty--an age which much
attracted him as being that of his exemplar when he first began to teach in
Galilee. This would allow him plenty of time for deliberate study, and for =
acquiring
capital by his trade to help his aftercourse of keeping the necessary terms=
at
a theological college.
Christmas had come and passed, and Sue had gon=
e to
the Melchester Normal School. The =
time
was just the worst in the year for Jude to get into new employment, and he =
had
written suggesting to her that he should postpone his arrival for a month or
so, till the days had lengthened. =
She
had acquiesced so readily that he wished he had not proposed it--she eviden=
tly
did not much care about him, though she had never once reproached him for h=
is
strange conduct in coming to her that night, and his silent disappearance.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Neither had she ever said a word about =
her
relations with Mr. Phillotson.
Suddenly, however, quite a passionate letter
arrived from Sue. She was quite lonely and miserable, she told him. She hated the place she was in; it was =
worse
than the ecclesiastical designer's; worse than anywhere. She felt utterly friendless; could he c=
ome immediately?--though
when he did come she would only be able to see him at limited times, the ru=
les
of the establishment she found herself in being strict to a degree. It was Mr. Phillotson who had advised h=
er to
come there, and she wished she had never listened to him.
Phillotson's suit was not exactly prospering,
evidently; and Jude felt unreasonably glad.
He packed up his things and went to Melchester with a lighter heart =
than
he had known for months.
This being the turning over a new leaf he duly
looked about for a temperance hotel, and found a little establishment of th=
at description
in the street leading from the station.
When he had had something to eat he walked out into the dull winter
light over the town bridge, and turned the corner towards the Close. The day was foggy, and standing under t=
he
walls of the most graceful architectural pile in England he paused and look=
ed
up. The lofty building was visible=
as
far as the roofridge; above, the dwindling spire rose more and more remotel=
y,
till its apex was quite lost in the mist drifting across it.
The lamps now began to be lighted, and turning=
to
the west front he walked round. He=
took
it as a good omen that numerous blocks of stone were lying about, which sig=
nified
that the cathedral was undergoing restoration or repair to a considerable
extent. It seemed to him, full of =
the
superstitions of his beliefs, that this was an exercise of forethought on t=
he
part of a ruling Power, that he might find plenty to do in the art he pract=
ised
while waiting for a call to higher labours.
Then a wave of warmth came over him as he thou=
ght
how near he now stood to the bright-eyed vivacious girl with the broad fore=
head
and pile of dark hair above it; the girl with the kindling glance, daringly
soft at times--something like that of the girls he had seen in engravings f=
rom
paintings of the Spanish school. S=
he was
here--actually in this Close--in one of the houses confronting this very we=
st
façade.
He went down the broad gravel path towards the
building. It was an ancient edific=
e of
the fifteenth century, once a palace, now a training-school, with mullioned=
and
transomed windows, and a courtyard in front shut in from the road by a
wall. Jude opened the gate and wen=
t up
to the door through which, on inquiring for his cousin, he was gingerly
admitted to a waiting-room, and in a few minutes she came.
Though she had been here such a short while, s=
he
was not as he had seen her last. A=
ll her
bounding manner was gone; her curves of motion had become subdued lines.
"You don't--think me a demoralized
wretch--for coming to you as I was--and going so shamefully, Sue?"
"Oh, I have tried not to! You said enough to let me know what had=
caused
it. I hope I shall never have any =
doubt
of your worthiness, my poor Jude! =
And I
am glad you have come!"
She wore a murrey-coloured gown with a little =
lace
collar. It was made quite plain, a=
nd
hung about her slight figure with clinging gracefulness. Her hair, which formerly she had worn
according to the custom of the day was now twisted up tightly, and she had
altogether the air of a woman clipped and pruned by severe discipline, an
under-brightness shining through from the depths which that discipline had =
not
yet been able to reach.
She had come forward prettily, but Jude felt t=
hat
she had hardly expected him to kiss her, as he was burning to do, under oth=
er colours
than those of cousinship. He could=
not
perceive the least sign that Sue regarded him as a lover, or ever would do =
so,
now that she knew the worst of him, even if he had the right to behave as o=
ne; and
this helped on his growing resolve to tell her of his matrimonial entanglem=
ent,
which he had put off doing from time to time in sheer dread of losing the b=
liss
of her company.
Sue came out into the town with him, and they
walked and talked with tongues centred only on the passing moments. Jude said he would like to buy her a li=
ttle
present of some sort, and then she confessed, with something of shame, that=
she
was dreadfully hungry. They were k=
ept on
very short allowances in the college, and a dinner, tea, and supper all in =
one
was the present she most desired in the world. Jude thereupon took her to a=
n inn
and ordered whatever the house afforded, which was not much. The place, however, gave them a delight=
ful
opportunity for a tête-à-tête, nobody else being in the room, and they talk=
ed
freely.
She told him about the school as it was at that
date, and the rough living, and the mixed character of her fellow-students,
gathered together from all parts of the diocese, and how she had to get up =
and work
by gas-light in the early morning, with all the bitterness of a young perso=
n to
whom restraint was new. To all thi=
s he
listened; but it was not what he wanted especially to know--her relations w=
ith Phillotson. That was what she did not tell. When they had sat and eaten, Jude impul=
sively
placed his hand upon hers; she looked up and smiled, and took his quite fre=
ely
into her own little soft one, dividing his fingers and coolly examining the=
m,
as if they were the fingers of a glove she was purchasing.
"Your hands are rather rough, Jude, aren't
they?" she said.
"Yes.
So would yours be if they held a mallet and chisel all day."
"I don't dislike it, you know. I think it is noble to see a man's hands
subdued to what he works in... Wel=
l, I'm
rather glad I came to this training-school, after all. See how independent I shall be after th=
e two
years' training! I shall pass pret=
ty
high, I expect, and Mr. Phillotson will use his influence to get me a big
school."
She had touched the subject at last. "I had a suspicion, a fear," =
said
Jude, "that he--cared about you rather warmly, and perhaps wanted to m=
arry
you."
"Now don't be such a silly boy!"
"He has said something about it, I
expect."
"If he had, what would it matter? An old man like him!"
"Oh, come, Sue; he's not so very old. And I know what I saw him doing--"=
"Not kissing me--that I'm certain!"<= o:p>
"No. But putting his arm round your
waist."
"Ah--I remember. But I didn't know he was going to."=
;
"You are wriggling out if it, Sue, and it
isn't quite kind!"
Her ever-sensitive lip began to quiver, and her
eye to blink, at something this reproof was deciding her to say.
"I know you'll be angry if I tell you
everything, and that's why I don't want to!"
"Very well, then, dear," he said
soothingly. "I have no real r=
ight to
ask you, and I don't wish to know."
"I shall tell you!" said she, with t=
he
perverseness that was part of her.
"This is what I have done: I have promised--I have promised--th=
at I
will marry him when I come out of the training-school two years hence, and =
have
got my certificate; his plan being that we shall then take a large double
school in a great town--he the boys' and I the girls'--as married
school-teachers often do, and make a good income between us."
"Oh, Sue! ...
But of course it is right--you couldn't have done better!"
He glanced at her and their eyes met, the repr=
oach
in his own belying his words. Then=
he
drew his hand quite away from hers, and turned his face in estrangement from
her to the window. Sue regarded hi=
m passively
without moving.
"I knew you would be angry!" she said
with an air of no emotion whatever.
"Very well--I am wrong, I suppose!
I ought not to have let you come to see me! We had better not meet again; and we'll=
only correspond
at long intervals, on purely business matters!"
This was just the one thing he would not be ab=
le
to bear, as she probably knew, and it brought him round at once. "Oh yes, we will," he said
quickly. "Your being engaged =
can
make no difference to me whatever. I
have a perfect right to see you when I want to; and I shall!"
"Then don't let us talk of it any more. It is quite spoiling our evening
together. What does it matter abou=
t what
one is going to do two years hence!"
She was something of a riddle to him, and he l= et the subject drift away. "Shal= l we go and sit in the cathedral?" he asked, when their meal was finished.<= o:p>
"Cathedral?
Yes. Though I think I'd rat=
her
sit in the railway station," she answered, a remnant of vexation still=
in
her voice. "That's the centre of the town life now. The cathedral has had its day!"
"How modern you are!"
"So would you be if you had lived so much=
in
the Middle Ages as I have done these last few years! The cathedral was a very good place fou=
r or
five centuries ago; but it is played out now...
I am not modern, either. I =
am
more ancient than mediævalism, if you only knew."
Jude looked distressed.
"There--I won't say any more of that!&quo=
t;
she cried. "Only you don't kn=
ow how
bad I am, from your point of view, or you wouldn't think so much of me, or =
care
whether I was engaged or not. Now
there's just time for us to walk round the Close, then I must go in, or I s=
hall
be locked out for the night."
He took her to the gate and they parted. Jude had a conviction that his unhappy =
visit
to her on that sad night had precipitated this marriage engagement, and it =
did
anything but add to his happiness. Her reproach had taken that shape, then,=
and
not the shape of words. However, next day he set about seeking employment,
which it was not so easy to get as at Christminster, there being, as a rule,
less stone-cutting in progress in this quiet city, and hands being mostly p=
ermanent. But he edged himself in by degrees. His first work was some carving at the
cemetery on the hill; and ultimately he became engaged on the labour he most
desired--the cathedral repairs, which were very extensive, the whole interi=
or
stonework having been overhauled, to be largely replaced by new. It might be a labour of years to get it=
all
done, and he had confidence enough in his own skill with the mallet and chi=
sel
to feel that it would be a matter of choice with himself how long he would
stay.
The lodgings he took near the Close Gate would=
not
have disgraced a curate, the rent representing a higher percentage on his w=
ages
than mechanics of any sort usually care to pay.
His combined bed and sitting-room was furnished with framed photogra=
phs
of the rectories and deaneries at which his landlady had lived as trusted
servant in her time, and the parlour downstairs bore a clock on the mantelp=
iece
inscribed to the effect that it was presented to the same serious-minded wo=
man
by her fellow-servants on the occasion of her marriage. Jude added to the furniture of his room=
by
unpacking photographs of the ecclesiastical carvings and monuments that he =
had
executed with his own hands; and he was deemed a satisfactory acquisition as
tenant of the vacant apartment.
He found an ample supply of theological books =
in
the city book-shops, and with these his studies were recommenced in a diffe=
rent
spirit and direction from his former course.
As a relaxation from the Fathers, and such stock works as Paley and
Butler, he read Newman, Pusey, and many other modern lights. He hired a harmonium, set it up in his =
lodging,
and practised chants thereon, single and double.
"=
;To-morrow
is our grand day, you know. Where =
shall
we go?"
"I have leave from three till nine. Wherever we can get to and come back fr=
om in
that time. Not ruins, Jude--I don'=
t care
for them."
"Well--Wardour Castle. And then we can do Fonthill if we like-=
-all in
the same afternoon."
"Wardour is Gothic ruins--and I hate
Gothic!"
"No.
Quite otherwise. It is a cl=
assic
building--Corinthian, I think; with a lot of pictures."
"Ah--that will do. I like the sound of Corinthian. We'll go."
Their conversation had run thus some few weeks
later, and next morning they prepared to start.
Every detail of the outing was a facet reflecting a sparkle to Jude,=
and
he did not venture to meditate on the life of inconsistency he was
leading. His Sue's conduct was one
lovely conundrum to him; he could say no more.
There duly came the charm of calling at the
college door for her; her emergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that=
was
rather enforced than desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porte=
rs' "B'your
leave!," the screaming of the trains--everything formed the basis of a
beautiful crystallization. Nobody =
stared
at Sue, because she was so plainly dressed, which comforted Jude in the tho=
ught
that only himself knew the charms those habiliments subdued. A matter of ten pounds spent in a
drapery-shop, which had no connection with her real life or her real self,
would have set all Melchester staring.
The guard of the train thought they were lovers, and put them into a
compartment all by themselves.
"That's a good intention wasted!" sa=
id
she.
Jude did not respond. He thought the remark unnecessarily cru=
el, and
partly untrue.
They reached the park and castle and wandered
through the picture-galleries, Jude stopping by preference in front of the =
devotional
pictures by Del Sarto, Guido Reni, Spagnoletto, Sassoferrato, Carlo Dolci, =
and
others. Sue paused patiently besid=
e him,
and stole critical looks into his face as, regarding the Virgins, Holy
Families, and Saints, it grew reverent and abstracted. When she had thoroug=
hly
estimated him at this, she would move on and wait for him before a Lely or
Reynolds. It was evident that her =
cousin
deeply interested her, as one might be interested in a man puzzling out his=
way
along a labyrinth from which one had one's self escaped.
When they came out a long time still remained =
to
them and Jude proposed that as soon as they had had something to eat they
should walk across the high country to the north of their present position,=
and
intercept the train of another railway leading back to Melchester, at a sta=
tion
about seven miles off. Sue, who wa=
s inclined
for any adventure that would intensify the sense of her day's freedom, read=
ily
agreed; and away they went, leaving the adjoining station behind them.
It was indeed open country, wide and high. They talked and bounded on, Jude cuttin=
g from
a little covert a long walking-stick for Sue as tall as herself, with a gre=
at
crook, which made her look like a shepherdess.
About half-way on their journey they crossed a main road running due
east and west--the old road from London to Land's End. They paused, and looked up and down it =
for a
moment, and remarked upon the desolation which had come over this once live=
ly thoroughfare,
while the wind dipped to earth and scooped straws and hay-stems from the
ground.
They crossed the road and passed on, but durin=
g the
next half-mile Sue seemed to grow tired, and Jude began to be distressed for
her. They had walked a good distance altogether, and if they could not reach
the other station it would be rather awkward.
For a long time there was no cottage visible on the wide expanse of =
down
and turnip-land; but presently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the sh=
epherd,
pitching hurdles. He told them tha=
t the
only house near was his mother's and his, pointing to a little dip ahead fr=
om
which a faint blue smoke arose, and recommended them to go on and rest ther=
e.
This they did, and entered the house, admitted=
by
an old woman without a single tooth, to whom they were as civil as strangers
can be when their only chance of rest and shelter lies in the favour of the
householder.
"A nice little cottage," said Jude.<= o:p>
"Oh, I don't know about the niceness. I shall have to thatch it soon, and whe=
re the
thatch is to come from I can't tell, for straw do get that dear, that 'twill
soon be cheaper to cover your house wi' chainey plates than thatch."
They sat resting, and the shepherd came in.
They started up.
"You can bide here, you know, over the
night--can't 'em, Mother? The place is welcome to ye. 'Tis hard lying, rather, but volk may d=
o worse." He turned to Jude and asked privately:
"Be you a married couple?"
"Hsh--no!" said Jude.
"Oh--I meant nothing ba'dy--not I! Well then, she can go into Mother's roo=
m, and
you and I can lie in the outer chimmer after they've gone through. I can call ye soon enough to catch the =
first train
back. You've lost this one now.&qu=
ot;
On consideration they decided to close with th=
is
offer, and drew up and shared with the shepherd and his mother the boiled b=
acon
and greens for supper.
"I rather like this," said Sue, while
their entertainers were clearing away the dishes. "Outside all laws except gravitati=
on and
germination."
"You only think you like it; you don't: y=
ou
are quite a product of civilization," said Jude, a recollection of her
engagement reviving his soreness a little.
"Indeed I am not, Jude. I like reading and all that, but I crav=
e to get
back to the life of my infancy and its freedom."
"Do you remember it so well? You seem to me to have nothing unconven=
tional
at all about you."
"Oh, haven't I! You don't know what's inside me."<= o:p>
"What?"
"The Ishmaelite."
"An urban miss is what you are."
She looked severe disagreement, and turned awa=
y.
The shepherd aroused them the next morning, as=
he
had said. It was bright and clear,=
and
the four miles to the train were accomplished pleasantly. When they had reached Melchester, and w=
alked
to the Close, and the gables of the old building in which she was again to =
be
immured rose before Sue's eyes, she looked a little scared. "I expect I shall catch it!" =
she
murmured.
They rang the great bell and waited.
"Oh, I bought something for you, which I =
had
nearly forgotten," she said quickly, searching her pocket. "It is a new little photograph of
me. Would you like it?"
"WOULD I!" He took it gladly, and the porter came.=
There seemed to be an ominous glance on=
his
face when he opened the gate. She =
passed
in, looking back at Jude, and waving her hand.
The s=
eventy
young women, of ages varying in the main from nineteen to one-and-twenty,
though several were older, who at this date filled the species of nunnery k=
nown
as the Training-School at Melchester, formed a very mixed community, which
included the daughters of mechanics, curates, surgeons, shopkeepers, farmer=
s,
dairy-men, soldiers, sailors, and villagers.
They sat in the large school-room of the establishment on the evening
previously described, and word was passed round that Sue Bridehead had not =
come
in at closing-time.
"She went out with her young man," s=
aid
a second-year's student, who knew about young men. "And Miss Traceley saw her at the
station with him. She'll have it h=
ot
when she does come."
"She said he was her cousin," observ=
ed a
youthful new girl.
"That excuse has been made a little too o=
ften
in this school to be effectual in saving our souls," said the head gir=
l of
the year, drily.
The fact was that, only twelve months before,
there had occurred a lamentable seduction of one of the pupils who had made=
the
same statement in order to gain meetings with her lover. The affair had created a scandal, and t=
he
management had consequently been rough on cousins ever since.
At nine o'clock the names were called, Sue's b=
eing
pronounced three times sonorously by Miss Traceley without eliciting an ans=
wer.
At a quarter past nine the seventy stood up to
sing the "Evening Hymn," and then knelt down to prayers. After prayers they went in to supper, a=
nd
every girl's thought was, Where is Sue Bridehead? Some of the students, who had seen Jude=
from
the window, felt that they would not mind risking her punishment for the
pleasure of being kissed by such a kindly-faced young man. Hardly one among them believed in the
cousinship.
Half an hour later they all lay in their cubic=
les,
their tender feminine faces upturned to the flaring gas-jets which at inter=
vals
stretched down the long dormitories, every face bearing the legend "The
Weaker" upon it, as the penalty of the sex wherein they were moulded,
which by no possible exertion of their willing hearts and abilities could be
made strong while the inexorable laws of nature remain what they are. They formed a pretty, suggestive, pathe=
tic sight,
of whose pathos and beauty they were themselves unconscious, and would not
discover till, amid the storms and strains of after-years, with their
injustice, loneliness, child-bearing, and bereavement, their minds would re=
vert
to this experience as to something which had been allowed to slip past them
insufficiently regarded.
One of the mistresses came in to turn out the
lights, and before doing so gave a final glance at Sue's cot, which remained
empty, and at her little dressing-table at the foot, which, like all the re=
st, was
ornamented with various girlish trifles, framed photographs being not the l=
east
conspicuous among them. Sue's tabl=
e had
a moderate show, two men in their filigree and velvet frames standing toget=
her beside
her looking-glass.
"Who are these men--did she ever say?&quo=
t;
asked the mistress. "Strictly=
speaking,
relations' portraits only are allowed on these tables, you know."
"One--the middle-aged man," said a
student in the next bed--"is the schoolmaster she served under--Mr.
Phillotson."
"And the other--this undergraduate in cap=
and
gown--who is he?"
"He is a friend, or was. She has never told his name."
"Was it either of these two who came for
her?"
"No."
"You are sure 'twas not the
undergraduate?"
"Quite.
He was a young man with a black beard."
The lights were promptly extinguished, and till
they fell asleep the girls indulged in conjectures about Sue, and wondered =
what
games she had carried on in London and at Christminster before she came her=
e,
some of the more restless ones getting out of bed and looking from the
mullioned windows at the vast west front of the cathedral opposite, and the
spire rising behind it.
When they awoke the next morning they glanced =
into
Sue's nook, to find it still without a tenant.
After the early lessons by gas-light, in half-toilet, and when they =
had
come up to dress for breakfast, the bell of the entrance gate was heard to =
ring
loudly. The mistress of the dormitory went away, and presently came back to=
say
that the principal's orders were that nobody was to speak to Bridehead with=
out
permission.
When, accordingly, Sue came into the dormitory=
to
hastily tidy herself, looking flushed and tired, she went to her cubicle in=
silence,
none of them coming out to greet her or to make inquiry. When they had gone
downstairs they found that she did not follow them into the dining-hall to
breakfast, and they then learnt that she had been severely reprimanded, and
ordered to a solitary room for a week, there to be confined, and take her
meals, and do all her reading.
At this the seventy murmured, the sentence bei=
ng,
they thought, too severe. A round =
robin
was prepared and sent in to the principal, asking for a remission of Sue's
punishment. No notice was taken. T=
owards
evening, when the geography mistress began dictating her subject, the girls=
in
the class sat with folded arms.
"You mean that you are not going to
work?" said the mistress at last. "I may as well tell you that it=
has
been ascertained that the young man Bridehead stayed out with was not her
cousin, for the very good reason that she has no such relative. We have written to Christminster to
ascertain."
"We are willing to take her word," s=
aid
the head girl.
"This young man was discharged from his w=
ork
at Christminster for drunkenness and blasphemy in public-houses, and he has
come here to live, entirely to be near her."
However, they remained stolid and motionless, =
and
the mistress left the room to inquire from her superiors what was to be don=
e.
Presently, towards dusk, the pupils, as they s=
at,
heard exclamations from the first-year's girls in an adjoining classroom, a=
nd
one rushed in to say that Sue Bridehead had got out of the back window of t=
he room
in which she had been confined, escaped in the dark across the lawn, and
disappeared. How she had managed t=
o get
out of the garden nobody could tell, as it was bounded by the river at the
bottom, and the side door was locked.
They went and looked at the empty room, the
casement between the middle mullions of which stood open. The lawn was again searched with a lant=
ern,
every bush and shrub being examined, but she was nowhere hidden. Then the porter of the front gate was
interrogated, and on reflection he said that he remembered hearing a sort o=
f splashing
in the stream at the back, but he had taken no notice, thinking some ducks =
had
come down the river from above.
"She must have walked through the
river!" said a mistress.
"Or drownded herself," said the port=
er.
The mind of the matron was horrified--not so m=
uch
at the possible death of Sue as at the possible half-column detailing that
event in all the newspapers, which, added to the scandal of the year before=
, would
give the college an unenviable notoriety for many months to come.
More lanterns were procured, and the river
examined; and then, at last, on the opposite shore, which was open to the
fields, some little boot-tracks were discerned in the mud, which left no do=
ubt that
the too excitable girl had waded through a depth of water reaching nearly to
her shoulders--for this was the chief river of the county, and was mentione=
d in
all the geography books with respect. As Sue had not brought disgrace upon =
the
school by drowning herself, the matron began to speak superciliously of her,
and to express gladness that she was gone.
On the self-same evening Jude sat in his lodgi=
ngs
by the Close Gate. Often at this hour after dusk he would enter the silent
Close, and stand opposite the house that contained Sue, and watch the shado=
ws
of the girls' heads passing to and fro upon the blinds, and wish he had not=
hing
else to do but to sit reading and learning all day what many of the thought=
less
inmates despised. But to-night, ha=
ving
finished tea and brushed himself up, he was deep in the perusal of the Twen=
ty-ninth
Volume of Pusey's Library of the Fathers, a set of books which he had purch=
ased
of a second-hand dealer at a price that seemed to him to be one of miraculo=
us cheapness
for that invaluable work. He fancied he heard something rattle lightly agai=
nst
his window; then he heard it again.
Certainly somebody had thrown gravel.
He rose and gently lifted the sash.
"Jude!" (from below).
"Sue!"
"Yes--it is!
Can I come up without being seen?"
"Oh yes!"
"Then don't come down. Shut the window."
Jude waited, knowing that she could enter easi=
ly
enough, the front door being opened merely by a knob which anybody could tu=
rn,
as in most old country towns. He
palpitated at the thought that she had fled to him in her trouble as he had
fled to her in his. What counterparts they were! He unlatched the door of his room, hear=
d a stealthy
rustle on the dark stairs, and in a moment she appeared in the light of his
lamp. He went up to seize her hand=
, and
found she was clammy as a marine deity, and that her clothes clung to her l=
ike the
robes upon the figures in the Parthenon frieze.
"I'm so cold!" she said through her
chattering teeth. "Can I come=
by your
fire, Jude?"
She crossed to his little grate and very little
fire, but as the water dripped from her as she moved, the idea of drying
herself was absurd. "Whatever=
have
you done, darling?" he asked, with alarm, the tender epithet slipping =
out
unawares.
"Walked through the largest river in the
county--that's what I've done! They
locked me up for being out with you; and it seemed so unjust that I couldn't
bear it, so I got out of the window and escaped across the stream!"
"Dear Sue!" he said. "You must take off all your things=
! And let me see--you must borrow some fr=
om the
landlady. I'll ask her."
"No, no!
Don't let her know, for God's sake!
We are so near the school that they'll come after me!"
"Then you must put on mine. You don't mind?"
"Oh no."
"My Sunday suit, you know. It is close here." In fact, everything was close and handy=
in
Jude's single chamber, because there was not room for it to be otherwise. He opened a drawer, took out his best d=
ark
suit, and giving the garments a shake, said, "Now, how long shall I gi=
ve
you?"
"Ten minutes."
Jude left the room and went into the street, w=
here
he walked up and down. A clock str=
uck
half-past seven, and he returned.
Sitting in his only arm-chair he saw a slim and fragile being
masquerading as himself on a Sunday, so pathetic in her defencelessness that
his heart felt big with the sense of it.
On two other chairs before the fire were her wet garments. She blush=
ed
as he sat down beside her, but only for a moment.
"I suppose, Jude, it is odd that you shou=
ld
see me like this and all my things hanging there? Yet what nonsense! They are only a woman's clothes--sexless
cloth and linen... I wish I didn't=
feel
so ill and sick! Will you dry my c=
lothes
now? Please do, Jude, and I'll get=
a lodging
by and by. It is not late yet.&quo=
t;
"No, you shan't, if you are ill. You must stay here. Dear, dear Sue, what can I get for you?=
"
"I don't know! I can't help shivering. I wish I could get warm." Jude put=
on
her his great-coat in addition, and then ran out to the nearest public-hous=
e,
whence he returned with a little bottle in his hand. "Here's six of best brandy," =
he
said. "Now you drink it, dear=
; all
of it."
"I can't out of the bottle, can I?"<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jude fetched the glass from the dressin=
g-table,
and administered the spirit in some water.
She gasped a little, but gulped it down, and lay back in the armchai=
r.
She then began to relate circumstantially her
experiences since they had parted; but in the middle of her story her voice
faltered, her head nodded, and she ceased.
She was in a sound sleep. J=
ude, dying
of anxiety lest she should have caught a chill which might permanently inju=
re
her, was glad to hear the regular breathing.
He softly went nearer to her, and observed that a warm flush now ros=
ed her
hitherto blue cheeks, and felt that her hanging hand was no longer cold.
Jude's
reverie was interrupted by the creak of footsteps ascending the stairs.
He whisked Sue's clothing from the chair where= it was drying, thrust it under the bed, and sat down to his book. Somebody knocked and opened the door immediately. It was the landlady.<= o:p>
"Oh, I didn't know whether you was in or =
not,
Mr. Fawley. I wanted to know if you
would require supper. I see you've=
a
young gentleman--"
"Yes, ma'am. But I think I won't come down
to-night. Will you bring supper up on a tray, and I'll have a cup of tea as
well."
It was Jude's custom to go downstairs to the
kitchen, and eat his meals with the family, to save trouble. His landlady brought up the supper, how=
ever,
on this occasion, and he took it from her at the door.
When she had descended he set the teapot on the
hob, and drew out Sue's clothes anew; but they were far from dry. A thick woollen gown, he found, held a =
deal
of water. So he hung them up again=
, and enlarged
his fire and mused as the steam from the garments went up the chimney.
Suddenly she said, "Jude!"
"Yes.
All right. How do you feel
now?"
"Better.
Quite well. Why, I fell asl=
eep,
didn't I? What time is it? Not late surely?"
"It is past ten."
"Is it really? What SHALL I do!" she said, starti=
ng up.
"Stay where you are."
"Yes; that's what I want to do. But I don't know what they would say! And what will you do?"
"I am going to sit here by the fire all
night, and read. To-morrow is Sund=
ay,
and I haven't to go out anywhere.
Perhaps you will be saved a severe illness by resting there. Don't be frightened. I'm all right. Look here, what I have got for you. Some supper."
When she had sat upright she breathed plaintiv=
ely
and said, "I do feel rather weak still.
I thought I was well; and I ought not to be here, ought I?" But the supper fortified her somewhat, =
and
when she had had some tea and had lain back again she was bright and cheerf=
ul.
The tea must have been green, or too long draw= n, for she seemed preternaturally wakeful afterwards, though Jude, who had not taken any, began to feel heavy; till her conversation fixed his attention.<= o:p>
"You called me a creature of civilization=
, or
something, didn't you?" she said, breaking a silence. "It was very odd you should have d=
one that."
"Why?"
"Well, because it is provokingly wrong. I am a sort of negation of it."
"You are very philosophical. 'A negation' is profound talking."=
"Is it?
Do I strike you as being learned?" she asked, with a touch of
raillery.
"No--not learned. Only you don't talk quite like a girl--=
well,
a girl who has had no advantages."
"I have had advantages. I don't know Latin and Greek, though I =
know the
grammars of those tongues. But I k=
now
most of the Greek and Latin classics through translations, and other books
too. I read Lemprière, Catullus,
Martial, Juvenal, Lucian, Beaumont and Fletcher, Boccaccio, Scarron, De
Brantôme, Sterne, De Foe, Smollett, Fielding, Shakespeare, the Bible, and o=
ther
such; and found that all interest in the unwholesome part of those books en=
ded
with its mystery."
"You have read more than I," he said
with a sigh. "How came you to=
read
some of those queerer ones?"
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "=
;it
was by accident. My life has been =
entirely
shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me.
I have no fear of men, as such, nor of their books. I have mixed with
them--one or two of them particularly--almost as one of their own sex. I mean I have not felt about them as mo=
st
women are taught to feel--to be on their guard against attacks on their vir=
tue;
for no average man--no man short of a sensual savage--will molest a woman by
day or night, at home or abroad, unless she invites him. Until she says by a look 'Come on' he is
always afraid to, and if you never say it, or look it, he never comes. However, what I was going to say is tha=
t when
I was eighteen I formed a friendly intimacy with an undergraduate at Christ=
minster,
and he taught me a great deal, and lent me books which I should never have =
got
hold of otherwise."
"Is your friendship broken off?"
"Oh yes.
He died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had taken his degr=
ee
and left Christminster."
"You saw a good deal of him, I suppose?&q=
uot;
"Yes.
We used to go about together--on walking tours, reading tours, and
things of that sort--like two men almost.
He asked me to live with him, and I agreed to by letter. But when I joined him in London I found=
he
meant a different thing from what I meant.
He wanted me to be his mistress, in fact, but I wasn't in love with
him--and on my saying I should go away if he didn't agree to MY plan, he di=
d so. We shared a sitting-room for fifteen mo=
nths;
and he became a leader-writer for one of the great London dailies; till he =
was
taken ill, and had to go abroad. H=
e said
I was breaking his heart by holding out against him so long at such close
quarters; he could never have believed it of woman. I might play that game once too often, =
he
said. He came home merely to die.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His death caused a terrible remorse in =
me for
my cruelty--though I hope he died of consumption and not of me entirely.
"Good heavens!--what did you do then?&quo=
t;
"Ah--now you are angry with me!" she
said, a contralto note of tragedy coming suddenly into her silvery voice. "I wouldn't have told you if I had
known!"
"No, I am not. Tell me all."
"Well, I invested his money, poor fellow,=
in
a bubble scheme, and lost it. I li=
ved
about London by myself for some time, and then I returned to Christminster,=
as
my father-- who was also in London, and had started as an art metal-worker =
near
Long-Acre--wouldn't have me back; and I got that occupation in the artist-s=
hop
where you found me... I said you d=
idn't
know how bad I was!"
Jude looked round upon the arm-chair and its
occupant, as if to read more carefully the creature he had given shelter
to. His voice trembled as he said:
"However you have lived, Sue, I believe you are as innocent as you are
unconventional!"
"I am not particularly innocent, as you s=
ee,
now that I have
'twitched the =
robe From that blank lay-figure your fancy
draped,'"
said =
she, with
an ostensible sneer, though he could hear that she was brimming with
tears. "But I have never yiel=
ded
myself to any lover, if that's what you mean!
I have remained as I began."
"I quite believe you. But some women would not have remained =
as
they began."
"Perhaps not.
Better women would not. Peo=
ple
say I must be cold-natured--sexless--on account of it. But I won't have it! Some of the most
passionately erotic poets have been the most self-contained in their daily
lives."
"Have you told Mr. Phillotson about this
university scholar friend?"
"Yes--long ago. I have never made any secret of it to
anybody."
"What did he say?"
"He did not pass any criticism--only said=
I
was everything to him, whatever I did; and things like that."
Jude felt much depressed; she seemed to get
further and further away from him with her strange ways and curious
unconsciousness of gender.
"Aren't you REALLY vexed with me, dear
Jude?" she suddenly asked, in a voice of such extraordinary tenderness
that it hardly seemed to come from the same woman who had just told her sto=
ry
so lightly. "I would rather o=
ffend
anybody in the world than you, I think!"
"I don't know whether I am vexed or not.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I know I care very much about you!"=
;
"I care as much for you as for anybody I =
ever
met."
"You don't care MORE! There, I ought not to say that. Don't answer it!"
There was another long silence. He felt that she was treating him cruel=
ly,
though he could not quite say in what way.
Her very helplessness seemed to make her so much stronger than he.
"I am awfully ignorant on general matters,
although I have worked so hard," he said, to turn the subject. "I am absorbed in theology, you kn=
ow. And what do you think I should be doing=
just
about now, if you weren't here? I =
should
be saying my evening prayers. I su=
ppose
you wouldn't like--"
"Oh no, no," she answered, "I w=
ould
rather not, if you don't mind. I should seem so--such a hypocrite."
"I thought you wouldn't join, so I didn't
propose it. You must remember that=
I
hope to be a useful minister some day."
"To be ordained, I think you said?"<= o:p>
"Yes."
"Then you haven't given up the idea?--I
thought that perhaps you had by this time."
"Of course not. I fondly thought at first that you felt=
as I
do about that, as you were so mixed up in Christminster Anglicanism. And Mr.
Phillotson--"
"I have no respect for Christminster
whatever, except, in a qualified degree, on its intellectual side," sa=
id
Sue Bridehead earnestly. "My =
friend
I spoke of took that out of me. He=
was
the most irreligious man I ever knew, and the most moral. And intellect at Christminster is new w=
ine in
old bottles. The mediævalism of
Christminster must go, be sloughed off, or Christminster itself will have to
go. To be sure, at times one could=
n't
help having a sneaking liking for the traditions of the old faith, as prese=
rved
by a section of the thinkers there in touching and simple sincerity; but wh=
en I
was in my saddest, rightest mind I always felt,
'O ghastly glories of saints, dead lim=
bs of
gibbeted Gods!'"...
"=
;Sue,
you are not a good friend of mine to talk like that!"
"Then I won't, dear Jude!" The emotional throat-note had come back=
, and
she turned her face away.
"I still think Christminster has much tha=
t is
glorious; though I was resentful because I couldn't get there." He spoke gently, and resisted his impul=
se to
pique her on to tears.
"It is an ignorant place, except as to the
townspeople, artizans, drunkards, and paupers," she said, perverse sti=
ll
at his differing from her. "T=
HEY
see life as it is, of course; but few of the people in the colleges do. You prove it in your own person. You are one of the very men Christminst=
er was
intended for when the colleges were founded; a man with a passion for learn=
ing,
but no money, or opportunities, or friends.
But you were elbowed off the pavement by the millionaires' sons.&quo=
t;
"Well, I can do without what it confers.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I care for something higher."
"And I for something broader, truer,"
she insisted. "At present int=
ellect
in Christminster is pushing one way, and religion the other; and so they st=
and
stock-still, like two rams butting each other."
"What would Mr. Phillotson--"
"It is a place full of fetishists and
ghost-seers!"
He noticed that whenever he tried to speak of =
the
schoolmaster she turned the conversation to some generalizations about the
offending university. Jude was
extremely, morbidly, curious about her life as Phillotson's protégée and
betrothed; yet she would not enlighten him.
"Well, that's just what I am, too," =
he
said. "I am fearful of life, =
spectre-seeing
always."
"But you are good and dear!" she
murmured.
His heart bumped, and he made no reply.
"You are in the Tractarian stage just now,
are you not?" she added, putting on flippancy to hide real feeling, a
common trick with her. "Let me see--when was I there? In the year eighteen hundred and--"=
;
"There's a sarcasm in that which is rather
unpleasant to me, Sue. Now will you do what I want you to? At this time I read a chapter, and then=
say
prayers, as I told you. Now will y=
ou concentrate
your attention on any book of these you like, and sit with your back to me,=
and
leave me to my custom? You are sur=
e you
won't join me?"
"I'll look at you."
"No. Don't tease, Sue!"
"Very well--I'll do just as you bid me, a=
nd I
won't vex you, Jude," she replied, in the tone of a child who was goin=
g to
be good for ever after, turning her back upon him accordingly. A small Bible other than the one he was=
using
lay near her, and during his retreat she took it up, and turned over the
leaves.
"Jude," she said brightly, when he h=
ad
finished and come back to her; "will you let me make you a NEW New
Testament, like the one I made for myself at Christminster?"
"Oh yes.
How was that made?"
"I altered my old one by cutting up all t=
he
Epistles and Gospels into separate brochures, and rearranging them in
chronological order as written, beginning the book with Thessalonians,
following on with the Epistles, and putting the Gospels much further on.
"H'm!" said Jude, with a sense of
sacrilege.
"And what a literary enormity this is,&qu=
ot;
she said, as she glanced into the pages of Solomon's Song. "I mean the synopsis at the head o=
f each
chapter, explaining away the real nature of that rhapsody. You needn't be
alarmed: nobody claims inspiration for the chapter headings. Indeed, many divines treat them with
contempt. It seems the drollest th=
ing to
think of the four-and-twenty elders, or bishops, or whatever number they we=
re,
sitting with long faces and writing down such stuff."
Jude looked pained. "You are quite Voltairean!" he
murmured.
"Indeed?
Then I won't say any more, except that people have no right to falsi=
fy
the Bible! I HATE such hum-bug as =
could
attempt to plaster over with ecclesiastical abstractions such ecstatic,
natural, human love as lies in that great and passionate song!" Her speech had grown spirited, and almo=
st
petulant at his rebuke, and her eyes moist.
"I WISH I had a friend here to support me; but nobody is ever o=
n my
side!"
"But my dear Sue, my very dear Sue, I am =
not
against you!" he said, taking her hand, and surprised at her introduci=
ng
personal feeling into mere argument.
"Yes you are, yes you are!" she crie=
d,
turning away her face that he might not see her brimming eyes. "You are on the side of the people=
in
the training-school--at least you seem almost to be! What I insist on is, that to explain su=
ch
verses as this: 'Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women?' =
by
the note: 'The Church professeth her faith,' is supremely ridiculous!"=
"Well then, let it be! You make such a personal matter of ever=
ything! I am--only too inclined just now to app=
ly the
words profanely. You know YOU are
fairest among women to me, come to that!"
"But you are not to say it now!" Sue replied, her voice changing to its
softest note of severity. Then the=
ir
eyes met, and they shook hands like cronies in a tavern, and Jude saw the
absurdity of quarrelling on such a hypothetical subject, and she the sillin=
ess
of crying about what was written in an old book like the Bible.
"I won't disturb your convictions--I real=
ly
won't!" she went on soothingly, for now he was rather more ruffled than
she. "But I did want and long=
to
ennoble some man to high aims; and when I saw you, and knew you wanted to b=
e my
comrade, I--shall I confess it?--thought that man might be you. But you take so much tradition on trust=
that I
don't know what to say."
"Well, dear; I suppose one must take some
things on trust. Life isn't long e=
nough
to work out everything in Euclid problems before you believe it. I take Christianity."
"Well, perhaps you might take something
worse."
"Indeed I might. Perhaps I have done so!" He thought of Arabella.
"I won't ask what, because we are going t=
o be
VERY nice with each other, aren't we, and never, never, vex each other any
more?" She looked up trustful=
ly,
and her voice seemed trying to nestle in his breast.
"I shall always care for you!" said
Jude.
"And I for you. Because you are single-hearted, and for=
giving
to your faulty and tiresome little Sue!"
He looked away, for that epicene tenderness of
hers was too harrowing. Was it that
which had broken the heart of the poor leader-writer; and was he to be the =
next
one? ... But Sue was so dear! ...<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If he could only get over the sense of =
her
sex, as she seemed to be able to do so easily of his, what a comrade she wo=
uld make;
for their difference of opinion on conjectural subjects only drew them clos=
er
together on matters of daily human experience.
She was nearer to him than any other woman he had ever met, and he c=
ould
scarcely believe that time, creed, or absence, would ever divide him from h=
er.
But his grief at her incredulities returned. They sat on till she fell asleep again,=
and
he nodded in his chair likewise.
Whenever he aroused himself he turned her things, and made up the fi=
re
anew. About six o'clock he awoke completely, and lighting a candle, found t=
hat
her clothes were dry. Her chair be=
ing a
far more comfortable one than his she still slept on inside his great-coat,
looking warm as a new bun and boyish as a Ganymede. Placing the garments by her and touchin=
g her
on the shoulder he went downstairs, and washed himself by starlight in the
yard.
When =
he
returned she was dressed as usual.
"Now could I get out without anybody seei=
ng
me?" she asked. "The tow=
n is
not yet astir."
"But you have had no breakfast."
"Oh, I don't want any! I fear I ought not to have run away fro=
m that
school! Things seem so different i=
n the
cold light of morning, don't they? What
Mr. Phillotson will say I don't know! It
was quite by his wish that I went there.
He is the only man in the world for whom I have any respect or
fear. I hope he'll forgive me; but=
he'll
scold me dreadfully, I expect!"
"I'll go to him and explain--" began
Jude.
"Oh no, you shan't. I don't care for
him! He may think what he likes--I=
shall
do just as I choose!"
"But you just this moment said--"
"Well, if I did, I shall do as I like for=
all
him! I have thought of what I shall
do--go to the sister of one of my fellow-students in the training-school, w=
ho
has asked me to visit her. She has=
a
school near Shaston, about eighteen miles from here--and I shall stay there=
till
this has blown over, and I get back to the training-school again."
At the last moment he persuaded her to let him
make her a cup of coffee, in a portable apparatus he kept in his room for u=
se
on rising to go to his work every day before the household was astir.
"Now a dew-bit to eat with it," he s=
aid;
"and off we go. You can have a
regular breakfast when you get there."
They went quietly out of the house, Jude accom=
panying
her to the station. As they depart=
ed
along the street a head was thrust out of an upper window of his lodging and
quickly withdrawn. Sue still seemed
sorry for her rashness, and to wish she had not rebelled; telling him at
parting that she would let him know as soon as she got re-admitted to the
training-school. They stood rather
miserably together on the platform; and it was apparent that he wanted to s=
ay more.
"I want to tell you something--two
things," he said hurriedly as the train came up. "One is a warm one, the other a co=
ld
one!"
"Jude," she said. "I know one of them. And you mustn't!"
"What?"
"You mustn't love me. You are to like me--that's all!"
Jude's face became so full of complicated gloo=
ms
that hers was agitated in sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carria=
ge window. And then the train moved on, and waving=
her
pretty hand to him she vanished away.
Melchester was a dismal place enough for Jude =
that
Sunday of her departure, and the Close so hateful that he did not go once to
the cathedral services. The next m=
orning
there came a letter from her, which, with her usual promptitude, she had
written directly she had reached her friend's house. She told him of her safe arrival and co=
mfortable
quarters, and then added:--
What I
really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at parting. You had been so very good and kind to <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> me that when you were out of sight I f=
elt
what a cruel and ungrateful woma=
n I
was to say it, and it has reproached me ever since.
IF YOU WANT TO LOVE ME, JUDE, YOU MAY: I don't mind at all; and I'll never say again =
that
you mustn't!
Now= I won't write any more about that. Y= ou do forgive your thoughtless friend = for her cruelty? and won't make her miserable by saying you don't?--Ever,<= o:p>
SUE=
.
It wo=
uld be
superfluous to say what his answer was; and how he thought what he would ha=
ve
done had he been free, which should have rendered a long residence with a
female friend quite unnecessary for Sue.
He felt he might have been pretty sure of his own victory if it had =
come
to a conflict between Phillotson and himself for the possession of her.
Yet Jude was in danger of attaching more meani=
ng
to Sue's impulsive note than it really was intended to bear.
After the lapse of a few days he found himself
hoping that she would write again. But
he received no further communication; and in the intensity of his solicitud=
e he
sent another note, suggesting that he should pay her a visit some Sunday, t=
he
distance being under eighteen miles.
He expected a reply on the second morning after
despatching his missive; but none came.
The third morning arrived; the postman did not stop. This was Saturday, and in a feverish st=
ate of
anxiety about her he sent off three brief lines stating that he was coming =
the
following day, for he felt sure something had happened.
His first and natural thought had been that she
was ill from her immersion; but it soon occurred to him that somebody would
have written for her in such a case.
Conjectures were put an end to by his arrival at the village
school-house near Shaston on the bright morning of Sunday, between eleven a=
nd
twelve o'clock, when the parish was as vacant as a desert, most of the
inhabitants having gathered inside the church, whence their voices could
occasionally be heard in unison.
A little girl opened the door. "Miss Bridehead is up-stairs,"=
; she said. "And will you please walk up to
her?"
"Is she ill?" asked Jude hastily.
"Only a little--not very."
Jude entered and ascended. On reaching the landing a voice told hi=
m which
way to turn--the voice of Sue calling his name.
He passed the doorway, and found her lying in a little bed in a room=
a
dozen feet square.
"Oh, Sue!" he cried, sitting down be=
side
her and taking her hand. "How is this!
You couldn't write?"
"No--it wasn't that!" she answered.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "I did catch a bad cold--but I cou=
ld
have written. Only I wouldn't!&quo=
t;
"Why not?--frightening me like this!"=
;
"Yes--that was what I was afraid of! But I had decided not to write to you a=
ny
more. They won't have me back at t=
he
school--that's why I couldn't write. Not
the fact, but the reason!"
"Well?"
"They not only won't have me, but they ga=
ve
me a parting piece of advice--"
"What?"
She did not answer directly. "I vowed I never would tell you, J=
ude--it
is so vulgar and distressing!"
"Is it about us?"
"Yes."
"But do tell me!"
"Well--somebody has sent them baseless
reports about us, and they say you and I ought to marry as soon as possible,
for the sake of my reputation! ...
There--now I have told you, and I wish I hadn't!"
"Oh, poor Sue!"
"I don't think of you like that means!
The speech seemed a little forced and unreal, =
and
they regarded each other with a mutual distress.
"I was so blind at first!" she went
on. "I didn't see what you fe=
lt at
all. Oh, you have been unkind to m=
e--you
have--to look upon me as a sweetheart without saying a word, and leaving me=
to
discover it myself! Your attitude =
to me
has become known; and naturally they think we've been doing wrong! I'll never trust you again!"
"Yes, Sue," he said simply; "I =
am
to blame--more than you think. I w=
as
quite aware that you did not suspect till within the last meeting or two wh=
at I
was feeling about you. I admit tha=
t our
meeting as strangers prevented a sense of relationship, and that it was a s=
ort of
subterfuge to avail myself of it. =
But
don't you think I deserve a little consideration for concealing my wrong, v=
ery
wrong, sentiments, since I couldn't help having them?"
She turned her eyes doubtfully towards him, and
then looked away as if afraid she might forgive him.
By every law of nature and sex a kiss was the =
only
rejoinder that fitted the mood and the moment, under the suasion of which S=
ue's
undemonstrative regard of him might not inconceivably have changed its
temperature. Some men would have c=
ast
scruples to the winds, and ventured it, oblivious both of Sue's declaration=
of
her neutral feelings, and of the pair of autographs in the vestry chest of =
Arabella's
parish church. Jude did not. He had, in fact, come in part to tell h=
is own
fatal story. It was upon his lips;=
yet
at the hour of this distress he could not disclose it. He preferred to dwell upon the recogniz=
ed
barriers between them.
"Of course--I know you don't--care about =
me
in any particular way," he sorrowed.
"You ought not, and you are right.
You belong to--Mr. Phillotson. I
suppose he has been to see you?"
"Yes," she said shortly, her face
changing a little. "Though I =
didn't
ask him to come. You are glad, of
course, that he has been! But I shouldn't care if he didn't come any
more!"
It was very perplexing to her lover that she
should be piqued at his honest acquiescence in his rival, if Jude's feeling=
s of
love were deprecated by her. He we=
nt on
to something else.
"This will blow over, dear Sue," he
said. "The training-school au=
thorities
are not all the world. You can get=
to be
a student in some other, no doubt."
"I'll ask Mr. Phillotson," she said
decisively.
Sue's kind hostess now returned from church, a=
nd
there was no more intimate conversation.
Jude left in the afternoon, hopelessly unhappy. But he had seen her, and sat with her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Such intercourse as that would have to
content him for the remainder of his life. The lesson of renunciation it was
necessary and proper that he, as a parish priest, should learn.
But the next morning when he awoke he felt rat=
her
vexed with her, and decided that she was rather unreasonable, not to say
capricious. Then, in illustration of what he had begun to discern as one of=
her
redeeming characteristics there came promptly a note, which she must have
written almost immediately he had gone from her:
Forgive me for my petulance yesterday!=
I was horrid to you; I know it, and I feel perfectly
miserable at my horridness. It was so dear of you not to be angry!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jude, please still keep me as your friend and
associate, with all my faults. I'll try not to be like it again.
I am
coming to Melchester on Saturday, to get my things away from the T. S., &c. I could walk with you for half an hour, if you would like?--Your repe=
ntant
SUE=
.
Jude
forgave her straightway, and asked her to call for him at the cathedral wor=
ks
when she came.
Meanw=
hile a
middle-aged man was dreaming a dream of great beauty concerning the writer =
of
the above letter. He was Richard P=
hillotson,
who had recently removed from the mixed village school at Lumsdon near
Christminster, to undertake a large boys' school in his native town of Shas=
ton,
which stood on a hill sixty miles to the south-west as the crow flies.
A glance at the place and its accessories was
almost enough to reveal that the schoolmaster's plans and dreams so long
indulged in had been abandoned for some new dream with which neither the Ch=
urch
nor literature had much in common.
Essentially an unpractical man, he was now bent on making and saving
money for a practical purpose--that of keeping a wife, who, if she chose, m=
ight
conduct one of the girls' schools adjoining his own; for which purpose he h=
ad
advised her to go into training, since she would not marry him offhand.
About the time that Jude was removing from
Marygreen to Melchester, and entering on adventures at the latter place with
Sue, the schoolmaster was settling down in the new school-house at Shaston.=
All
the furniture being fixed, the books shelved, and the nails driven, he had
begun to sit in his parlour during the dark winter nights and re-attempt so=
me
of his old studies--one branch of which had included Roman-Britannic
antiquities--an unremunerative labour for a national school-master but a
subject, that, after his abandonment of the university scheme, had interest=
ed
him as being a comparatively unworked mine; practicable to those who, like
himself, had lived in lonely spots where these remains were abundant, and w=
ere seen
to compel inferences in startling contrast to accepted views on the
civilization of that time.
A resumption of this investigation was the out=
ward
and apparent hobby of Phillotson at present--his ostensible reason for going
alone into fields where causeways, dykes, and tumuli abounded, or shutting =
himself
up in his house with a few urns, tiles, and mosaics he had collected, inste=
ad
of calling round upon his new neighbours, who for their part had showed
themselves willing enough to be friendly with him. But it was not the real, or the whole,
reason, after all. Thus on a particular evening in the month, when it had g=
rown
quite late--to near midnight, indeed--and the light of his lamp, shining fr=
om
his window at a salient angle of the hill-top town over infinite miles of
valley westward, announced as by words a place and person given over to stu=
dy,
he was not exactly studying.
The interior of the room--the books, the
furniture, the schoolmaster's loose coat, his attitude at the table, even t=
he flickering
of the fire, bespoke the same dignified tale of undistracted research--more
than creditable to a man who had had no advantages beyond those of his own
making. And yet the tale, true eno=
ugh
till latterly, was not true now. W=
hat he
was regarding was not history. The=
y were
historic notes, written in a bold womanly hand at his dictation some months
before, and it was the clerical rendering of word after word that absorbed =
him.
He presently took from a drawer a carefully ti=
ed
bundle of letters, few, very few, as correspondence counts nowadays. Each was in its envelope just as it had
arrived, and the handwriting was of the same womanly character as the histo=
ric
notes. He unfolded them one by one=
and
read them musingly. At first sight there seemed in these small documents to=
be
absolutely nothing to muse over. T=
hey
were straightforward, frank letters, signed "Sue B--"; just such =
ones
as would be written during short absences, with no other thought than their
speedy destruction, and chiefly concerning books in reading and other
experiences of a training school, forgotten doubtless by the writer with the
passing of the day of their inditing. In
one of them--quite a recent note--the young woman said that she had receive=
d his
considerate letter, and that it was honourable and generous of him to say he
would not come to see her oftener than she desired (the school being such an
awkward place for callers, and because of her strong wish that her engageme=
nt
to him should not be known, which it would infallibly be if he visited her
often). Over these phrases the school-master pored. What precise shade of satisfaction was =
to be gathered
from a woman's gratitude that the man who loved her had not been often to s=
ee
her? The problem occupied him,
distracted him.
He opened another drawer, and found therein an
envelope, from which he drew a photograph of Sue as a child, long before he=
had
known her, standing under trellis-work with a little basket in her hand.
The schoolmaster's was an unhealthy-looking,
old-fashioned face, rendered more old-fashioned by his style of shaving.
Such silent proceedings as those of this eveni=
ng
were repeated many and oft times when he was not under the eye of the boys,
whose quick and penetrating regard would frequently become almost intolerab=
le
to the self-conscious master in his present anxious care for Sue, making hi=
m,
in the grey hours of morning, dread to meet anew the gimlet glances, lest t=
hey
should read what the dream within him was.
He had honourably acquiesced in Sue's announced
wish that he was not often to visit her at the training school; but at leng=
th,
his patience being sorely tried, he set out one Saturday afternoon to pay h=
er
an unexpected call. There the news=
of
her departure--expulsion as it might almost have been considered--was flash=
ed
upon him without warning or mitigation as he stood at the door expecting in=
a
few minutes to behold her face; and when he turned away he could hardly see=
the
road before him.
Sue had, in fact, never written a line to her
suitor on the subject, although it was fourteen days old. A short reflection told him that this p=
roved
nothing, a natural delicacy being as ample a reason for silence as any degr=
ee
of blameworthiness.
They had informed him at the school where she =
was
living, and having no immediate anxiety about her comfort his thoughts took=
the
direction of a burning indignation against the training school committee. In his bewilderment Phillotson entered =
the
adjacent cathedral, just now in a direly dismantled state by reason of the
repairs. He sat down on a block of
freestone, regardless of the dusty imprint it made on his breeches; and his
listless eyes following the movements of the workmen he presently became aw=
are that
the reputed culprit, Sue's lover Jude, was one amongst them.
Jude had never spoken to his former hero since=
the
meeting by the model of Jerusalem.
Having inadvertently witnessed Phillotson's tentative courtship of S=
ue
in the lane there had grown up in the younger man's mind a curious dislike =
to
think of the elder, to meet him, to communicate in any way with him; and si=
nce
Phillotson's success in obtaining at least her promise had become known to
Jude, he had frankly recognized that he did not wish to see or hear of his =
senior
any more, learn anything of his pursuits, or even imagine again what
excellencies might appertain to his character.
On this very day of the schoolmaster's visit Jude was expecting Sue,=
as
she had promised; and when therefore he saw the schoolmaster in the nave of=
the
building, saw, moreover, that he was coming to speak to him, he felt no lit=
tle
embarrassment; which Phillotson's own embarrassment prevented his observing=
.
Jude joined him, and they both withdrew from t=
he
other workmen to the spot where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of sackcloth f=
or a
cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the bare block.
"Yes; yes," said Phillotson
abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his eyes resting on the ground as if =
he
were trying to remember where he was.
"I won't keep you long. It
was merely that I have heard that you have seen my little friend Sue
recently. It occurred to me to spe=
ak to
you on that account. I merely want=
to
ask--about her."
"I think I know what!" Jude hurriedly said. "About her escaping from the train=
ing
school, and her coming to me?"
"Yes."
"Well"--Jude for a moment felt an
unprincipled and fiendish wish to annihilate his rival at all cost. By the exercise of that treachery which=
love
for the same woman renders possible to men the most honourable in every oth=
er
relation of life, he could send off Phillotson in agony and defeat by saying
that the scandal was true, and that Sue had irretrievably committed herself
with him. But his action did not r=
espond
for a moment to his animal instinct; and what he said was, "I am glad =
of
your kindness in coming to talk plainly to me about it. You know what they say?--that I ought to
marry her."
"What!"
"And I wish with all my soul I could!&quo=
t;
Phillotson trembled, and his naturally pale fa=
ce
acquired a corpselike sharpness in its lines.
"I had no idea that it was of this nature! God forbid!"
"No, no!" said Jude aghast. "I thought you understood? I mean that were I in a position to mar=
ry
her, or someone, and settle down, instead of living in lodgings here and th=
ere,
I should be glad!"
What he had really meant was simply that he lo=
ved
her.
"But--since this painful matter has been
opened up--what really happened?" asked Phillotson, with the firmness =
of a
man who felt that a sharp smart now was better than a long agony of suspense
hereafter. "Cases arise, and this is one, when even ungenerous questio=
ns
must be put to make false assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal."=
;
Jude explained readily; giving the whole serie=
s of
adventures, including the night at the shepherd's, her wet arrival at his l=
odging,
her indisposition from her immersion, their vigil of discussion, and his se=
eing
her off next morning.
"Well now," said Phillotson at the
conclusion, "I take it as your final word, and I know I can believe yo=
u,
that the suspicion which led to her rustication is an absolutely baseless
one?"
"It is," said Jude solemnly. "Absolutely. So help me God!"
The schoolmaster rose. Each of the twain felt that the intervi=
ew could
not comfortably merge in a friendly discussion of their recent experiences,
after the manner of friends; and when Jude had taken him round, and shown h=
im
some features of the renovation which the old cathedral was undergoing,
Phillotson bade the young man good-day and went away.
This visit took place about eleven o'clock in =
the
morning; but no Sue appeared. When=
Jude
went to his dinner at one he saw his beloved ahead of him in the street lea=
ding
up from the North Gate, walking as if no way looking for him. Speedily overtaking her he remarked tha=
t he
had asked her to come to him at the cathedral, and she had promised.
"I have been to get my things from the
college," she said--an observation which he was expected to take as an
answer, though it was not one. Fin=
ding
her to be in this evasive mood he felt inclined to give her the information=
so
long withheld.
"You have not seen Mr. Phillotson
to-day?" he ventured to inquire.
"I have not.
But I am not going to be cross-examined about him; and if you ask
anything more I won't answer!"
"It is very odd that--" He stopped,
regarding her.
"What?"
"That you are often not so nice in your r=
eal
presence as you are in your letters!"
"Does it really seem so to you?" said
she, smiling with quick curiosity.
"Well, that's strange; but I feel just the same about you,
Jude. When you are gone away I see=
m such
a coldhearted--"
As she knew his sentiment towards her Jude saw
that they were getting upon dangerous ground.
It was now, he thought, that he must speak as an honest man.
But he did not speak, and she continued: "=
;It
was that which made me write and say--I didn't mind your loving me--if you
wanted to, much!"
The exultation he might have felt at what that
implied, or seemed to imply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested
rigid till he began: "I have never told you--"
"Yes you have," murmured she.
"I mean, I have never told you my
history--all of it."
"But I guess it. I know nearly."
Jude looked up.
Could she possibly know of that morning performance of his with
Arabella; which in a few months had ceased to be a marriage more completely
than by death? He saw that she did=
not.
"I can't quite tell you here in the
street," he went on with a gloomy tongue.
"And you had better not come to my lodgings. Let us go in here."
The building by which they stood was the
market-house; it was the only place available; and they entered, the market
being over, and the stalls and areas empty.
He would have preferred a more congenial spot, but, as usually happe=
ns,
in place of a romantic field or solemn aisle for his tale, it was told while
they walked up and down over a floor littered with rotten cabbage-leaves, a=
nd
amid all the usual squalors of decayed vegetable matter and unsaleable
refuse. He began and finished his =
brief
narrative, which merely led up to the information that he had married a wife
some years earlier, and that his wife was living still. Almost before her countenance had time =
to change
she hurried out the words,
"Why didn't you tell me before!"
"I couldn't. It seemed so cruel to tell
it."
"To yourself, Jude. So it was better to be cruel to me!&quo=
t;
"No, dear darling!" cried Jude
passionately. He tried to take her=
hand,
but she withdrew it. Their old rel=
ations
of confidence seemed suddenly to have ended, and the antagonisms of sex to =
sex
were left without any counter-poising predilections. She was his comrade, friend, unconscious
sweetheart no longer; and her eyes regarded him in estranged silence.
"I was ashamed of the episode in my life
which brought about the marriage," he continued. "I can't explain it precisely now.=
I could have done it if you had taken it
differently!"
"But how can I?" she burst out. "Here I have been saying, or writi=
ng,
that--that you might love me, or something of the sort!--just out of
charity--and all the time--oh, it is perfectly damnable how things are!&quo=
t;
she said, stamping her foot in a nervous quiver.
"You take me wrong, Sue! I never thought you cared for me at all=
, till
quite lately; so I felt it did not matter!
Do you care for me, Sue?--you know how I mean?--I don't like 'out of
charity' at all!"
It was a question which in the circumstances S=
ue
did not choose to answer.
"I suppose she--your wife--is--a very pre=
tty
woman, even if she's wicked?" she asked quickly.
"She's pretty enough, as far as that
goes."
"Prettier than I am, no doubt!"
"You are not the least alike. And I have never seen her for years...<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But she's sure to come back--they always
do!"
"How strange of you to stay apart from her
like this!" said Sue, her trembling lip and lumpy throat belying her
irony. "You, such a religious
man. How will the demi-gods in your
Pantheon--I mean those legendary persons you call saints--intercede for you
after this? Now if I had done such a thing it would have been different, and
not remarkable, for I at least don't regard marriage as a sacrament. Your
theories are not so advanced as your practice!"
"Sue, you are terribly cutting when you l=
ike
to be--a perfect Voltaire! But you=
must
treat me as you will!"
When she saw how wretched he was she softened,=
and
trying to blink away her sympathetic tears said with all the winning
reproachfulness of a heart-hurt woman: "Ah--you should have told me be=
fore
you gave me that idea that you wanted to be allowed to love me! I had no feeling before that moment at =
the
railway-station, except--" Fo=
r once
Sue was as miserable as he, in her attempts to keep herself free from emoti=
on,
and her less than half-success.
"Don't cry, dear!" he implored.
"I am--not crying--because I meant to--lo=
ve
you; but because of your want of--confidence!"
They were quite screened from the market-square
without, and he could not help putting out his arm towards her waist. His momentary desire was the means of h=
er
rallying. "No, no!" she =
said,
drawing back stringently, and wiping her eyes.
"Of course not! It wou=
ld be hypocrisy
to pretend that it would be meant as from my cousin; and it can't be in any
other way."
They moved on a dozen paces, and she showed
herself recovered. It was distract=
ing to
Jude, and his heart would have ached less had she appeared anyhow but as she
did appear; essentially large-minded and generous on reflection, despite a
previous exercise of those narrow womanly humours on impulse that were
necessary to give her sex.
"I don't blame you for what you couldn't
help," she said, smiling. "How should I be so foolish? I do blame you a little bit for not tel=
ling
me before. But, after all, it does=
n't
matter. We should have had to keep
apart, you see, even if this had not been in your life."
"No, we shouldn't, Sue! This is the only obstacle."
"You forget that I must have loved you, a=
nd
wanted to be your wife, even if there had been no obstacle," said Sue,
with a gentle seriousness which did not reveal her mind. "And then we are cousins, and it i=
s bad
for cousins to marry. And--I am en=
gaged
to somebody else. As to our going =
on
together as we were going, in a sort of friendly way, the people round us w=
ould
have made it unable to continue. T=
heir
views of the relations of man and woman are limited, as is proved by their
expelling me from the school. Their
philosophy only recognizes relations based on animal desire. The wide field of strong attachment whe=
re
desire plays, at least, only a secondary part, is ignored by them--the part
of--who is it?--Venus Urania."
Her being able to talk learnedly showed that s=
he
was mistress of herself again; and before they parted she had almost regain=
ed
her vivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner, and her seco=
nd-thought
attitude of critical largeness towards others of her age and sex.
He could speak more freely now. "There were several reasons agains=
t my
telling you rashly. One was what I=
have
said; another, that it was always impressed upon me that I ought not to
marry--that I belonged to an odd and peculiar family--the wrong breed for m=
arriage."
"Ah--who used to say that to you?"
"My great-aunt. She said it always ended
badly with us Fawleys."
"That's strange. My father used to say the same to me!&q=
uot;
They stood possessed by the same thought, ugly
enough, even as an assumption: that a union between them, had such been
possible, would have meant a terrible intensification of unfitness--two bit=
ters
in one dish.
"Oh, but there can't be anything in it!&q=
uot;
she said with nervous lightness.
"Our family have been unlucky of late years in choosing mates--=
that's
all."
And then they pretended to persuade themselves
that all that had happened was of no consequence, and that they could still=
be
cousins and friends and warm correspondents, and have happy genial times wh=
en
they met, even if they met less frequently than before. Their parting was in good friendship, a=
nd yet
Jude's last look into her eyes was tinged with inquiry, for he felt that he=
did
not even now quite know her mind.
Tidin=
gs
from Sue a day or two after passed across Jude like a withering blast.
Before reading the letter he was led to suspect
that its contents were of a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the =
signature--which
was in her full name, never used in her correspondence with him since her f=
irst
note:
MY DEAR JUDE,--I have something to tel=
l you
which perhaps you will not be
surprised to hear, though certainly it may strike you as being accelerated (as the
railway companies say of their
trains). Mr. Phillotson and I are to be married quite soon--in three or four weeks.
Wis=
h me
joy. Remember I say you are to, an=
d you
mustn't refuse!--Your affectiona=
te
cousin,
SUS=
ANNA
FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.
Jude
staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on drinking tea =
because
his mouth was so dry. Then present=
ly he
went back to his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so confro=
nted. Everything seemed turning to satire.
"O Susanna Florence Mary!" he said a=
s he
worked. "You don't know what
marriage means!"
Could it be possible that his announcement of =
his
own marriage had pricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in
liquor may have pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to exist these=
other
and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for her decision; but Sue was=
not
a very practical or calculating person; and he was compelled to think that a
pique at having his secret sprung upon her had moved her to give way to
Phillotson's probable representations, that the best course to prove how
unfounded were the suspicions of the school authorities would be to marry h=
im
off-hand, as in fulfilment of an ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awk=
ward
corner. Poor Sue!
He determined to play the Spartan; to make the
best of it, and support her; but he could not write the requested good wish=
es
for a day or two. Meanwhile there =
came
another note from his impatient little dear:
Jude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could do it so conveniently as you, being th=
e only
married relation I have here on =
the
spot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing, which he isn't.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I hope you won't think it a
trouble? I have been looking at the
marriage service in the prayer-b=
ook,
and it seems to me very humiliating that a giver-away should be required at all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> According to the ceremony as there printed, my bridegro=
om
chooses me of his own will and
pleasure; but I don't choose him.
Somebody GIVES me to him,=
like
a she-ass or she-goat, or any other domestic animal. Bless your exalted views of woman, O churchman!
But I forget: I am no longer privileged to tease you.--Ever,
SUS=
ANNA
FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.
Jude
screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied:
MY DEAR SUE,--Of course I wish you joy=
! And also of course I will give you away. What I suggest is that, as you have
I d=
on't
see why you sign your letter in such a new and terribly formal way? Surely you care a bit about me still!--Ever your affectionate,
JUD=
E.
What =
had
jarred on him even more than the signature was a little sting he had been
silent on--the phrase "married relation"--What an idiot it made h=
im
seem as her lover! If Sue had writ=
ten
that in satire, he could hardly forgive her; if in suffering--ah, that was =
another
thing!
His offer of his lodging must have commended
itself to Phillotson at any rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of w=
arm
thanks, accepting the convenience. Sue
also thanked him. Jude immediately=
moved
into more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage of the
suspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue's unpleasant experience as
for the sake of room.
Then Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for t= he wedding; and Jude decided, after inquiry, that she should come into residen= ce on the following Saturday, which would allow of a ten days' stay in the cit= y prior to the ceremony, sufficiently representing a nominal residence of fifteen.<= o:p>
She arrived by the ten o'clock train on the day
aforesaid, Jude not going to meet her at the station, by her special reques=
t,
that he should not lose a morning's work and pay, she said (if this were her
true reason). But so well by this =
time
did he know Sue that the remembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emoti=
onal
crises might, he thought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to dinner she had tak=
en
possession of her apartment.
She lived in the same house with him, but on a
different floor, and they saw each other little, an occasional supper being=
the
only meal they took together, when Sue's manner was something like that of =
a scared
child. What she felt he did not kn=
ow;
their conversation was mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill.
"What's the matter, Jude?" she said
suddenly.
He was leaning with his elbows on the table and
his chin on his hands, looking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched =
out
on the tablecloth.
"Oh--nothing!"
"You are 'father', you know. That's what they call the man who gives=
you
away."
Jude could have said "Phillotson's age
entitles him to be called that!"
But he would not annoy her by such a cheap retort.
She talked incessantly, as if she dreaded his
indulgence in reflection, and before the meal was over both he and she wish=
ed
they had not put such confidence in their new view of things, and had taken
breakfast apart. What oppressed Ju=
de was
the thought that, having done a wrong thing of this sort himself, he was ai=
ding
and abetting the woman he loved in doing a like wrong thing, instead of imp=
loring
and warning her against it. It was=
on
his tongue to say, "You have quite made up your mind?"
After breakfast they went out on an errand
together moved by a mutual thought that it was the last opportunity they wo=
uld
have of indulging in unceremonious companionship. By the irony of fate, and the curious t=
rick
in Sue's nature of tempting Providence at critical times, she took his arm =
as
they walked through the muddy street--a thing she had never done before in =
her
life--and on turning the corner they found themselves close to a grey
perpendicular church with a low-pitched roof--the church of St. Thomas.
"That's the church," said Jude.
"Where I am going to be married?"
"Yes."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed with
curiosity. "How I should like=
to go
in and see what the spot is like where I am so soon to kneel and do it.&quo=
t;
Again he said to himself, "She does not
realize what marriage means!"
He passively acquiesced in her wish to go in, =
and
they entered by the western door. =
The
only person inside the gloomy building was a charwoman cleaning. Sue still held Jude's arm, almost as if=
she loved
him. Cruelly sweet, indeed, she ha=
d been
to him that morning; but his thoughts of a penance in store for her were
tempered by an ache:
... I can find =
no way
How a blow should fall, such as =
falls on
men, Nor prove too much for your
womanhood!
They
strolled undemonstratively up the nave towards the altar railing, which they
stood against in silence, turning then and walking down the nave again, her
hand still on his arm, precisely like a couple just married. The too suggestive incident, entirely o=
f her
making, nearly broke down Jude.
"I like to do things like this," she
said in the delicate voice of an epicure in emotions, which left no doubt t=
hat
she spoke the truth.
"I know you do!" said Jude.
"They are interesting, because they have
probably never been done before. I=
shall
walk down the church like this with my husband in about two hours, shan't
I!"
"No doubt you will!"
"Was it like this when you were
married?"
"Good God, Sue--don't be so awfully
merciless! ... There, dear one, I =
didn't
mean it!"
"Ah--you are vexed!" she said
regretfully, as she blinked away an access of eye moisture. "And I promised never to vex you!
... I suppose I ought not to have =
asked
you to bring me in here. Oh, I oug=
htn't! I see it now.
My curiosity to hunt up a new sensation always leads me into these
scrapes. Forgive me! ... You will, won't you, Jude?"
The appeal was so remorseful that Jude's eyes =
were
even wetter than hers as he pressed her hand for Yes.
"Now we'll hurry away, and I won't do it =
any
more!" she continued humbly; and they came out of the building, Sue
intending to go on to the station to meet Phillotson. But the first person they encountered on
entering the main street was the schoolmaster himself, whose train had arri=
ved
sooner than Sue expected. There was
nothing really to demur to in her leaning on Jude's arm; but she withdrew h=
er hand,
and Jude thought that Phillotson had looked surprised.
"We have been doing such a funny thing!&q=
uot;
said she, smiling candidly. "We've been to the church, rehearsing as it
were. Haven't we, Jude?"
"How?" said Phillotson curiously.
Jude inwardly deplored what he thought to be
unnecessary frankness; but she had gone too far not to explain all, which s=
he
accordingly did, telling him how they had marched up to the altar.
Seeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude sai=
d as
cheerfully as he could, "I am going to buy her another little
present. Will you both come to the=
shop
with me?"
"No," said Sue, "I'll go on to =
the
house with him"; and requesting her lover not to be a long time she
departed with the schoolmaster.
Jude soon joined them at his rooms, and shortly
after they prepared for the ceremony.
Phillotson's hair was brushed to a painful extent, and his shirt col=
lar
appeared stiffer than it had been for the previous twenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and tho=
ughtful,
and altogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict that he would mak=
e a
kind and considerate husband. That=
he
adored Sue was obvious; and she could almost be seen to feel that she was u=
ndeserving
his adoration.
Although the distance was so short he had hire=
d a
fly from the Red Lion, and six or seven women and children had gathered by =
the
door when they came out. The schoo=
lmaster
and Sue were unknown, though Jude was getting to be recognized as a citizen;
and the couple were judged to be some relations of his from a distance, nob=
ody
supposing Sue to have been a recent pupil at the training school.
In the carriage Jude took from his pocket his
extra little wedding-present, which turned out to be two or three yards of
white tulle, which he threw over her bonnet and all, as a veil.
"It looks so odd over a bonnet," she
said. "I'll take the bonnet o=
ff."
"Oh no--let it stay," said
Phillotson. And she obeyed.
When they had passed up the church and were
standing in their places Jude found that the antecedent visit had certainly
taken off the edge of this performance, but by the time they were half-way =
on
with the service he wished from his heart that he had not undertaken the bu=
siness
of giving her away. How could Sue =
have
had the temerity to ask him to do it--a cruelty possibly to herself as well=
as
to him? Women were different from men in such matters. Was it that they were, instead of more
sensitive, as reputed, more callous, and less romantic; or were they more
heroic? Or was Sue simply so perve=
rse that
she wilfully gave herself and him pain for the odd and mournful luxury of
practising long-suffering in her own person, and of being touched with tend=
er
pity for him at having made him practise it?
He could perceive that her face was nervously set, and when they rea=
ched
the trying ordeal of Jude giving her to Phillotson she could hardly command
herself; rather, however, as it seemed, from her knowledge of what her cous=
in
must feel, whom she need not have had there at all, than from
self-consideration. Possibly she w=
ould
go on inflicting such pains again and again, and grieving for the sufferer
again and again, in all her colossal inconsistency.
Phillotson seemed not to notice, to be surroun=
ded
by a mist which prevented his seeing the emotions of others. As soon as they had signed their names =
and
come away, and the suspense was over, Jude felt relieved.
The meal at his lodging was a very simple affa=
ir,
and at two o'clock they went off. =
In
crossing the pavement to the fly she looked back; and there was a frightened
light in her eyes. Could it be tha=
t Sue had
acted with such unusual foolishness as to plunge into she knew not what for=
the
sake of asserting her independence of him, of retaliating on him for his
secrecy? Perhaps Sue was thus
venturesome with men because she was childishly ignorant of that side of th=
eir natures
which wore out women's hearts and lives.
When her foot was on the carriage-step she tur=
ned
round, saying that she had forgotten something.
Jude and the landlady offered to get it.
"No," she said, running back. "It is my handkerchief. I know where I left it."
Jude followed her back. She had found it, and came holding it i=
n her hand. She looked into his eyes with her own t=
earful
ones, and her lips suddenly parted as if she were going to avow something.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But she went on; and whatever she had m=
eant
to say remained unspoken.
Jude
wondered if she had really left her handkerchief behind; or whether it were
that she had miserably wished to tell him of a love that at the last moment=
she
could not bring herself to express.
He could not stay in his silent lodging when t=
hey
were gone, and fearing that he might be tempted to drown his misery in alco=
hol
he went upstairs, changed his dark clothes for his white, his thin boots for
his thick, and proceeded to his customary work for the afternoon.
But in the cathedral he seemed to hear a voice
behind him, and to be possessed with an idea that she would come back. She could not possibly go home with
Phillotson, he fancied. The feelin=
g grew
and stirred. The moment that the c=
lock
struck the last of his working hours he threw down his tools and rushed hom=
eward. "Has anybody been for me?" he
asked.
Nobody had been there.
As he could claim the downstairs sitting-room =
till
twelve o'clock that night he sat in it all the evening; and even when the c=
lock
had struck eleven, and the family had retired, he could not shake off the
feeling that she would come back and sleep in the little room adjoining his=
own
in which she had slept so many previous days.
Her actions were always unpredictable: why should she not come? Gladly would he have compounded for the
denial of her as a sweetheart and wife by having her live thus as a
fellow-lodger and friend, even on the most distant terms. His supper still remained spread, and g=
oing to
the front door, and softly setting it open, he returned to the room and sat=
as
watchers sit on Old-Midsummer eves, expecting the phantom of the Beloved. But she did not come.
Having indulged in this wild hope he went
upstairs, and looked out of the window, and pictured her through the evening
journey to London, whither she and Phillotson had gone for their holiday; t=
heir
rattling along through the damp night to their hotel, under the same sky of=
ribbed
cloud as that he beheld, through which the moon showed its position rather =
than
its shape, and one or two of the larger stars made themselves visible as fa=
int
nebulae only. It was a new beginni=
ng of
Sue's history. He projected his mi=
nd
into the future, and saw her with children more or less in her own likeness
around her. But the consolation of
regarding them as a continuation of her identity was denied to him, as to a=
ll
such dreamers, by the wilfulness of Nature in not allowing issue from one
parent alone. Every desired renewal of an existence is debased by being half
alloy. "If at the estrangement or death of my lost love, I could go and
see her child--hers solely--there would be comfort in it!" said Jude. =
And
then he again uneasily saw, as he had latterly seen with more and more
frequency, the scorn of Nature for man's finer emotions, and her lack of
interest in his aspirations.
The oppressive strength of his affection for S=
ue
showed itself on the morrow and following days yet more clearly. He could no longer endure the light of =
the
Melchester lamps; the sunshine was as drab paint, and the blue sky as
zinc. Then he received news that h=
is old
aunt was dangerously ill at Marygreen, which intelligence almost coincided =
with
a letter from his former employer at Christminster, who offered him permane=
nt
work of a good class if he would come back. The letters were almost a relie=
f to
him. He started to visit Aunt Drus=
illa,
and resolved to go onward to Christminster to see what worth there might be=
in
the builder's offer.
Jude found his aunt even worse than the
communication from the Widow Edlin had led him to expect. There was every possibility of her ling=
ering
on for weeks or months, though little likelihood. He wrote to Sue informing her of the st=
ate of
her aunt, and suggesting that she might like to see her aged relative
alive. He would meet her at Alfred=
ston
Road, the following evening, Monday, on his way back from Christminster, if=
she
could come by the up-train which crossed his down-train at that station.
The city of learning wore an estranged look, a=
nd
he had lost all feeling for its associations.
Yet as the sun made vivid lights and shades of the mullioned
architecture of the façades, and drew patterns of the crinkled battlements =
on
the young turf of the quadrangles, Jude thought he had never seen the place
look more beautiful. He came to the
street in which he had first beheld Sue. The chair she had occupied when,
leaning over her ecclesiastical scrolls, a hog-hair brush in her hand, her
girlish figure had arrested the gaze of his inquiring eyes, stood precisely=
in
its former spot, empty. It was as =
if she
were dead, and nobody had been found capable of succeeding her in that arti=
stic
pursuit. Hers was now the city pha=
ntom,
while those of the intellectual and devotional worthies who had once moved =
him
to emotion were no longer able to assert their presence there.
However, here he was; and in fulfilment of his
intention he went on to his former lodging in "Beersheba," near t=
he
ritualistic church of St. Silas. T=
he old
landlady who opened the door seemed glad to see him again, and bringing some
lunch informed him that the builder who had employed him had called to inqu=
ire
his address.
Jude went on to the stone-yard where he had
worked. But the old sheds and bank=
ers
were distasteful to him; he felt it impossible to engage himself to return =
and
stay in this place of vanished dreams. He longed for the hour of the homewa=
rd
train to Alfredston, where he might probably meet Sue.
Then, for one ghastly half-hour of depression
caused by these scenes, there returned upon him that feeling which had been=
his
undoing more than once--that he was not worth the trouble of being taken ca=
re
of either by himself or others; and during this half-hour he met Tinker Tay=
lor,
the bankrupt ecclesiastical ironmonger, at Fourways, who proposed that they
should adjourn to a bar and drink together. They walked along the street ti=
ll
they stood before one of the great palpitating centres of Christminster lif=
e,
the inn wherein he formerly had responded to the challenge to rehearse the
Creed in Latin--now a popular tavern with a spacious and inviting entrance,=
which
gave admittance to a bar that had been entirely renovated and refitted in
modern style since Jude's residence here.
Tinker Taylor drank off his glass and departed,
saying it was too stylish a place now for him to feel at home in unless he =
was
drunker than he had money to be just then.
Jude was longer finishing his, and stood abstractedly silent in the,=
for
the minute, almost empty place. Th=
e bar
had been gutted and newly arranged throughout, mahogany fixtures having tak=
en
the place of the old painted ones, while at the back of the standing-space
there were stuffed sofa-benches. T=
he
room was divided into compartments in the approved manner, between which we=
re
screens of ground glass in mahogany framing, to prevent topers in one
compartment being put to the blush by the recognitions of those in the
next. On the inside of the counter=
two
barmaids leant over the white-handled beer-engines, and the row of little
silvered taps inside, dripping into a pewter trough.
Feeling tired, and having nothing more to do t=
ill
the train left, Jude sat down on one of the sofas. At the back of the barmaids rose bevel-=
edged
mirrors, with glass shelves running along their front, on which stood preci=
ous
liquids that Jude did not know the name of, in bottles of topaz, sapphire, =
ruby
and amethyst. The moment was enliv=
ened
by the entrance of some customers into the next compartment, and the starti=
ng
of the mechanical tell-tale of monies received, which emitted a ting-ting e=
very
time a coin was put in.
The barmaid attending to this compartment was
invisible to Jude's direct glance, though a reflection of her back in the g=
lass
behind her was occasionally caught by his eyes.
He had only observed this listlessly, when she turned her face for a
moment to the glass to set her hair tidy.
Then he was amazed to discover that the face was Arabella's.
If she had come on to his compartment she would
have seen him. But she did not, this being presided over by the maiden on t=
he
other side. Abby was in a black go=
wn,
with white linen cuffs and a broad white collar, and her figure, more devel=
oped
than formerly, was accentuated by a bunch of daffodils that she wore on her
left bosom. In the compartment she served stood an electro-plated fountain =
of water
over a spirit-lamp, whose blue flame sent a steam from the top, all this be=
ing
visible to him only in the mirror behind her; which also reflected the face=
s of
the men she was attending to--one of them a handsome, dissipated young fell=
ow,
possibly an undergraduate, who had been relating to her an experience of so=
me
humorous sort.
"Oh, Mr. Cockman, now! How can you tell such a tale to me in m=
y innocence!"
she cried gaily. "Mr. Cockman=
, what
do you use to make your moustache curl so beautiful?" As the young man was clean shaven the r=
etort
provoked a laugh at his expense.
"Come!" said he, "I'll have a
curaçao; and a light, please."
She served the liqueur from one of the lovely
bottles and striking a match held it to his cigarette with ministering arch=
ness
while he whiffed.
"Well, have you heard from your husband
lately, my dear?" he asked.
"Not a sound," said she.
"Where is he?"
"I left him in Australia; and I suppose h=
e's
there still."
Jude's eyes grew rounder.
"What made you part from him?"
"Don't you ask questions, and you won't h=
ear
lies."
"Come then, give me my change, which you'=
ve
been keeping from me for the last quarter of an hour; and I'll romantically
vanish up the street of this picturesque city."
She handed the change over the counter, in tak=
ing
which he caught her fingers and held them.
There was a slight struggle and titter, and he bade her good-bye and
left.
Jude had looked on with the eye of a dazed
philosopher. It was extraordinary =
how
far removed from his life Arabella now seemed to be. He could not realize their nominal
closeness. And, this being the cas=
e, in
his present frame of mind he was indifferent to the fact that Arabella was =
his
wife indeed.
The compartment that she served emptied itself=
of
visitors, and after a brief thought he entered it, and went forward to the
counter. Arabella did not recognize him for a moment. Then their glances met. She started; ti=
ll a
humorous impudence sparkled in her eyes, and she spoke.
"Well, I'm blest! I thought you were underground years
ago!"
"Oh!"
"I never heard anything of you, or I don't
know that I should have come here. But
never mind! What shall I treat you=
to
this afternoon? A Scotch and soda?=
Come, anything that the house will affo=
rd,
for old acquaintance' sake!"
"Thanks, Arabella," said Jude withou=
t a
smile. "But I don't want anyt=
hing
more than I've had." The fact=
was
that her unexpected presence there had destroyed at a stroke his momentary
taste for strong liquor as completely as if it had whisked him back to his =
milk-fed
infancy.
"That's a pity, now you could get it for
nothing."
"How long have you been here?"
"About six weeks. I returned from Sydney three months ago=
. I always liked this business, you know.=
"
"I wonder you came to this place!"
"Well, as I say, I thought you were gone =
to
glory, and being in London I saw the situation in an advertisement. Nobody was likely to know me here, even=
if I
had minded, for I was never in Christminster in my growing up."
"Why did you return from Australia?"=
"Oh, I had my reasons... Then you are not a don yet?"
"No."
"Not even a reverend?"
"No."
"Nor so much as a rather reverend dissent=
ing
gentleman?"
"I am as I was."
"True--you look so." She idly allowed her fingers to rest on=
the pull
of the beer-engine as she inspected him critically. He observed that her hands were smaller=
and
whiter than when he had lived with her, and that on the hand which pulled t=
he
engine she wore an ornamental ring set with what seemed to be real
sapphires--which they were, indeed, and were much admired as such by the yo=
ung
men who frequented the bar.
"So you pass as having a living
husband," he continued.
"Yes.
I thought it might be awkward if I called myself a widow, as I should
have liked."
"True.
I am known here a little."
"I didn't mean on that account--for as I =
said
I didn't expect you. It was for other reasons."
"What were they?"
"I don't care to go into them," she
replied evasively. "I make a =
very
good living, and I don't know that I want your company."
Here a chappie with no chin, and a moustache l=
ike
a lady's eyebrow, came and asked for a curiously compounded drink, and Arab=
ella
was obliged to go and attend to him.
"We can't talk here," she said, stepping back a moment.
He reflected and said gloomily, "I'll come
back. I suppose we'd better arrange
something."
"Oh, bother arranging! I'm not going to arrange anything!"=
;
"But I must know a thing or two; and, as =
you
say, we can't talk here. Very well; I'll call for you."
Depositing his unemptied glass he went out and
walked up and down the street. Her=
e was
a rude flounce into the pellucid sentimentality of his sad attachment to
Sue. Though Arabella's word was
absolutely untrustworthy, he thought there might be some truth in her impli=
cation
that she had not wished to disturb him, and had really supposed him dead. However, there was only one thing now t=
o be
done, and that was to play a straightforward part, the law being the law, a=
nd
the woman between whom and himself there was no more unity than between east
and west being in the eye of the Church one person with him.
Having to meet Arabella here, it was impossibl=
e to
meet Sue at Alfredston as he had promised.
At every thought of this a pang had gone through him; but the
conjuncture could not be helped. Arabella was perhaps an intended intervent=
ion
to punish him for his unauthorized love.
Passing the evening, therefore, in a desultory waiting about the town
wherein he avoided the precincts of every cloister and hall, because he cou=
ld
not bear to behold them, he repaired to the tavern bar while the hundred and
one strokes were resounding from the Great Bell of Cardinal College, a
coincidence which seemed to him gratuitous irony. The inn was now brilliantly lighted up,=
and
the scene was altogether more brisk and gay. The faces of the barmaidens had risen in
colour, each having a pink flush on her cheek; their manners were still more
vivacious than before--more abandoned, more excited, more sensuous, and the=
y expressed
their sentiments and desires less euphemistically, laughing in a lackadaisi=
cal
tone, without reserve.
The bar had been crowded with men of all sorts
during the previous hour, and he had heard from without the hubbub of their
voices; but the customers were fewer at last.
He nodded to Arabella, and told her that she would find him outside =
the
door when she came away.
"But you must have something with me
first," she said with great good humour.
"Just an early night-cap: I always do. Then you can go out and wait a minute, =
as it
is best we should not be seen going together." She drew a couple of liqueur glasses of
brandy; and though she had evidently, from her countenance, already taken i=
n enough
alcohol either by drinking or, more probably, from the atmosphere she had
breathed for so many hours, she finished hers quickly. He also drank his, and went outside the
house.
In a few minutes she came, in a thick jacket a=
nd a
hat with a black feather. "I =
live
quite near," she said, taking his arm, "and can let myself in by a
latch-key at any time. What arrang=
ement
do you want to come to?"
"Oh--none in particular," he answere=
d,
thoroughly sick and tired, his thoughts again reverting to Alfredston, and =
the
train he did not go by; the probable disappointment of Sue that he was not
there when she arrived, and the missed pleasure of her company on the long =
and lonely
climb by starlight up the hills to Marygreen.
"I ought to have gone back really!
My aunt is on her deathbed, I fear."
"I'll go over with you to-morrow
morning. I think I could get a day=
off."
There was something particularly uncongenial in
the idea of Arabella, who had no more sympathy than a tigress with his
relations or him, coming to the bedside of his dying aunt, and meeting
Sue. Yet he said, "Of course,=
if
you'd like to, you can."
"Well, that we'll consider... Now, until we have come to some agreeme=
nt it
is awkward our being together here--where you are known, and I am getting
known, though without any suspicion that I have anything to do with you.
"As you like."
"Then wait till I get two or three
things. This is my lodging. Someti=
mes
when late I sleep at the hotel where I am engaged, so nobody will think
anything of my staying out."
She speedily returned, and they went on to the
railway, and made the half-hour's journey to Aldbrickham, where they entere=
d a
third-rate inn near the station in time for a late supper.
On the
morrow between nine and half-past they were journeying back to Christminste=
r,
the only two occupants of a compartment in a third-class railway-carriage.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Having, like Jude, made rather a hasty =
toilet
to catch the train, Arabella looked a little frowsy, and her face was very =
far
from possessing the animation which had characterized it at the bar the nig=
ht
before. When they came out of the
station she found that she still had half an hour to spare before she was d=
ue
at the bar. They walked in silence=
a
little way out of the town in the direction of Alfredston. Jude looked up the far highway.
"Ah ... poor feeble me!" he murmured=
at
last.
"What?" said she.
"This is the very road by which I came in=
to
Christminster years ago full of plans!"
"Well, whatever the road is I think my ti=
me
is nearly up, as I have to be in the bar by eleven o'clock. And as I said, I shan't ask for the day=
to go
with you to see your aunt. So perh=
aps we
had better part here. I'd sooner n=
ot
walk up Chief Street with you, since we've come to no conclusion at all.&qu=
ot;
"Very well.
But you said when we were getting up this morning that you had somet=
hing
you wished to tell me before I left?"
"So I had--two things--one in
particular. But you wouldn't promi=
se to
keep it a secret. I'll tell you no=
w if
you promise? As an honest woman I =
wish
you to know it... It was what I be=
gan
telling you in the night--about that gentleman who managed the Sydney
hotel." Arabella spoke somewhat hurriedly for her. "You'll keep it close?"
"Yes--yes--I promise!" said Jude
impatiently. "Of course I don=
't want
to reveal your secrets."
"Whenever I met him out for a walk, he us=
ed
to say that he was much taken with my looks, and he kept pressing me to mar=
ry
him. I never thought of coming bac=
k to
England again; and being out there in Australia, with no home of my own aft=
er
leaving my father, I at last agreed, and did."
"What--marry him?"
"Yes."
"Regularly--legally--in church?"
"Yes.
And lived with him till shortly before I left. It was stupid, I know; but I did! There, now I've told you. Don't round upon me! He talks of coming=
back
to England, poor old chap. But if =
he
does, he won't be likely to find me."
Jude stood pale and fixed.
"Why the devil didn't you tell me last,
night!" he said.
"Well--I didn't... Won't you make it up with me, then?&quo=
t;
"So in talking of 'your husband' to the b=
ar
gentlemen you meant him, of course--not me!"
"Of course...
Come, don't fuss about it."
"I have nothing more to say!" replied
Jude. "I have nothing at all =
to say
about the--crime--you've confessed to!"
"Crime!
Pooh. They don't think much=
of
such as that over there! Lots of 'em do it...
Well, if you take it like that I shall go back to him! He was very fond of me, and we lived
honourable enough, and as respectable as any married couple in the colony!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> How did I know where you were?"
"I won't go blaming you. I could say a good deal; but perhaps it=
would
be misplaced. What do you wish me =
to
do?"
"Nothing.
There was one thing more I wanted to tell you; but I fancy we've seen
enough of one another for the present! =
span>I
shall think over what you said about your circumstances, and let you
know."
Thus they parted.
Jude watched her disappear in the direction of the hotel, and entered
the railway station close by. Find=
ing
that it wanted three-quarters of an hour of the time at which he could get a
train back to Alfredston, he strolled mechanically into the city as far as =
to
the Fourways, where he stood as he had so often stood before, and surveyed
Chief Street stretching ahead, with its college after college, in
picturesqueness unrivalled except by such Continental vistas as the Street =
of
Palaces in Genoa; the lines of the buildings being as distinct in the morni=
ng
air as in an architectural drawing. But
Jude was far from seeing or criticizing these things; they were hidden by an
indescribable consciousness of Arabella's midnight contiguity, a sense of
degradation at his revived experiences with her, of her appearance as she l=
ay
asleep at dawn, which set upon his motionless face a look as of one
accurst. If he could only have felt
resentment towards her he would have been less unhappy; but he pitied while=
he
contemned her.
Jude turned and retraced his steps. Drawing again towards the station he st=
arted
at hearing his name pronounced--less at the name than at the voice. To his great surprise no other than Sue=
stood
like a vision before him--her look bodeful and anxious as in a dream, her
little mouth nervous, and her strained eyes speaking reproachful inquiry.
"Oh, Jude--I am so glad--to meet you like
this!" she said in quick, uneven accents not far from a sob. Then she flushed as she observed his th=
ought
that they had not met since her marriage.
They looked away from each other to hide their
emotion, took each other's hand without further speech, and went on together
awhile, till she glanced at him with furtive solicitude. "I arrived at Alfredston station l=
ast
night, as you asked me to, and there was nobody to meet me! But I reached Marygreen alone, and they=
told
me Aunt was a trifle better. I sat=
up
with her, and as you did not come all night I was frightened about you--I t=
hought
that perhaps, when you found yourself back in the old city, you were upset
at--at thinking I was--married, and not there as I used to be; and that you=
had
nobody to speak to; so you had tried to drown your gloom--as you did at that
former time when you were disappointed about entering as a student, and had
forgotten your promise to me that you never would again. And this, I thought, was why you hadn't=
come
to meet me!"
"And you came to hunt me up, and deliver =
me,
like a good angel!"
"I thought I would come by the morning tr=
ain
and try to find you--in case--in case--"
"I did think of my promise to you, dear,
continually! I shall never break o=
ut
again as I did, I am sure. I may h=
ave
been doing nothing better, but I was not doing that--I loathe the thought of
it."
"I am glad your staying had nothing to do
with that. But," she said, the
faintest pout entering into her tone, "you didn't come back last night=
and
meet me, as you engaged to!"
"I didn't--I am sorry to say. I had an appointment at nine o'clock--t=
oo
late for me to catch the train that would have met yours, or to get home at
all."
Looking at his loved one as she appeared to him now, in his tender thought the sweetest and most disinterested comrade that= he had ever had, living largely in vivid imaginings, so ethereal a creature th= at her spirit could be seen trembling through her limbs, he felt heartily asha= med of his earthliness in spending the hours he had spent in Arabella's company. There was something rude = and immoral in thrusting these recent facts of his life upon the mind of one wh= o, to him, was so uncarnate as to seem at times impossible as a human wife to any average man. And yet she was Phillotson's. How she had become s= uch, how she lived as such, passed his comprehension as he regarded her to-day.<= o:p>
"You'll go back with me?" he said. "There's a train just now. I wonder how my aunt is by this time...=
And so, Sue, you really came on my acco=
unt
all this way! At what an early tim=
e you
must have started, poor thing!"
"Yes.
Sitting up watching alone made me all nerves for you, and instead of
going to bed when it got light I started.
And now you won't frighten me like this again about your morals for
nothing?"
He was not so sure that she had been frightened
about his morals for nothing. He
released her hand till they had entered the train,--it seemed the same carr=
iage
he had lately got out of with another--where they sat down side by side, Sue
between him and the window. He reg=
arded
the delicate lines of her profile, and the small, tight, applelike convexit=
ies
of her bodice, so different from Arabella's amplitudes. Though she knew he was looking at her s=
he did
not turn to him, but kept her eyes forward, as if afraid that by meeting hi=
s own
some troublous discussion would be initiated.
"Sue--you are married now, you know, like=
me;
and yet we have been in such a hurry that we have not said a word about
it!"
"There's no necessity," she quickly
returned.
"Oh well--perhaps not... But I wish"
"Jude--don't talk about ME--I wish you
wouldn't!" she entreated. "It distresses me, rather. Forgive my saying it! ... Where did you stay last night?"
She had asked the question in perfect innocenc=
e,
to change the topic. He knew that, and said merely, "At an inn,"
though it would have been a relief to tell her of his meeting with an
unexpected one. But the latter's f=
inal
announcement of her marriage in Australia bewildered him lest what he might=
say
should do his ignorant wife an injury.
Their talk proceeded but awkwardly till they
reached Alfredston. That Sue was not as she had been, but was labelled
"Phillotson," paralyzed Jude whenever he wanted to commune with h=
er
as an individual. Yet she seemed
unaltered--he could not say why. There remained the five-mile extra journey
into the country, which it was just as easy to walk as to drive, the greater
part of it being uphill. Jude had =
never
before in his life gone that road with Sue, though he had with another. It was now as if he carried a bright li=
ght
which temporarily banished the shady associations of the earlier time.
Sue talked; but Jude noticed that she still ke=
pt
the conversation from herself. At =
length
he inquired if her husband were well.
"O yes," she said. "He is obliged to be in the school=
all
the day, or he would have come with me.
He is so good and kind that to accompany me he would have dismissed =
the
school for once, even against his principles--for he is strongly opposed to
giving casual holidays--only I wouldn't let him. I felt it would be better to come alone=
. Aunt Drusilla, I knew, was so very ecce=
ntric;
and his being almost a stranger to her now would have made it irksome to bo=
th. Since
it turns out that she is hardly conscious I am glad I did not ask him."=
;
Jude had walked moodily while this praise of
Phillotson was being expressed.
"Mr. Phillotson obliges you in everything, as he ought," he
said.
"Of course."
"You ought to be a happy wife."
"And of course I am."
"Bride, I might almost have said, as
yet. It is not so many weeks since=
I
gave you to him, and--"
"Yes, I know!
I know!" There was som=
ething
in her face which belied her late assuring words, so strictly proper and so
lifelessly spoken that they might have been taken from a list of model spee=
ches
in "The Wife's Guide to Conduct."
Jude knew the quality of every vibration in Sue's voice, could read
every symptom of her mental condition; and he was convinced that she was
unhappy, although she had not been a month married. But her rushing away thus from home, to=
see
the last of a relative whom she had hardly known in her life, proved nothin=
g; for
Sue naturally did such things as those.
"Well, you have my good wishes now as alw=
ays,
Mrs. Phillotson."
She reproached him by a glance.
"No, you are not Mrs. Phillotson,"
murmured Jude. "You are dear,=
free
Sue Bridehead, only you don't know it!
Wifedom has not yet squashed up and digested you in its vast maw as =
an
atom which has no further individuality."
Sue put on a look of being offended, till she
answered, "Nor has husbandom you, so far as I can see!"
"But it has!" he said, shaking his h=
ead
sadly.
When they reached the lone cottage under the f=
irs,
between the Brown House and Marygreen, in which Jude and Arabella had lived=
and
quarrelled, he turned to look at it. A
squalid family lived there now. He=
could
not help saying to Sue: "That's the house my wife and I occupied the w=
hole
of the time we lived together. I b=
rought
her home to that house."
She looked at it.
"That to you was what the school-house at Shaston is to me.&quo=
t;
"Yes; but I was not very happy there as y=
ou
are in yours."
She closed her lips in retortive silence, and =
they
walked some way till she glanced at him to see how he was taking it. "Of course I may have exaggerated =
your
happiness--one never knows," he continued blandly.
"Don't think that, Jude, for a moment, ev=
en
though you may have said it to sting me!
He's as good to me as a man can be, and gives me perfect liberty--wh=
ich
elderly husbands don't do in general...
If you think I am not happy because he's too old for me, you are wro=
ng."
"I don't think anything against him--to y=
ou
dear."
"And you won't say things to distress me,
will you?"
"I will not."
He said no more, but he knew that, from some c=
ause
or other, in taking Phillotson as a husband, Sue felt that she had done wha=
t she
ought not to have done.
They plunged into the concave field on the oth=
er
side of which rose the village--the field wherein Jude had received a thras=
hing
from the farmer many years earlier. On
ascending to the village and approaching the house they found Mrs. Edlin
standing at the door, who at sight of them lifted her hands deprecatingly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "She's downstairs, if you'll belie=
ve
me!" cried the widow. "O=
ut o'
bed she got, and nothing could turn her.
What will come o't I do not know!"
On entering, there indeed by the fireplace sat=
the
old woman, wrapped in blankets, and turning upon them a countenance like th=
at
of Sebastiano's Lazarus. They must=
have
looked their amazement, for she said in a hollow voice:
"Ah--sceered ye, have I! I wasn't going to bide up there no long=
er, to
please nobody! 'Tis more than fles=
h and
blood can bear, to be ordered to do this and that by a feller that don't kn=
ow
half as well as you do yourself! ...
Ah--you'll rue this marrying as well as he!" she added, turning=
to
Sue. "All our family do--and =
nearly
all everybody else's. You should h=
ave
done as I did, you simpleton! And =
Phillotson
the schoolmaster, of all men! What=
made
'ee marry him?"
"What makes most women marry, Aunt?"=
"Ah!
You mean to say you loved the man!"
"I don't meant to say anything
definite."
"Do ye love un?"
"Don't ask me, Aunt."
"I can mind the man very well. A very civil, honourable liver; but Lor=
d!--I
don't want to wownd your feelings, but--there be certain men here and there
that no woman of any niceness can stomach.
I should have said he was one. I
don't say so NOW, since you must ha' known better than I--but that's what I
SHOULD have said!"
Sue jumped up and went out. Jude followed her, and found her in the=
outhouse,
crying.
"Don't cry, dear!" said Jude in
distress. "She means well, bu=
t is very
crusty and queer now, you know."
"Oh no--it isn't that!" said Sue, tr=
ying
to dry her eyes. "I don't min=
d her
roughness one bit."
"What is it, then?"
"It is that what she says is--is true!&qu=
ot;
"God--what--you don't like him?" ask=
ed
Jude.
"I don't mean that!" she said
hastily. "That I ought--perha=
ps I ought
not to have married!"
He wondered if she had really been going to say
that at first. They went back, and the subject was smoothed over, and her a=
unt
took rather kindly to Sue, telling her that not many young women newly marr=
ied
would have come so far to see a sick old crone like her. In the afternoon S=
ue
prepared to depart, Jude hiring a neighbour to drive her to Alfredston.
"I'll go with you to the station, if you'd
like?" he said.
She would not let him. The man came round with the trap, and J=
ude helped
her into it, perhaps with unnecessary attention, for she looked at him
prohibitively.
"I suppose--I may come to see you some da=
y,
when I am back again at Melchester?" he half-crossly observed.
She bent down and said softly: "No, dear-=
-you
are not to come yet. I don't think you are in a good mood."
"Very well," said Jude. "Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" She waved her hand and w=
as
gone.
"She's right!
I won't go!" he murmured.
He passed the evening and following days in
mortifying by every possible means his wish to see her, nearly starving him=
self
in attempts to extinguish by fasting his passionate tendency to love her. He read sermons on discipline, and hunt=
ed up
passages in Church history that treated of the Ascetics of the second
century. Before he had returned fr=
om
Marygreen to Melchester there arrived a letter from Arabella. The sight of it revived a stronger feel=
ing of
self-condemnation for his brief return to her society than for his attachme=
nt
to Sue.
The letter, he perceived, bore a London postma=
rk
instead of the Christminster one.
Arabella informed him that a few days after their parting in the mor=
ning
at Christminster, she had been surprised by an affectionate letter from her
Australian husband, formerly manager of the hotel in Sydney. He had come to England on purpose to fi=
nd
her; and had taken a free, fully-licensed public, in Lambeth, where he wish=
ed
her to join him in conducting the business, which was likely to be a very
thriving one, the house being situated in an excellent, densely populated,
gin-drinking neighbourhood, and already doing a trade of £200 a month, which
could be easily doubled.
As he had said that he loved her very much sti=
ll,
and implored her to tell him where she was, and as they had only parted in a
slight tiff, and as her engagement in Christminster was only temporary, she=
had
just gone to join him as he urged. She
could not help feeling that she belonged to him more than to Jude, since she
had properly married him, and had lived with him much longer than with her
first husband. In thus wishing Jude good-bye she bore him no ill-will, and
trusted he would not turn upon her, a weak woman, and inform against her, a=
nd
bring her to ruin now that she had a chance of improving her circumstances =
and
leading a genteel life.
Jude
returned to Melchester, which had the questionable recommendation of being =
only
a dozen and a half miles from his Sue's now permanent residence. At first he felt that this nearness was=
a distinct
reason for not going southward at all; but Christminster was too sad a plac=
e to
bear, while the proximity of Shaston to Melchester might afford him the glo=
ry
of worsting the Enemy in a close engagement, such as was deliberately sough=
t by
the priests and virgins of the early Church, who, disdaining an ignominious
flight from temptation, became even chamber-partners with impunity. Jude did
not pause to remember that, in the laconic words of the historian,
"insulted Nature sometimes vindicated her rights" in such circums=
tances.
He now returned with feverish desperation to h=
is
study for the priesthood--in the recognition that the single-mindedness of =
his aims,
and his fidelity to the cause, had been more than questionable of late. His passion for Sue troubled his soul; =
yet
his lawful abandonment to the society of Arabella for twelve hours seemed i=
nstinctively
a worse thing--even though she had not told him of her Sydney husband till
afterwards. He had, he verily beli=
eved,
overcome all tendency to fly to liquor--which, indeed, he had never done fr=
om taste,
but merely as an escape from intolerable misery of mind. Yet he perceived with despondency that,=
taken
all round, he was a man of too many passions to make a good clergyman; the
utmost he could hope for was that in a life of constant internal warfare
between flesh and spirit the former might not always be victorious.
As a hobby, auxiliary to his readings in Divin=
ity,
he developed his slight skill in church-music and thorough-bass, till he co=
uld
join in part-singing from notation with some accuracy. A mile or two from Melchester there was=
a
restored village church, to which Jude had originally gone to fix the new
columns and capitals. By this mean=
s he had
become acquainted with the organist, and the ultimate result was that he jo=
ined
the choir as a bass voice.
He walked out to this parish twice every Sunda=
y,
and sometimes in the week. One eve=
ning
about Easter the choir met for practice, and a new hymn which Jude had hear=
d of
as being by a Wessex composer was to be tried and prepared for the following
week. It turned out to be a strang=
ely
emotional composition. As they all=
sang
it over and over again its harmonies grew upon Jude, and moved him exceedin=
gly.
When they had finished he went round to the
organist to make inquiries. The sc=
ore
was in manuscript, the name of the composer being at the head, together with
the title of the hymn: "The Foot of the Cross."
"Yes," said the organist. "He is a local man. He is a professional musician at
Kennetbridge--between here and Christminster.
The vicar knows him. He was
brought up and educated in Christminster traditions, which accounts for the
quality of the piece. I think he p=
lays
in the large church there, and has a surpliced choir. He comes to Melchester sometimes, and o=
nce
tried to get the cathedral organ when the post was vacant. The hymn is getting about everywhere th=
is Easter."
As he walked humming the air on his way home, =
Jude
fell to musing on its composer, and the reasons why he composed it. What a man of sympathies he must be!
In brief, ill as he could afford the time and
money for the journey, Fawley resolved, like the child that he was, to go to
Kennetbridge the very next Sunday. He
duly started, early in the morning, for it was only by a series of crooked
railways that he could get to the town.
About mid-day he reached it, and crossing the bridge into the quaint=
old
borough he inquired for the house of the composer.
They told him it was a red brick building some
little way further on. Also that the gentleman himself had just passed along
the street not five minutes before.
"Which way?" asked Jude with alacrit=
y.
"Straight along homeward from church.&quo=
t;
Jude hastened on, and soon had the pleasure of
observing a man in a black coat and a black slouched felt hat no considerab=
le
distance ahead. Stretching out his=
legs
yet more widely he stalked after. "A hungry soul in pursuit of a full
soul!" he said. "I must =
speak to
that man!"
He could not, however, overtake the musician
before he had entered his own house, and then arose the question if this we=
re
an expedient time to call. Whether=
or
not he decided to do so there and then, now that he had got here, the dista=
nce
home being too great for him to wait till late in the afternoon. This man of soul would understand scant
ceremony, and might be quite a perfect adviser in a case in which an earthly
and illegitimate passion had cunningly obtained entrance into his heart thr=
ough
the opening afforded for religion.
Jude accordingly rang the bell, and was admitt=
ed.
The musician came to him in a moment, and being
respectably dressed, good-looking, and frank in manner, Jude obtained a
favourable reception. He was
nevertheless conscious that there would be a certain awkwardness in explain=
ing
his errand.
"I have been singing in the choir of a li=
ttle
church near Melchester," he said.
"And we have this week practised 'The Foot of the Cross,' which=
I
understand, sir, that you composed?"
"I did--a year or so ago."
"I--like it.
I think it supremely beautiful!"
"Ah well--other people have said so too.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yes, there's money in it, if I could on=
ly see
about getting it published. I have=
other
compositions to go with it, too; I wish I could bring them out; for I haven=
't
made a five-pound note out of any of them yet.
These publishing people--they want the copyright of an obscure
composer's work, such as mine is, for almost less than I should have to pay=
a person
for making a fair manuscript copy of the score.
The one you speak of I have lent to various friends about here and
Melchester, and so it has got to be sung a little. But music is a poor staff to lean on--I=
am
giving it up entirely. You must go=
into
trade if you want to make money nowadays.
The wine business is what I am thinking of. This is my forthcoming list--it is not =
issued
yet--but you can take one."
He handed Jude an advertisement list of several
pages in booklet shape, ornamentally margined with a red line, in which were
set forth the various clarets, champagnes, ports, sherries, and other wines=
with
which he purposed to initiate his new venture.
It took Jude more than by surprise that the man with the soul was th=
us
and thus; and he felt that he could not open up his confidences.
They talked a little longer, but constrainedly,
for when the musician found that Jude was a poor man his manner changed from
what it had been while Jude's appearance and address deceived him as to his=
position
and pursuits. Jude stammered out
something about his feelings in wishing to congratulate the author on such =
an
exalted composition, and took an embarrassed leave.
All the way home by the slow Sunday train, sit=
ting
in the fireless waiting-rooms on this cold spring day, he was depressed eno=
ugh
at his simplicity in taking such a journey.
But no sooner did he reach his Melchester lodging than he found awai=
ting
him a letter which had arrived that morning a few minutes after he had left=
the
house. It was a contrite little no=
te
from Sue, in which she said, with sweet humility, that she felt she had been
horrid in telling him he was not to come to see her, that she despised hers=
elf
for having been so conventional; and that he was to be sure to come by the =
eleven-forty-five
train that very Sunday, and have dinner with them at half-past one.
Jude almost tore his hair at having missed this
letter till it was too late to act upon its contents; but he had chastened
himself considerably of late, and at last his chimerical expedition to
Kennetbridge really did seem to have been another special intervention of
Providence to keep him away from temptation.
But a growing impatience of faith, which he had noticed in himself m=
ore than
once of late, made him pass over in ridicule the idea that God sent people =
on
fools' errands. He longed to see h=
er; he
was angry at having missed her: and he wrote instantly, telling her what ha=
d happened,
and saying he had not enough patience to wait till the following Sunday, but
would come any day in the week that she liked to name.
Since he wrote a little over-ardently, Sue, as=
her
manner was, delayed her reply till Thursday before Good Friday, when she sa=
id
he might come that afternoon if he wished, this being the earliest day on w=
hich
she could welcome him, for she was now assistant-teacher in her husband's
school. Jude therefore got leave f=
rom
the cathedral works at the trifling expense of a stoppage of pay, and went.=
"Whoso prefers either Matrimony or other Ordinance before the Good of Man and the plain Exigenc=
e of
Charity, let him profess Papist=
, or
Protestant, or what he will, he is no
better than a Pharisee."--J. MILTON.
Shast=
on,
the ancient British Palladour,
F=
rom
whose foundation first such strange reports arise,
(as D=
rayton
sang it), was, and is, in itself the city of a dream. Vague imaginings of i=
ts
castle, its three mints, its magnificent apsidal abbey, the chief glory of
South Wessex, its twelve churches, its shrines, chantries, hospitals, its
gabled freestone mansions--all now ruthlessly swept away--throw the visitor,
even against his will, into a pensive melancholy, which the stimulating
atmosphere and limitless landscape around him can scarcely dispel. The spot was the burial-place of a king=
and a
queen, of abbots and abbesses, saints and bishops, knights and squires. The bones of King Edward "the Mart=
yr,"
carefully removed hither for holy preservation, brought Shaston a renown wh=
ich
made it the resort of pilgrims from every part of Europe, and enabled it to
maintain a reputation extending far beyond English shores. To this fair creation of the great Midd=
le-Age
the Dissolution was, as historians tell us, the death-knell. With the
destruction of the enormous abbey the whole place collapsed in a general ru=
in:
the Martyr's bones met with the fate of the sacred pile that held them, and=
not
a stone is now left to tell where they lie.
The natural picturesqueness and singularity of=
the
town still remain; but strange to say these qualities, which were noted by =
many
writers in ages when scenic beauty is said to have been unappreciated, are =
passed
over in this, and one of the queerest and quaintest spots in England stands
virtually unvisited to-day.
It has a unique position on the summit of a st=
eep
and imposing scarp, rising on the north, south, and west sides of the borou=
gh
out of the deep alluvial Vale of Blackmoor, the view from the Castle Green =
over
three counties of verdant pasture--South, Mid, and Nether Wessex--being as
sudden a surprise to the unexpectant traveller's eyes as the medicinal air =
is
to his lungs. Impossible to a rail=
way, it
can best be reached on foot, next best by light vehicles; and it is hardly
accessible to these but by a sort of isthmus on the north-east, that connec=
ts
it with the high chalk table-land on that side.
Such is, and such was, the now world-forgotten
Shaston or Palladour. Its situation rendered water the great want of the to=
wn;
and within living memory, horses, donkeys and men may have been seen toilin=
g up
the winding ways to the top of the height, laden with tubs and barrels fill=
ed
from the wells beneath the mountain, and hawkers retailing their contents at
the price of a halfpenny a bucketful.
This difficulty in the water supply, together =
with
two other odd facts, namely, that the chief graveyard slopes up as steeply =
as a
roof behind the church, and that in former times the town passed through a
curious period of corruption, conventual and domestic, gave rise to the say=
ing
that Shaston was remarkable for three consolations to man, such as the world
afforded not elsewhere. It was a p=
lace where
the churchyard lay nearer heaven than the church steeple, where beer was mo=
re
plentiful than water, and where there were more wanton women than honest wi=
ves
and maids. It is also said that af=
ter
the Middle Ages the inhabitants were too poor to pay their priests, and hen=
ce
were compelled to pull down their churches, and refrain altogether from the
public worship of God; a necessity which they bemoaned over their cups in t=
he
settles of their inns on Sunday afternoons.
In those days the Shastonians were apparently not without a sense of
humour.
There was another peculiarity--this a modern
one--which Shaston appeared to owe to its site.
It was the resting-place and headquarters of the proprietors of
wandering vans, shows, shooting-galleries, and other itinerant concerns, wh=
ose
business lay largely at fairs and markets.
As strange wild birds are seen assembled on some lofty promontory,
meditatively pausing for longer flights, or to return by the course they
followed thither, so here, in this cliff-town, stood in stultified silence =
the
yellow and green caravans bearing names not local, as if surprised by a cha=
nge
in the landscape so violent as to hinder their further progress; and here t=
hey
usually remained all the winter till they turned to seek again their old tr=
acks
in the following spring.
It was to this breezy and whimsical spot that =
Jude
ascended from the nearest station for the first time in his life about four
o'clock one afternoon, and entering on the summit of the peak after a toils=
ome climb,
passed the first houses of the aerial town; and drew towards the school-hou=
se. The hour was too early; the pupils were=
still
in school, humming small, like a swarm of gnats; and he withdrew a few steps
along Abbey Walk, whence he regarded the spot which fate had made the home =
of
all he loved best in the world. In=
front
of the schools, which were extensive and stone-built, grew two enormous bee=
ches
with smooth mouse-coloured trunks, as such trees will only grow on chalk
uplands. Within the mullioned and
transomed windows he could see the black, brown, and flaxen crowns of the
scholars over the sills, and to pass the time away he walked down to the le=
vel terrace
where the abbey gardens once had spread, his heart throbbing in spite of hi=
m.
Unwilling to enter till the children were
dismissed he remained here till young voices could be heard in the open air,
and girls in white pinafores over red and blue frocks appeared dancing along
the paths which the abbess, prioress, subprioress, and fifty nuns had demur=
ely paced
three centuries earlier. Retracing=
his
steps he found that he had waited too long, and that Sue had gone out into =
the
town at the heels of the last scholar, Mr. Phillotson having been absent all
the afternoon at a teachers' meeting at Shottsford.
Jude went into the empty schoolroom and sat do=
wn,
the girl who was sweeping the floor having informed him that Mrs. Phillotson
would be back again in a few minutes. A
piano stood near--actually the old piano that Phillotson had possessed at
Marygreen--and though the dark afternoon almost prevented him seeing the no=
tes
Jude touched them in his humble way, and could not help modulating into the
hymn which had so affected him in the previous week.
A figure moved behind him, and thinking it was
still the girl with the broom Jude took no notice, till the person came clo=
se
and laid her fingers lightly upon his bass hand. The imposed hand was a little one he se=
emed
to know, and he turned.
"Don't stop," said Sue. "I like it. I learnt it before I left Melchester. They used to play it in the training
school."
"I can't strum before you! Play it for me."
"Oh well--I don't mind."
Sue sat down, and her rendering of the piece,
though not remarkable, seemed divine as compared with his own. She, like him, was evidently touched--t=
o her
own surprise--by the recalled air; and when she had finished, and he moved =
his
hand towards hers, it met his own half-way. Jude grasped it--just as he had
done before her marriage.
"It is odd," she said, in a voice qu=
ite
changed, "that I should care about that air; because--"
"Because what?"
"I am not that sort--quite."
"Not easily moved?"
"I didn't quite mean that."
"Oh, but you ARE one of that sort, for you
are just like me at heart!"
"But not at head."
She played on and suddenly turned round; and b=
y an
unpremeditated instinct each clasped the other's hand again.
She uttered a forced little laugh as she
relinquished his quickly. "How funny!" she said. "I wonder what we both did that
for?"
"I suppose because we are both alike, as I
said before."
"Not in our thoughts! Perhaps a little in our feelings."=
"And they rule thoughts... Isn't it enough to make one blaspheme t=
hat
the composer of that hymn is one of the most commonplace men I ever met!&qu=
ot;
"What--you know him?"
"I went to see him."
"Oh, you goose--to do just what I should =
have
done! Why did you?"
"Because we are not alike," he said
drily.
"Now we'll have some tea," said
Sue. "Shall we have it here i=
nstead
of in my house? It is no trouble t=
o get
the kettle and things brought in. =
We
don't live at the school you know, but in that ancient dwelling across the =
way
called Old-Grove Place. It is so a=
ntique
and dismal that it depresses me dreadfully.
Such houses are very well to visit, but not to live in--I feel crush=
ed
into the earth by the weight of so many previous lives there spent. In a new place like these schools there=
is
only your own life to support. Sit=
down,
and I'll tell Ada to bring the tea-things across."
He waited in the light of the stove, the door =
of
which she flung open before going out, and when she returned, followed by t=
he
maiden with tea, they sat down by the same light, assisted by the blue rays=
of
a spirit-lamp under the brass kettle on the stand.
"This is one of your wedding-presents to
me," she said, signifying the latter.
"Yes," said Jude.
The kettle of his gift sang with some satire in
its note, to his mind; and to change the subject he said, "Do you know=
of
any good readable edition of the uncanonical books of the New Testament?
"Oh dear no!--'twould alarm the
neighbourhood... Yes, there is one=
. I am
not familiar with it now, though I was interested in it when my former frie=
nd
was alive. Cowper's Apocryphal
Gospels."
"That sounds like what I want." His thoughts, however reverted with a t=
winge
to the "former friend"--by whom she meant, as he knew, the univer=
sity
comrade of her earlier days. He wo=
ndered
if she talked of him to Phillotson.
"The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice,&qu=
ot;
she went on to keep him from his jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, =
as
she always did. Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now,
there was ever a second silent conversation passing between their emotions,=
so
perfect was the reciprocity between them.
"It is quite like the genuine article. All cut up into verses, too; so that it=
is
like one of the other evangelists read in a dream, when things are the same,
yet not the same. But, Jude, do yo=
u take
an interest in those questions still?
Are you getting up Apologetica?"
"Yes.
I am reading Divinity harder than ever."
She regarded him curiously.
"Why do you look at me like that?" s=
aid
Jude.
"Oh--why do you want to know?"
"I am sure you can tell me anything I may=
be
ignorant of in that subject. You m=
ust
have learnt a lot of everything from your dear dead friend!"
"We won't get on to that now!" she
coaxed. "Will you be carving =
out at
that church again next week, where you learnt the pretty hymn?"
"Yes, perhaps."
"That will be very nice. Shall I come and see you there? It is in this direction, and I could co=
me any
afternoon by train for half an hour?"
"No. Don't come!"
"What--aren't we going to be friends, the=
n,
any longer, as we used to be?"
"No."
"I didn't know that. I thought you were always going to be k=
ind to
me!"
"No, I am not."
"What have I done, then? I am sure I thought we two--" The tremolo in her voice caused her to =
break
off.
"Sue, I sometimes think you are a
flirt," said he abruptly.
There was a momentary pause, till she suddenly
jumped up; and to his surprise he saw by the kettle-flame that her face was
flushed.
"I can't talk to you any longer, Jude!&qu=
ot;
she said, the tragic contralto note having come back as of old. "It is getting too dark to stay to=
gether
like this, after playing morbid Good Friday tunes that make one feel what o=
ne
shouldn't! ... We mustn't sit and =
talk in
this way any more. Yes--you must go
away, for you mistake me! I am ver=
y much
the reverse of what you say so cruelly--Oh, Jude, it WAS cruel to say
that! Yet I can't tell you the tru=
th--I
should shock you by letting you know how I give way to my impulses, and how
much I feel that I shouldn't have been provided with attractiveness unless =
it
were meant to be exercised! Some w=
omen's
love of being loved is insatiable; and so, often, is their love of loving; =
and
in the last case they may find that they can't give it continuously to the =
chamber-officer
appointed by the bishop's licence to receive it. But you are so
straightforward, Jude, that you can't understand me! ... Now you must go. I am sorry my husband =
is not
at home."
"Are you?"
"I perceive I have said that in mere
convention! Honestly I don't think=
I am
sorry. It does not matter, either =
way,
sad to say!"
As they had overdone the grasp of hands some t=
ime
sooner, she touched his fingers but lightly when he went out now. He had hardly gone from the door when, =
with a
dissatisfied look, she jumped on a form and opened the iron casement of a
window beneath which he was passing in the path without. "When do you leave here to catch y=
our
train, Jude?" she asked.
He looked up in some surprise. "The coach that runs to meet it go=
es in
three-quarters of an hour or so."
"What will you do with yourself for the
time?"
"Oh--wander about, I suppose. Perhaps I shall go and sit in the old c=
hurch."
"It does seem hard of me to pack you off
so! You have thought enough of chu=
rches,
Heaven knows, without going into one in the dark. Stay there."
"Where?"
"Where you are. I can talk to you better like this than=
when
you were inside... It was so kind =
and
tender of you to give up half a day's work to come to see me! ... You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, d=
ear
Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote.
Now that the high window-sill was between them=
, so
that he could not get at her, she seemed not to mind indulging in a frankne=
ss
she had feared at close quarters.
"I have been thinking," she continue=
d,
still in the tone of one brimful of feeling, "that the social moulds
civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than t=
he
conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, li=
ving a
calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillo=
tson,
but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccounta=
ble
antipathies... Now you mustn't wai=
t longer,
or you will lose the coach. Come a=
nd see
me again. You must come to the hou=
se
then."
"Yes!" said Jude. "When shall it be?"
"To-morrow week. Good-bye--good-bye!" She stretched out her hand and stroked =
his
forehead pitifully--just once. Jud=
e said
good-bye, and went away into the darkness.
Passing along Bimport Street he thought he hea=
rd
the wheels of the coach departing, and, truly enough, when he reached the
Duke's Arms in the Market Place the coach had gone. It was impossible for him to get to the
station on foot in time for this train, and he settled himself perforce to =
wait
for the next--the last to Melchester that night.
He wandered about awhile, obtained something to
eat; and then, having another half-hour on his hands, his feet involuntarily
took him through the venerable graveyard of Trinity Church, with its avenue=
s of
limes, in the direction of the schools again.
They were entirely in darkness.
She had said she lived over the way at Old-Grove Place, a house whic=
h he
soon discovered from her description of its antiquity.
A glimmering candlelight shone from a front
window, the shutters being yet unclosed.
He could see the interior clearly--the floor sinking a couple of ste=
ps
below the road without, which had become raised during the centuries since =
the
house was built. Sue, evidently ju=
st
come in, was standing with her hat on in this front parlour or sitting-room,
whose walls were lined with wainscoting of panelled oak reaching from floor=
to
ceiling, the latter being crossed by huge moulded beams only a little way a=
bove
her head. The mantelpiece was of t=
he
same heavy description, carved with Jacobean pilasters and scroll-work. The centuries did, indeed, ponderously =
overhang
a young wife who passed her time here.
She had opened a rosewood work-box, and was
looking at a photograph. Having contemplated it a little while she pressed =
it
against her bosom, and put it again in its place.
Then becoming aware that she had not obscured =
the
windows she came forward to do so, candle in hand. It was too dark for her to see Jude wit=
hout,
but he could see her face distinctly, and there was an unmistakable tearful=
ness
about the dark, long-lashed eyes.
She closed the shutters, and Jude turned away =
to
pursue his solitary journey home.
"Whose photograph was she looking at?" he said. He had once given her his; but she had
others, he knew. Yet it was his, s=
urely?
He knew he should go to see her again, accordi=
ng
to her invitation. Those earnest men he read of, the saints, whom Sue, with
gentle irreverence, called his demi-gods, would have shunned such encounter=
s if
they doubted their own strength. B=
ut he
could not. He might fast and pray =
during
the whole interval, but the human was more powerful in him than the Divine.=
Howev=
er, if
God disposed not, woman did. The n=
ext
morning but one brought him this note from her:
Don't come next week. On your own account don't! We were too free, under the influence of that =
morbid
hymn and the twilight. Think no more than you can help of
SUS=
ANNA
FLORENCE MARY.
The
disappointment was keen. He knew h=
er
mood, the look of her face, when she subscribed herself at length thus. But whatever her mood he could not say =
she
was wrong in her view. He replied:
I acquiesce.
You are right. It is a less=
on in renunciation which I suppose I ought to
learn at this season.
JUD=
E.
He
despatched the note on Easter Eve, and there seemed a finality in their
decisions. But other forces and la=
ws
than theirs were in operation. On =
Easter
Monday morning he received a message from the Widow Edlin, whom he had dire=
cted
to telegraph if anything serious happened:
Your aunt is sinking. Come at once.
He th=
rew
down his tools and went. Three and=
a
half hours later he was crossing the downs about Marygreen, and presently
plunged into the concave field across which the short cut was made to the
village. As he ascended on the other side a labouring man, who had been wat=
ching
his approach from a gate across the path, moved uneasily, and prepared to
speak. "I can see in his face=
that
she is dead," said Jude. &quo=
t;Poor
Aunt Drusilla!"
It was as he had supposed, and Mrs. Edlin had =
sent
out the man to break the news to him.
"She wouldn't have knowed 'ee. She lay like a doll wi' glass eyes; so =
it
didn't matter that you wasn't here," said he.
Jude went on to the house, and in the afternoo=
n,
when everything was done, and the layers-out had finished their beer, and g=
one,
he sat down alone in the silent place.
It was absolutely necessary to communicate with Sue, though two or t=
hree
days earlier they had agreed to mutual severance. He wrote in the briefest terms:
Aunt Drusilla is dead, having been tak=
en
almost suddenly. The funeral is =
on
Friday afternoon.
He re=
mained
in and about Marygreen through the intervening days, went out on Friday mor=
ning
to see that the grave was finished, and wondered if Sue would come. She had not written, and that seemed to=
signify
rather that she would come than that she would not. Having timed her by her only possible t=
rain,
he locked the door about mid-day, and crossed the hollow field to the verge=
of
the upland by the Brown House, where he stood and looked over the vast pros=
pect
northwards, and over the nearer landscape in which Alfredston stood. Two mi=
les
behind it a jet of white steam was travelling from the left to the right of=
the
picture.
There was a long time to wait, even now, till =
he
would know if she had arrived. He =
did
wait, however, and at last a small hired vehicle pulled up at the bottom of=
the
hill, and a person alighted, the conveyance going back, while the passenger
began ascending the hill. He knew =
her;
and she looked so slender to-day that it seemed as if she might be crushed =
in
the intensity of a too passionate embrace--such as it was not for him to
give. Two-thirds of the way up her=
head
suddenly took a solicitous poise, and he knew that she had at that moment
recognized him. Her face soon bega=
n a
pensive smile, which lasted till, having descended a little way, he met her=
.
"I thought," she began with nervous
quickness, "that it would be so sad to let you attend the funeral
alone! And so--at the last moment-=
-I
came."
"Dear faithful Sue!" murmured Jude.<= o:p>
With the elusiveness of her curious double nat=
ure,
however, Sue did not stand still for any further greeting, though it wanted
some time to the burial. A pathos =
so
unusually compounded as that which attached to this hour was unlikely to re=
peat
itself for years, if ever, and Jude would have paused, and meditated, and
conversed. But Sue either saw it n=
ot at
all, or, seeing it more than he, would not allow herself to feel it.
The sad and simple ceremony was soon over, the=
ir
progress to the church being almost at a trot, the bustling undertaker havi=
ng a
more important funeral an hour later, three miles off. Drusilla was put into the new ground, q=
uite
away from her ancestors. Sue and J=
ude had
gone side by side to the grave, and now sat down to tea in the familiar hou=
se;
their lives united at least in this last attention to the dead.
"She was opposed to marriage, from first =
to
last, you say?" murmured Sue.
"Yes.
Particularly for members of our family."
Her eyes met his, and remained on him awhile.<= o:p>
"We are rather a sad family, don't you th=
ink,
Jude?"
"She said we made bad husbands and
wives. Certainly we make unhappy o=
nes. At all events, I do, for one!"
Sue was silent.
"Is it wrong, Jude," she said with a tentative tremor,
"for a husband or wife to tell a third person that they are unhappy in
their marriage? If a marriage cere=
mony
is a religious thing, it is possibly wrong; but if it is only a sordid cont=
ract,
based on material convenience in householding, rating, and taxing, and the
inheritance of land and money by children, making it necessary that the male
parent should be known--which it seems to be--why surely a person may say, =
even
proclaim upon the housetops, that it hurts and grieves him or her?"
"I have said so, anyhow, to you."
Presently she went on: "Are there many
couples, do you think, where one dislikes the other for no definite
fault?"
"Yes, I suppose. If either cares for another person, for
instance."
"But even apart from that? Wouldn't the woman, for example, be ver=
y bad-natured
if she didn't like to live with her husband; merely"--her voice undula=
ted,
and he guessed things--"merely because she had a personal feeling agai=
nst
it--a physical objection--a fastidiousness, or whatever it may be
called--although she might respect and be grateful to him? I am merely putting a case. Ought she to try to overcome her
pruderies?"
Jude threw a troubled look at her. He said, looking away: "It would b=
e just
one of those cases in which my experiences go contrary to my dogmas. Speaking as an order-loving man--which =
I hope
I am, though I fear I am not--I should say, yes. Speaking from experience and unbiased n=
ature,
I should say, no.... Sue, I believ=
e you
are not happy!"
"Of course I am!" she contradicted.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "How can a woman be unhappy who ha=
s only
been married eight weeks to a man she chose freely?"
"'Chose freely!'"
"Why do you repeat it? ... But I have to go back by the six o'cloc=
k train. You will be staying on here, I suppose?=
"
"For a few days to wind up Aunt's
affairs. This house is gone now. S=
hall I
go to the train with you?"
A little laugh of objection came from Sue. "I think not. You may come part of the way."
"But stop--you can't go to-night! That train won't take you to Shaston. You must stay and go back to-morrow.
"Very well," she said dubiously. "I didn't tell him I would come fo=
r certain."
Jude went to the widow's house adjoining, to l=
et
her know; and returning in a few minutes sat down again.
"It is horrible how we are circumstanced,
Sue--horrible!" he said abruptly, with his eyes bent to the floor.
"No!
Why?"
"I can't tell you all my part of the
gloom. Your part is that you ought=
not
to have married him. I saw it befo=
re you
had done it, but I thought I mustn't interfere.
I was wrong. I ought to
have!"
"But what makes you assume all this,
dear?"
"Because--I can see you through your
feathers, my poor little bird!"
Her hand lay on the table, and Jude put his up=
on
it. Sue drew hers away.
"That's absurd, Sue," cried he,
"after what we've been talking about! I am more strict and formal than
you, if it comes to that; and that you should object to such an innocent ac=
tion
shows that you are ridiculously inconsistent!"
"Perhaps it was too prudish," she sa=
id
repentantly. "Only I have fan=
cied
it was a sort of trick of ours--too frequent perhaps. There, you may hold it as much as you l=
ike.
Is that good of me?"
"Yes; very."
"But I must tell him."
"Who?"
"Richard."
"Oh--of course, if you think it
necessary. But as it means nothing=
it
may be bothering him needlessly."
"Well--are you sure you mean it only as my
cousin?"
"Absolutely sure. I have no feelings of love left in me.&=
quot;
"That's news.
How has it come to be?"
"I've seen Arabella."
She winced at the hit; then said curiously,
"When did you see her?"
"When I was at Christminster."
"So she's come back; and you never told
me! I suppose you will live with h=
er
now?"
"Of course--just as you live with your
husband."
She looked at the window pots with the geraniu=
ms
and cactuses, withered for want of attention, and through them at the outer=
distance,
till her eyes began to grow moist.
"What is it?" said Jude, in a softened tone.
"Why should you be so glad to go back to =
her
if--if what you used to say to me is still true--I mean if it were true
then! Of course it is not now! How could your heart go back to Arabell=
a so
soon?"
"A special Providence, I suppose, helped =
it
on its way."
"Ah--it isn't true!" she said with
gentle resentment. "You are t=
easing
me--that's all--because you think I am not happy!"
"I don't know. I don't wish to know."
"If I were unhappy it would be my fault, =
my
wickedness; not that I should have a right to dislike him! He is considerate to me in everything; =
and he
is very interesting, from the amount of general knowledge he has acquired by
reading everything that comes in his way....
Do you think, Jude, that a man ought to marry a woman his own age, or
one younger than himself--eighteen years--as I am than he?"
"It depends upon what they feel for each
other."
He gave her no opportunity of self-satisfactio=
n,
and she had to go on unaided, which she did in a vanquished tone, verging on
tears:
"I--I think I must be equally honest with=
you
as you have been with me. Perhaps =
you
have seen what it is I want to say?--that though I like Mr. Phillotson as a
friend, I don't like him--it is a torture to me to--live with him as a husb=
and!--There,
now I have let it out--I couldn't help it, although I have been--pretending=
I
am happy.--Now you'll have a contempt for me for ever, I suppose!" She bent down her face upon her hands a=
s they
lay upon the cloth, and silently sobbed in little jerks that made the fragi=
le
three-legged table quiver.
"I have only been married a month or
two!" she went on, still remaining bent upon the table, and sobbing in=
to
her hands. "And it is said th=
at
what a woman shrinks from--in the early days of her marriage--she shakes do=
wn
to with comfortable indifference in half a dozen years. But that is much like saying that the
amputation of a limb is no affliction, since a person gets comfortably
accustomed to the use of a wooden leg or arm in the course of time!"
Jude could hardly speak, but he said, "I
thought there was something wrong, Sue!
Oh, I thought there was!"
"But it is not as you think!--there is
nothing wrong except my own wickedness, I suppose you'd call it--a repugnan=
ce
on my part, for a reason I cannot disclose, and what would not be admitted =
as
one by the world in general! ... W=
hat
tortures me so much is the necessity of being responsive to this man whenev=
er
he wishes, good as he is morally!--the dreadful contract to feel in a
particular way in a matter whose essence is its voluntariness! ... I wish he would beat me, or be faithles=
s to
me, or do some open thing that I could talk about as a justification for
feeling as I do! But he does nothi=
ng, except
that he has grown a little cold since he has found out how I feel. That's why he didn't come to the
funeral... Oh, I am very miserable=
--I
don't know what to do! ... Don't c=
ome
near me, Jude, because you mustn't.
Don't--don't!"
But he had jumped up and put his face against
hers--or rather against her ear, her face being inaccessible.
"I told you not to, Jude!"
"I know you did--I only wish to--console
you! It all arose through my being
married before we met, didn't it? =
You
would have been my wife, Sue, wouldn't you, if it hadn't been for that?&quo=
t;
Instead of replying she rose quickly, and sayi=
ng
she was going to walk to her aunt's grave in the churchyard to recover hers=
elf,
went out of the house. Jude did not
follow her. Twenty minutes later h=
e saw
her cross the village green towards Mrs. Edlin's, and soon she sent a little
girl to fetch her bag, and tell him she was too tired to see him again that
night.
In the lonely room of his aunt's house, Jude s=
at
watching the cottage of the Widow Edlin as it disappeared behind the night
shade. He knew that Sue was sitting within its walls equally lonely and dis=
heartened;
and again questioned his devotional motto that all was for the best.
He retired to rest early, but his sleep was fi=
tful
from the sense that Sue was so near at hand.
At some time near two o'clock, when he was beginning to sleep more
soundly, he was aroused by a shrill squeak that had been familiar enough to=
him
when he lived regularly at Marygreen. It
was the cry of a rabbit caught in a gin.
As was the little creature's habit, it did not soon repeat its cry; =
and probably
would not do so more than once or twice; but would remain bearing its tortu=
re
till the morrow when the trapper would come and knock it on the head.
He who in his childhood had saved the lives of=
the
earthworms now began to picture the agonies of the rabbit from its lacerated
leg. If it were a "bad catch" by the hind-leg, the animal would t=
ug during
the ensuing six hours till the iron teeth of the trap had stripped the leg-=
bone
of its flesh, when, should a weak-springed instrument enable it to escape, =
it
would die in the fields from the mortification of the limb. If it were a "good catch," na=
mely,
by the fore-leg, the bone would be broken and the limb nearly torn in two i=
n attempts
at an impossible escape.
Almost half an hour passed, and the rabbit
repeated its cry. Jude could rest =
no
longer till he had put it out of its pain, so dressing himself quickly he
descended, and by the light of the moon went across the green in the direct=
ion
of the sound. He reached the hedge=
bordering
the widow's garden, when he stood still.
The faint click of the trap as dragged about by the writhing animal
guided him now, and reaching the spot he struck the rabbit on the back of t=
he
neck with the side of his palm, and it stretched itself out dead.
He was turning away when he saw a woman looking
out of the open casement at a window on the ground floor of the adjacent
cottage. "Jude!" said a voice timidly--Sue's voice. "It is you--is it not?"
"Yes, dear!"
"I haven't been able to sleep at all, and
then I heard the rabbit, and couldn't help thinking of what it suffered, ti=
ll I
felt I must come down and kill it! But I
am so glad you got there first... =
They ought
not to be allowed to set these steel traps, ought they!"
Jude had reached the window, which was quite a=
low
one, so that she was visible down to her waist.
She let go the casement-stay and put her hand upon his, her moonlit =
face
regarding him wistfully.
"Did it keep you awake?" he said.
"No--I was awake."
"How was that?"
"Oh, you know--now! I know you, with your religious doctrin=
es,
think that a married woman in trouble of a kind like mine commits a mortal =
sin
in making a man the confidant of it, as I did you. I wish I hadn't, now!"
"Don't wish it, dear," he said. "That may have BEEN my view; but m=
y doctrines
and I begin to part company."
"I knew it--I knew it! And that's why I vowed I wouldn't distu=
rb your
belief. But--I am SO GLAD to see
you!--and, oh, I didn't mean to see you again, now the last tie between us,
Aunt Drusilla, is dead!"
Jude seized her hand and kissed it. "There is a stronger one left!&quo=
t; he
said. "I'll never care about =
my
doctrines or my religion any more! Let
them go! Let me help you, even if =
I do
love you, and even if you..."
"Don't say it!--I know what you mean; but=
I
can't admit so much as that. There=
! Guess what you like, but don't press me=
to
answer questions!"
"I wish you were happy, whatever I may
be!"
"I CAN'T be!
So few could enter into my feeling--they would say 'twas my fanciful
fastidiousness, or something of that sort, and condemn me... It is none of the natural tragedies of =
love
that's love's usual tragedy in civilized life, but a tragedy artificially m=
anufactured
for people who in a natural state would find relief in parting! ... It would have been wrong, perhaps, for =
me to
tell my distress to you, if I had been able to tell it to anybody else. But I have nobody. And I MUST tell somebody! Jude, before I married him I had never
thought out fully what marriage meant, even though I knew. It was idiotic of me--there is no
excuse. I was old enough, and I th=
ought
I was very experienced. So I rushe=
d on,
when I had got into that training school scrape, with all the cock-sureness=
of
the fool that I was! ... I am cert=
ain
one ought to be allowed to undo what one had done so ignorantly! I daresay it happens to lots of women, =
only
they submit, and I kick... When pe=
ople
of a later age look back upon the barbarous customs and superstitions of the
times that we have the unhappiness to live in, what WILL they say!"
"You are very bitter, darling Sue! How I wish--I wish--"
"You must go in now!"
In a moment of impulse she bent over the sill,=
and
laid her face upon his hair, weeping, and then imprinting a scarcely
perceptible little kiss upon the top of his head, withdrawing quickly, so t=
hat
he could not put his arms round her, as otherwise he unquestionably would h=
ave done. She shut the casement, and he returned =
to his
cottage.
Sue's
distressful confession recurred to Jude's mind all the night as being a sor=
row
indeed.
The morning after, when it was time for her to=
go,
the neighbours saw her companion and herself disappearing on foot down the =
hill
path which led into the lonely road to Alfredston. An hour passed before he returned along=
the
same route, and in his face there was a look of exaltation not unmixed with
recklessness. An incident had occu=
rred.
They had stood parting in the silent highway, =
and
their tense and passionate moods had led to bewildered inquiries of each ot=
her
on how far their intimacy ought to go; till they had almost quarrelled, and=
she
said tearfully that it was hardly proper of him as a parson in embryo to th=
ink
of such a thing as kissing her even in farewell as he now wished to do. Then she had conceded that the fact of =
the
kiss would be nothing: all would depend upon the spirit of it. If given in the spirit of a cousin and a
friend she saw no objection: if in the spirit of a lover she could not perm=
it
it. "Will you swear that it w=
ill
not be in that spirit?" she had said.
No: he would not.
And then they had turned from each other in estrangement, and gone t=
heir
several ways, till at a distance of twenty or thirty yards both had looked
round simultaneously. That look behind was fatal to the reserve hitherto mo=
re
or less maintained. They had quick=
ly run
back, and met, and embracing most unpremeditatedly, kissed close and long.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When they parted for good it was with f=
lushed
cheeks on her side, and a beating heart on his.
The kiss was a turning-point in Jude's career.=
Back again in the cottage, and left to
reflection, he saw one thing: that though his kiss of that aerial being had
seemed the purest moment of his faultful life, as long as he nourished this
unlicensed tenderness it was glaringly inconsistent for him to pursue the i=
dea
of becoming the soldier and servant of a religion in which sexual love was
regarded as at its best a frailty, and at its worst damnation. What Sue had said in warmth was really =
the
cold truth. When to defend his aff=
ection
tooth and nail, to persist with headlong force in impassioned attentions to
her, was all he thought of, he was condemned ipso facto as a professor of t=
he
accepted school of morals. He was =
as
unfit, obviously, by nature, as he had been by social position, to fill the
part of a propounder of accredited dogma.
Strange that his first aspiration--towards
academical proficiency--had been checked by a woman, and that his second as=
piration--towards
apostleship--had also been checked by a woman. "Is it," he said,
"that the women are to blame; or is it the artificial system of things,
under which the normal sex-impulses are turned into devilish domestic gins =
and
springs to noose and hold back those who want to progress?"
It had been his standing desire to become a
prophet, however humble, to his struggling fellow-creatures, without any
thought of personal gain. Yet with=
a
wife living away from him with another husband, and himself in love
erratically, the loved one's revolt against her state being possibly on his
account, he had sunk to be barely respectable according to regulation views=
.
It was not for him to consider further: he had
only to confront the obvious, which was that he had made himself quite an
impostor as a law-abiding religious teacher.
At dusk that evening he went into the garden a=
nd
dug a shallow hole, to which he brought out all the theological and ethical
works that he possessed, and had stored here.
He knew that, in this country of true believers, most of them were n=
ot
saleable at a much higher price than waste-paper value, and preferred to get
rid of them in his own way, even if he should sacrifice a little money to t=
he
sentiment of thus destroying them.
Lighting some loose pamphlets to begin with, he cut the volumes into
pieces as well as he could, and with a three-pronged fork shook them over t=
he
flames. They kindled, and lighted =
up the
back of the house, the pigsty, and his own face, till they were more or less
consumed.
Though he was almost a stranger here now, pass=
ing
cottagers talked to him over the garden hedge.
"Burning up your awld aunt's rubbidge, I
suppose? Ay; a lot gets heaped up =
in
nooks and corners when you've lived eighty years in one house."
It was nearly one o'clock in the morning before
the leaves, covers, and binding of Jeremy Taylor, Butler, Doddridge, Paley,
Pusey, Newman and the rest had gone to ashes, but the night was quiet, and =
as
he turned and turned the paper shreds with the fork, the sense of being no
longer a hypocrite to himself afforded his mind a relief which gave him cal=
m. He might go on believing as before, but=
he
professed nothing, and no longer owned and exhibited engines of faith which=
, as
their proprietor, he might naturally be supposed to exercise on himself fir=
st
of all. In his passion for Sue he =
could
not stand as an ordinary sinner, and not as a whited sepulchre.
Meanwhile Sue, after parting from him earlier =
in
the day, had gone along to the station, with tears in her eyes for having r=
un
back and let him kiss her. Jude ou=
ght
not to have pretended that he was not a lover, and made her give way to an
impulse to act unconventionally, if not wrongly. She was inclined to call it the latter;=
for
Sue's logic was extraordinarily compounded, and seemed to maintain that bef=
ore
a thing was done it might be right to do, but that being done it became wro=
ng;
or, in other words, that things which were right in theory were wrong in
practice.
"I have been too weak, I think!" she
jerked out as she pranced on, shaking down tear-drops now and then. "It was burning, like a lover's--o=
h, it
was! And I won't write to him any =
more,
or at least for a long time, to impress him with my dignity! And I hope it will hurt him very
much--expecting a letter to-morrow morning, and the next, and the next, and=
no
letter coming. He'll suffer then w=
ith suspense--won't
he, that's all!--and I am very glad of it!"--Tears of pity for Jude's
approaching sufferings at her hands mingled with those which had surged up =
in
pity for herself.
Then the slim little wife of a husband whose
person was disagreeable to her, the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl,
quite unfitted by temperament and instinct to fulfil the conditions of the
matrimonial relation with Phillotson, possibly with scarce any man, walked =
fitfully
along, and panted, and brought weariness into her eyes by gazing and worryi=
ng
hopelessly.
Phillotson met her at the arrival station, and,
seeing that she was troubled, thought it must be owing to the depressing ef=
fect
of her aunt's death and funeral. He
began telling her of his day's doings, and how his friend Gillingham, a
neighbouring schoolmaster whom he had not seen for years, had called upon
him. While ascending to the town, =
seated
on the top of the omnibus beside him, she said suddenly and with an air of
self-chastisement, regarding the white road and its bordering bushes of haz=
el:
"Richard--I let Mr. Fawley hold my hand a
long while. I don't know whether y=
ou
think it wrong?"
He, waking apparently from thoughts of far
different mould, said vaguely, "Oh, did you? What did you do that for?"
"I don't know. He wanted to, and I let him."
"I hope it pleased him. I should think it was hardly a novelty.=
"
They lapsed into silence. Had this been a case in the court of an=
omniscient
judge, he might have entered on his notes the curious fact that Sue had pla=
ced
the minor for the major indiscretion, and had not said a word about the kis=
s.
After tea that evening Phillotson sat balancing
the school registers. She remained in an unusually silent, tense, and restl=
ess
condition, and at last, saying she was tired, went to bed early. When Phillotson arrived upstairs, weary=
with
the drudgery of the attendance-numbers, it was a quarter to twelve
o'clock. Entering their chamber, w=
hich
by day commanded a view of some thirty or forty miles over the Vale of
Blackmoor, and even into Outer Wessex, he went to the window, and, pressing=
his
face against the pane, gazed with hard-breathing fixity into the mysterious
darkness which now covered the far-reaching scene. He was musing, "I think," he =
said
at last, without turning his head, "that I must get the committee to
change the school-stationer. All t=
he
copybooks are sent wrong this time."
There was no reply. Thinking Sue was dozing he went on:
"And there must be a rearrangement of that
ventilator in the class-room. The =
wind
blows down upon my head unmercifully and gives me the ear-ache."
As the silence seemed more absolute than
ordinarily he turned round. The heavy, gloomy oak wainscot, which extended =
over
the walls upstairs and down in the dilapidated "Old-Grove Place,"=
and
the massive chimney-piece reaching to the ceiling, stood in odd contrast to=
the
new and shining brass bedstead, and the new suite of birch furniture that he
had bought for her, the two styles seeming to nod to each other across thre=
e centuries
upon the shaking floor.
"Soo!" he said (this being the way in
which he pronounced her name).
She was not in the bed, though she had apparen=
tly
been there--the clothes on her side being flung back. Thinking she might have forgotten some
kitchen detail and gone downstairs for a moment to see to it, he pulled off=
his
coat and idled quietly enough for a few minutes, when, finding she did not
come, he went out upon the landing, candle in hand, and said again
"Soo!"
"Yes!" came back to him in her voice,
from the distant kitchen quarter.
"What are you doing down there at
midnight--tiring yourself out for nothing!"
"I am not sleepy; I am reading; and there=
is
a larger fire here."
He went to bed.
Some time in the night he awoke.
She was not there, even now.
Lighting a candle he hastily stepped out upon the landing, and again
called her name.
She answered "Yes!" as before, but t=
he
tones were small and confined, and whence they came he could not at first
understand. Under the staircase wa=
s a
large clothes-closet, without a window; they seemed to come from it. The door was shut, but there was no loc=
k or
other fastening. Phillotson, alarm=
ed,
went towards it, wondering if she had suddenly become deranged.
"What are you doing in there?" he as=
ked.
"Not to disturb you I came here, as it wa=
s so
late."
"But there's no bed, is there? And no ventilation! Why, you'll be suffocated if you stay a=
ll
night!"
"Oh no, I think not. Don't trouble about me."
"But--"
Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door. She had fastened it inside with a piece=
of
string, which broke at his pull. There being no bedstead she had flung down
some rugs and made a little nest for herself in the very cramped quarters t=
he
closet afforded.
When he looked in upon her she sprang out of h=
er
lair, great-eyed and trembling.
"You ought not to have pulled open the
door!" she cried excitedly. "It is not becoming in you! Oh, will you go away; please will you!&=
quot;
She looked so pitiful and pleading in her white
nightgown against the shadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried. She continued to beseech him not to dis=
turb
her.
He said: "I've been kind to you, and given
you every liberty; and it is monstrous that you should feel in this way!&qu=
ot;
"Yes," said she, weeping. "I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me, I suppose=
! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am to
blame!"
"Who is then?
Am I?"
"No--I don't know! The universe, I suppose--things in gene=
ral, because
they are so horrid and cruel!"
"Well, it is no use talking like that.
On rising the next morning he immediately look=
ed
into the closet, but Sue had already gone downstairs. There was a little nest where she had l=
ain,
and spiders' webs hung overhead.
"What must a woman's aversion be when it is stronger than her f=
ear
of spiders!" he said bitterly.
He found her sitting at the breakfast-table, a=
nd
the meal began almost in silence, the burghers walking past upon the
pavement--or rather roadway, pavements being scarce here--which was two or
three feet above the level of the parlour floor. They nodded down to the happy couple th=
eir
morning greetings, as they went on.
"Richard," she said all at once;
"would you mind my living away from you?"
"Away from me? Why, that's what you were doing when I
married you. What then was the meaning of marrying at all?"
"You wouldn't like me any the better for
telling you."
"I don't object to know."
"Because I thought I could do nothing
else. You had got my promise a lon=
g time
before that, remember. Then, as ti=
me
went on, I regretted I had promised you, and was trying to see an honourable
way to break it off. But as I coul=
dn't I
became rather reckless and careless about the conventions. Then you know what scandals were spread=
, and how
I was turned out of the training school you had taken such time and trouble=
to
prepare me for and get me into; and this frightened me and it seemed then t=
hat
the one thing I could do would be to let the engagement stand. Of course I, of all people, ought not t=
o have
cared what was said, for it was just what I fancied I never did care for. But I was a coward--as so many women ar=
e--and
my theoretic unconventionality broke down.
If that had not entered into the case it would have been better to h=
ave
hurt your feelings once for all then, than to marry you and hurt them all my
life after... And you were so gene=
rous
in never giving credit for a moment to the rumour."
"I am bound in honesty to tell you that I
weighed its probability and inquired of your cousin about it."
"Ah!" she said with pained surprise.=
"I didn't doubt you."
"But you inquired!"
"I took his word."
Her eyes had filled. "HE wouldn't have inquired!" =
she
said. "But you haven't answered me.
Will you let me go away? I =
know
how irregular it is of me to ask it--"
"It is irregular."
"But I do ask it! Domestic laws should be made according =
to temperaments,
which should be classified. If peo=
ple
are at all peculiar in character they have to suffer from the very rules th=
at produce
comfort in others! ... Will you let
me?"
"But we married--"
"What is the use of thinking of laws and
ordinances," she burst out, "if they make you miserable when you =
know
you are committing no sin?"
"But you are committing a sin in not liki=
ng
me."
"I DO like you! But I didn't reflect it would be--that =
it
would be so much more than that... For a
man and woman to live on intimate terms when one feels as I do is adultery,=
in
any circumstances, however legal.
There--I've said it! ... Wi=
ll you
let me, Richard?"
"You distress me, Susanna, by such
importunity!"
"Why can't we agree to free each other? We made the compact, and surely we can =
cancel
it--not legally of course; but we can morally, especially as no new interes=
ts,
in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked after. Then we might be friends, and meet with=
out
pain to either. Oh Richard, be my =
friend
and have pity! We shall both be de=
ad in
a few years, and then what will it matter to anybody that you relieved me f=
rom
constraint for a little while? I d=
aresay
you think me eccentric, or super-sensitive, or something absurd. Well--why should I suffer for what I wa=
s born
to be, if it doesn't hurt other people?"
"But it does--it hurts ME! And you vowed to love me."
"Yes--that's it! I am in the wrong. I always am!
It is as culpable to bind yourself to love always as to believe a cr=
eed
always, and as silly as to vow always to like a particular food or drink!&q=
uot;
"And do you mean, by living away from me,
living by yourself?"
"Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude."
"As his wife?"
"As I choose."
Phillotson writhed.
Sue continued: "She, or he, 'who lets the
world, or his own portion of it, choose his plan of life for him, has no ne=
ed
of any other faculty than the apelike one of imitation.' J. S. Mill's words, those are. I have been reading it up. Why can't you act upon them? I wish to,
always."
"What do I care about J. S. Mill!"
moaned he. "I only want to le=
ad a
quiet life! Do you mind my saying =
that I
have guessed what never once occurred to me before our marriage--that you w=
ere
in love, and are in love, with Jude Fawley!"
"You may go on guessing that I am, since =
you
have begun. But do you suppose tha=
t if I
had been I should have asked you to let me go and live with him?"
The ringing of the school bell saved Phillotson
from the necessity of replying at present to what apparently did not strike=
him
as being such a convincing argumentum ad verecundiam as she, in her loss of=
courage
at the last moment, meant it to appear.
She was beginning to be so puzzling and unstateable that he was read=
y to
throw in with her other little peculiarities the extremest request which a =
wife
could make.
They proceeded to the schools that morning as
usual, Sue entering the class-room, where he could see the back of her head
through the glass partition whenever he turned his eyes that way. As he went on giving and hearing lesson=
s his forehead
and eyebrows twitched from concentrated agitation of thought, till at lengt=
h he
tore a scrap from a sheet of scribbling paper and wrote:
Your request prevents my attending to =
work
at all. I don't know what I am doing! Was it seriously made?
He fo=
lded
the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little boy to take to Sue.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The child toddled off into the class-ro=
om. Phillotson
saw his wife turn and take the note, and the bend of her pretty head as she
read it, her lips slightly crisped, to prevent undue expression under fire =
of
so many young eyes. He could not s=
ee her
hands, but she changed her position, and soon the child returned, bringing
nothing in reply. In a few minutes,
however, one of Sue's class appeared, with a little note similar to his
own. These words only were pencill=
ed
therein:
I am sincerely sorry to say that it was
seriously made.
Phill=
otson
looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place of his brows twitc=
hed
again. In ten minutes he called up=
the
child he had just sent to her, and dispatched another missive:
God knows I don't want to thwart you i=
n any
reasonable way. My whole thought=
is to
make you comfortable and happy. Bu=
t I cannot agree to such a preposterous =
notion
as your going to live with your
lover. You would lose everybody's
respect and regard; and so shoul=
d I!
After= an interval a similar part was enacted in the class-room, and an answer came:<= o:p>
I know you mean my good. But I don't want to be respectable!
To th=
is he
returned no answer.
She wrote again:
I know what you think. But cannot you have pity on me? I beg you to; I implore you to be merciful!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I would not ask if I were not almost compelled by what I ca=
n't
bear! No poor woman has ever wished more than I that Eve h=
ad not
fallen, so that (as the primitive
Christians believed) some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise=
. But I won't trifle! Be kind to me--even though I have not =
been
kind to you! I will go away, go abroad, anywhere, and=
never
trouble you.
Nearl=
y an
hour passed, and then he returned an answer:
I do not wish to pain you. How well you KNOW I don't! Give me a little time. I am disposed to agree to your last req=
uest.
One l=
ine
from her:
Thank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.
All d=
ay
Phillotson bent a dazed regard upon her through the glazed partition; and he
felt as lonely as when he had not known her.
But he was as good as his word, and consented =
to
her living apart in the house. At =
first,
when they met at meals, she had seemed more composed under the new arrangem=
ent;
but the irksomeness of their position worked on her temperament, and the fi=
bres
of her nature seemed strained like harp-strings. She talked vaguely and indiscriminately=
to
prevent his talking pertinently.
IV
Phill=
otson
was sitting up late, as was often his custom, trying to get together the
materials for his long-neglected hobby of Roman antiquities. For the first time since reviving the s=
ubject
he felt a return of his old interest in it.
He forgot time and place, and when he remembered himself and ascende=
d to
rest it was nearly two o'clock.
His preoccupation was such that, though he now
slept on the other side of the house, he mechanically went to the room that=
he
and his wife had occupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove Place,=
which
since his differences with Sue had been hers exclusively. He entered, and
unconsciously began to undress.
There was a cry from the bed, and a quick
movement. Before the schoolmaster =
had
realized where he was he perceived Sue starting up half-awake, staring wild=
ly,
and springing out upon the floor on the side away from him, which was towar=
ds the
window. This was somewhat hidden b=
y the
canopy of the bedstead, and in a moment he heard her flinging up the sash.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Before he had thought that she meant to=
do more
than get air she had mounted upon the sill and leapt out. She disappeared in the darkness, and he=
heard
her fall below.
Phillotson, horrified, ran downstairs, striking
himself sharply against the newel in his haste.
Opening the heavy door he ascended the two or three steps to the lev=
el
of the ground, and there on the gravel before him lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in his arms, and
bringing Sue into the hall seated her on a chair, where he gazed at her by =
the
flapping light of the candle which he had set down in the draught on the bo=
ttom
stair.
She had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyes that seemed=
not
to take him in; and though not particularly large in general they appeared =
so
now. She pressed her side and rubb=
ed her
arm, as if conscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, in evident
distress at his gaze.
"Thank God--you are not killed! Though it's not for want of trying--not=
much
hurt I hope?"
Her fall, in fact, had not been a serious one,
probably owing to the lowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the
ground without. Beyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side she had
apparently incurred little harm.
"I was asleep, I think!" she began, =
her
pale face still turned away from him.
"And something frightened me--a terrible dream--I thought I saw
you--" The actual circumstanc=
es
seemed to come back to her, and she was silent.
Her cloak was hanging at the back of the door,=
and
the wretched Phillotson flung it round her.
"Shall I help you upstairs?" he asked drearily; for the
significance of all this sickened him of himself and of everything.
"No thank you, Richard. I am very little hurt. I can walk."
"You ought to lock your door," he
mechanically said, as if lecturing in school.
"Then no one could intrude even by accident."
"I have tried--it won't lock. All the doors are out of order."
The aspect of things was not improved by her
admission. She ascended the stairc=
ase
slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her. Phillotson did not
approach her, or attempt to ascend himself till he heard her enter her
room. Then he fastened up the front
door, and returning, sat down on the lower stairs, holding the newel with o=
ne hand,
and bowing his face into the other. Thus
he remained for a long long time--a pitiable object enough to one who had s=
een
him; till, raising his head and sighing a sigh which seemed to say that the
business of his life must be carried on, whether he had a wife or no, he to=
ok
the candle and went upstairs to his lonely room on the other side of the
landing.
No further incident touching the matter between
them occurred till the following evening, when, immediately school was over,
Phillotson walked out of Shaston, saying he required no tea, and not inform=
ing Sue
where he was going. He descended f=
rom
the town level by a steep road in a north-westerly direction, and continued=
to
move downwards till the soil changed from its white dryness to a tough brown
clay. He was now on the low alluvial beds
Where Duncliffe is the traveller's mar=
k, And cloty Stour's a-rolling dark.
More =
than
once he looked back in the increasing obscurity of evening. Against the sky=
was
Shaston, dimly visible
On the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as pale day wore Away... [William Barnes.]
The n=
ew-lit
lights from its windows burnt with a steady shine as if watching him, one of
which windows was his own. Above i=
t he
could just discern the pinnacled tower of Trinity Church. The air down here, tempered by the thic=
k damp
bed of tenacious clay, was not as it had been above, but soft and relaxing,=
so
that when he had walked a mile or two he was obliged to wipe his face with =
his
handkerchief.
Leaving Duncliffe Hill on the left he proceeded
without hesitation through the shade, as a man goes on, night or day, in a
district over which he has played as a boy.
He had walked altogether about four and a half miles
Where Stour receives her strength,
when =
he
crossed a tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton--a little town of t=
hree
or four thousand inhabitants--where he went on to the boys' school, and kno=
cked
at the door of the master's residence.
A boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillots=
on's
inquiry if Mr. Gillingham was at home replied that he was, going at once of=
f to
his own house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. He discovered his friend putting away s=
ome
books from which he had been giving evening lessons. The light of the paraffin lamp fell on =
Phillotson's
face--pale and wretched by contrast with his friend's, who had a cool,
practical look. They had been
schoolmates in boyhood, and fellow-students at Wintoncester Training Colleg=
e,
many years before this time.
"Glad to see you, Dick! But you don't look well? Nothing the matter?"
Phillotson advanced without replying, and
Gillingham closed the cupboard and pulled up beside his visitor.
"Why you haven't been here--let me see--s=
ince
you were married? I called, you know, but you were out; and upon my word it=
is
such a climb after dark that I have been waiting till the days are longer b=
efore
lumpering up again. I am glad you =
didn't
wait, however."
Though well-trained and even proficient master=
s,
they occasionally used a dialect-word of their boyhood to each other in
private.
"I've come, George, to explain to you my
reasons for taking a step that I am about to take, so that you, at least, w=
ill
understand my motives if other people question them anywhen--as they may,
indeed certainly will... But anyth=
ing is
better than the present condition of things.
God forbid that you should ever have such an experience as mine!&quo=
t;
"Sit down.
You don't mean--anything wrong between you and Mrs. Phillotson?"=
;
"I do... My wretched state is that I've a wife I love who not only does not l= ove me, but--but-- Well, I won't say.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I know her feeling! I should prefer hatred from her!"<= o:p>
"Ssh!"
"And the sad part of it is that she is no=
t so
much to blame as I. She was a pupil-teacher under me, as you know, and I to=
ok
advantage of her inexperience, and toled her out for walks, and got her to
agree to a long engagement before she well knew her own mind. Afterwards she saw somebody else, but s=
he
blindly fulfilled her engagement."
"Loving the other?"
"Yes; with a curious tender solicitude
seemingly; though her exact feeling for him is a riddle to me--and to him t=
oo,
I think--possibly to herself. She =
is one
of the oddest creatures I ever met.
However, I have been struck with these two facts; the extraordinary
sympathy, or similarity, between the pair.
He is her cousin, which perhaps accounts for some of it. They seem to be one person split in two=
! And
with her unconquerable aversion to myself as a husband, even though she may
like me as a friend, 'tis too much to bear longer. She has conscientiously
struggled against it, but to no purpose. I cannot bear it--I cannot! I can't answer her arguments--she has r=
ead
ten times as much as I. Her intell=
ect
sparkles like diamonds, while mine smoulders like brown paper... She's one too many for me!"
"She'll get over it, good-now?"
"Never!
It is--but I won't go into it--there are reasons why she never
will. At last she calmly and firmly
asked if she might leave me and go to him.
The climax came last night, when, owing to my entering her room by
accident, she jumped out of window--so strong was her dread of me! She pretended it was a dream, but that =
was to
soothe me. Now when a woman jumps =
out of
window without caring whether she breaks her neck or no, she's not to be
mistaken; and this being the case I have come to a conclusion: that it is w=
rong
to so torture a fellow-creature any longer; and I won't be the inhuman wret=
ch
to do it, cost what it may!"
"What--you'll let her go? And with her lover?"
"Whom with is her matter. I shall let her go; with him certainly,=
if
she wishes. I know I may be wrong-=
-I
know I can't logically, or religiously, defend my concession to such a wish=
of
hers, or harmonize it with the doctrines I was brought up in. Only I know one thing: something within=
me
tells me I am doing wrong in refusing her.
I, like other men, profess to hold that if a husband gets such a
so-called preposterous request from his wife, the only course that can poss=
ibly
be regarded as right and proper and honourable in him is to refuse it, and =
put
her virtuously under lock and key, and murder her lover perhaps. But is that essentially right, and prop=
er,
and honourable, or is it contemptibly mean and selfish? I don't profess to decide. I simply am going to act by instinct, a=
nd let
principles take care of themselves. If a
person who has blindly walked into a quagmire cries for help, I am inclined=
to
give it, if possible."
"But--you see, there's the question of
neighbours and society--what will happen if everybody--"
"Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher a=
ny
longer! I only see what's under my
eyes."
"Well--I don't agree with your instinct,
Dick!" said Gillingham gravely.
"I am quite amazed, to tell the truth, that such a sedate, plod=
ding
fellow as you should have entertained such a craze for a moment. You said when I called that she was puz=
zling
and peculiar: I think you are!"
"Have you ever stood before a woman whom =
you
know to be intrinsically a good woman, while she has pleaded for release--b=
een
the man she has knelt to and implored indulgence of?"
"I am thankful to say I haven't."
"Then I don't think you are in a position=
to
give an opinion. I have been that =
man,
and it makes all the difference in the world, if one has any manliness or
chivalry in him. I had not the rem=
otest idea--living
apart from women as I have done for so many years--that merely taking a wom=
an
to church and putting a ring upon her finger could by any possibility invol=
ve
one in such a daily, continuous tragedy as that now shared by her and me!&q=
uot;
"Well, I could admit some excuse for lett=
ing
her leave you, provided she kept to herself.
But to go attended by a cavalier--that makes a difference."
"Not a bit.
Suppose, as I believe, she would rather endure her present misery th=
an
be made to promise to keep apart from him? All that is a question for
herself. It is not the same thing =
at all
as the treachery of living on with a husband and playing him false... However, she has not distinctly implied
living with him as wife, though I think she means to... And to the best of my understanding it =
is not
an ignoble, merely animal, feeling between the two: that is the worst of it;
because it makes me think their affection will be enduring. I did not mean to confess to you that i=
n the
first jealous weeks of my marriage, before I had come to my right mind, I h=
id
myself in the school one evening when they were together there, and I heard
what they said. I am ashamed of it=
now,
though I suppose I was only exercising a legal right. I found from their manner that an
extraordinary affinity, or sympathy, entered into their attachment, which
somehow took away all flavour of grossness. Their supreme desire is to be
together--to share each other's emotions, and fancies, and dreams."
"Platonic!"
"Well no.
Shelleyan would be nearer to it.
They remind me of--what are their names--Laon and Cythna. Also of Paul and Virginia a little. The more I reflect, the more ENTIRELY I=
am on
their side!"
"But if people did as you want to do, the=
re'd
be a general domestic disintegration.
The family would no longer be the social unit."
"Yes--I am all abroad, I suppose!" s=
aid
Phillotson sadly. "I was neve=
r a
very bright reasoner, you remember....
And yet, I don't see why the woman and the children should not be the
unit without the man."
"By the Lord Harry!--Matriarchy! ... Does SHE say all this too?"
"Oh no.
She little thinks I have out-Sued Sue in this--all in the last twelve
hours!"
"It will upset all received opinion
hereabout. Good God--what will Sha=
ston
say!"
"I don't say that it won't. I don't know--I don't know! ... As I say, I am only a feeler, not a
reasoner."
"Now," said Gillingham, "let us
take it quietly, and have something to drink over it." He went under the stairs, and produced a
bottle of cider-wine, of which they drank a rummer each. "I think you are rafted, and not
yourself," he continued. &quo=
t;Do
go back and make up your mind to put up with a few whims. But keep her.
I hear on all sides that she's a charming young thing."
"Ah yes!
That's the bitterness of it!
Well, I won't stay. I have =
a long
walk before me."
Gillingham accompanied his friend a mile on his
way, and at parting expressed his hope that this consultation, singular as =
its
subject was, would be the renewal of their old comradeship. "Stick to her!" were his last
words, flung into the darkness after Phillotson; from which his friend answ=
ered
"Aye, aye!"
But when Phillotson was alone under the clouds=
of
night, and no sound was audible but that of the purling tributaries of the
Stour, he said, "So Gillingham, my friend, you had no stronger argumen=
ts against
it than those!"
"I think she ought to be smacked, and bro=
ught
to her senses--that's what I think!" murmured Gillingham, as he walked
back alone.
The next morning came, and at breakfast Phillo=
tson
told Sue:
"You may go--with whom you will. I absolutely and unconditionally agree.=
"
Having once come to this conclusion it seemed =
to
Phillotson more and more indubitably the true one. His mild serenity at the sense that he =
was
doing his duty by a woman who was at his mercy almost overpowered his grief=
at
relinquishing her.
Some days passed, and the evening of their last
meal together had come--a cloudy evening with wind--which indeed was very
seldom absent in this elevated place.
How permanently it was imprinted upon his vision; that look of her as
she glided into the parlour to tea; a slim flexible figure; a face, strained
from its roundness, and marked by the pallors of restless days and nights,
suggesting tragic possibilities quite at variance with her times of buoyanc=
y; a
trying of this morsel and that, and an inability to eat either. Her nervous manner, begotten of a fear =
lest
he should be injured by her course, might have been interpreted by a strang=
er
as displeasure that Phillotson intruded his presence on her for the few bri=
ef
minutes that remained.
"You had better have a slice of ham or an
egg, or something with your tea? Y=
ou
can't travel on a mouthful of bread and butter."
She took the slice he helped her to; and they
discussed as they sat trivial questions of housekeeping, such as where he w=
ould
find the key of this or that cupboard, what little bills were paid, and wha=
t not.
"I am a bachelor by nature, as you know,
Sue," he said, in a heroic attempt to put her at her ease. "So that being without a wife will=
not
really be irksome to me, as it might be to other men who have had one a lit=
tle
while. I have, too, this grand hob=
by in
my head of writing 'The Roman Antiquities of Wessex,' which will occupy all=
my spare
hours."
"If you will send me some of the manuscri=
pt
to copy at any time, as you used to, I will do it with so much pleasure!&qu=
ot;
she said with amenable gentleness.
"I should much like to be some help to you still--as
a--friend."
Phillotson mused, and said: "No, I think =
we
ought to be really separate, if we are to be at all. And for this reason, that I don't wish =
to ask
you any questions, and particularly wish you not to give me information as =
to
your movements, or even your address...
Now, what money do you want? You
must have some, you know."
"Oh, of course, Richard, I couldn't think=
of
having any of your money to go away from you with! I don't want any either. I have enough of my own to last me for =
a long
while, and Jude will let me have--"
"I would rather not know anything about h=
im,
if you don't mind. You are free, absolutely; and your course is your own.&q=
uot;
"Very well.
But I'll just say that I have packed only a change or two of my own
personal clothing, and one or two little things besides that are my very
own. I wish you would look into my=
trunk
before it is closed. Besides that =
I have
only a small parcel that will go into Jude's portmanteau."
"Of course I shall do no such thing as
examine your luggage! I wish you w=
ould
take three-quarters of the household furniture.
I don't want to be bothered with it.
I have a sort of affection for a little of it that belonged to my po=
or
mother and father. But the rest yo=
u are
welcome to whenever you like to send for it."
"That I shall never do."
"You go by the six-thirty train, don't
you? It is now a quarter to six.&q=
uot;
"You...
You don't seem very sorry I am going, Richard!"
"Oh no--perhaps not."
"I like you much for how you have
behaved. It is a curious thing that
directly I have begun to regard you as not my husband, but as my old teache=
r, I
like you. I won't be so affected a=
s to
say I love you, because you know I don't, except as a friend. But you do seem that to me!"
Sue was for a few moments a little tearful at
these reflections, and then the station omnibus came round to take her up.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Phillotson saw her things put on the to=
p,
handed her in, and was obliged to make an appearance of kissing her as he
wished her good-bye, which she quite understood and imitated. From the cheerful manner in which they =
parted
the omnibus-man had no other idea than that she was going for a short visit=
.
When Phillotson got back into the house he went
upstairs and opened the window in the direction the omnibus had taken. Soon the noise of its wheels died away.=
He came down then, his face compressed =
like that
of one bearing pain; he put on his hat and went out, following by the same
route for nearly a mile. Suddenly
turning round he came home.
He had no sooner entered than the voice of his
friend Gillingham greeted him from the front room.
"I could make nobody hear; so finding your
door open I walked in, and made myself comfortable. I said I would call, you remember."=
;
"Yes.
I am much obliged to you, Gillingham, particularly for coming to-nig=
ht."
"How is Mrs.--"
"She is quite well. She is gone--just gone. That's her tea-cup, that she drank out =
of
only an hour ago. And that's the p=
late she--" Phillotson's throat got choked up, and =
he
could not go on. He turned and pushed the tea-things aside.
"Have you had any tea, by the by?" he
asked presently in a renewed voice.
"No--yes--never mind," said Gillingh=
am,
preoccupied. "Gone, you say s=
he
is?"
"Yes...
I would have died for her; but I wouldn't be cruel to her in the nam=
e of
the law. She is, as I understand, =
gone
to join her lover. What they are g=
oing
to do I cannot say. Whatever it ma=
y be she
has my full consent to."
There was a stability, a ballast, in Phillotso=
n's
pronouncement which restrained his friend's comment. "Shall I--leave you?" he aske=
d.
"No, no.
It is a mercy to me that you have come.
I have some articles to arrange and clear away. Would you help me?"
Gillingham assented; and having gone to the up=
per
rooms the schoolmaster opened drawers, and began taking out all Sue's thing=
s that
she had left behind, and laying them in a large box. "She wouldn't take all I wanted her
to," he continued. "But =
when I
made up my mind to her going to live in her own way I did make up my mind.&=
quot;
"Some men would have stopped at an agreem=
ent
to separate."
"I've gone into all that, and don't wish =
to
argue it. I was, and am, the most
old-fashioned man in the world on the question of marriage--in fact I had n=
ever
thought critically about its ethics at all.
But certain facts stared me in the face, and I couldn't go against
them."
They went on with the packing silently. When it was done Phillotson closed the =
box
and turned the key.
"There," he said. "To adorn her in somebody's eyes; =
never
again in mine!"
Four-=
and-twenty
hours before this time Sue had written the following note to Jude:
It is as I told you; and I am leaving
to-morrow evening. Richard and I=
thought
it could be done with less obtrusiveness after dark. I feel rather frightened, and therefore ask you to be sure you are o=
n the
Melchester platform to meet me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I arrive at a little to seven. I know you will, of course, dear Jude; b=
ut I
feel so timid that I can't help
begging you to be punctual. He has=
been so VERY kind to me through it all=
!
Now=
to
our meeting!
S.<= o:p>
As sh=
e was
carried by the omnibus farther and farther down from the mountain town--the
single passenger that evening--she regarded the receding road with a sad
face. But no hesitation was appare=
nt therein.
The up-train by which she was departing stoppe=
d by
signal only. To Sue it seemed stra=
nge
that such a powerful organization as a railway train should be brought to a
stand-still on purpose for her--a fugitive from her lawful home.
The twenty minutes' journey drew towards its
close, and Sue began gathering her things together to alight. At the moment that the train came to a
stand-still by the Melchester platform a hand was laid on the door and she
beheld Jude. He entered the compar=
tment promptly. He had a black bag in his hand, and was
dressed in the dark suit he wore on Sundays and in the evening after work. =
Altogether
he looked a very handsome young fellow, his ardent affection for her burnin=
g in
his eyes.
"Oh Jude!" She clasped his hand with both hers, an=
d her
tense state caused her to simmer over in a little succession of dry sobs. "I--I am so glad! I get out here?"
"No. I get in, dear one! I've packed.
Besides this bag I've only a big box which is labelled."
"But don't I get out? Aren't we going to stay here?"
"We couldn't possibly, don't you see. We are known here--I, at any rate, am w= ell known. I've booked for Aldbrickham= ; and here's your ticket for the same place, as you have only one to here."<= o:p>
"I thought we should have stayed here,&qu=
ot;
she repeated.
"It wouldn't have done at all."
"Ah!
Perhaps not."
"There wasn't time for me to write and say
the place I had decided on. Aldbri=
ckham
is a much bigger town--sixty or seventy thousand inhabitants--and nobody kn=
ows
anything about us there."
"And you have given up your cathedral work
here?"
"Yes.
It was rather sudden--your message coming unexpectedly. Strictly, I
might have been made to finish out the week.
But I pleaded urgency and I was let off.
I would have deserted any day at your command, dear Sue. I have deserted more than that for you!=
"
"I fear I am doing you a lot of harm. Ruining your prospects of the Church; r=
uining
your progress in your trade; everything!"
"The Church is no more to me. Let it lie!
I am not to be one of
The soldier-saints who, row on row,=
Burn upward each to his point of bliss=
,
if an=
y such
there be! My point of bliss is not
upward, but here."
"Oh I seem so bad--upsetting men's courses
like this!" said she, taking up in her voice the emotion that had begu=
n in
his. But she recovered her equanim=
ity by
the time they had travelled a dozen miles.
"He has been so good in letting me go,&qu=
ot;
she resumed. "And here's a no=
te I
found on my dressing-table, addressed to you."
"Yes.
He's not an unworthy fellow," said Jude, glancing at the note. =
"And
I am ashamed of myself for hating him because he married you."
"According to the rule of women's whims I
suppose I ought to suddenly love him, because he has let me go so generously
and unexpectedly," she answered smiling.
"But I am so cold, or devoid of gratitude, or so something, that
even this generosity hasn't made me love him, or repent, or want to stay wi=
th
him as his wife; although I do feel I like his large-mindedness, and respect
him more than ever."
"It may not work so well for us as if he =
had
been less kind, and you had run away against his will," murmured Jude.=
"That I NEVER would have done."
Jude's eyes rested musingly on her face. Then he suddenly kissed her; and was go=
ing to
kiss her again. "No--only once
now--please, Jude!"
"That's rather cruel," he answered; =
but
acquiesced. "Such a strange t=
hing
has happened to me," Jude continued after a silence. "Arabella has actually written to =
ask me
to get a divorce from her--in kindness to her, she says. She wants to honestly and legally marry=
that
man she has already married virtually; and begs me to enable her to do it.&=
quot;
"What have you done?"
"I have agreed. I thought at first I couldn't do it wit=
hout
getting her into trouble about that second marriage, and I don't want to in=
jure
her in any way. Perhaps she's no w=
orse
than I am, after all! But nobody knows about it over here, and I find it wi=
ll
not be a difficult proceeding at all. If
she wants to start afresh I have only too obvious reasons for not hindering
her."
"Then you'll be free?"
"Yes, I shall be free."
"Where are we booked for?" she asked,
with the discontinuity that marked her to-night.
"Aldbrickham, as I said."
"But it will be very late when we get
there?"
"Yes.
I thought of that, and I wired for a room for us at the Temperance H=
otel
there."
"One?"
"Yes--one."
She looked at him.
"Oh Jude!" Sue be=
nt her
forehead against the corner of the compartment.
"I thought you might do it; and that I was deceiving you. But I didn't mean that!"
In the pause which followed, Jude's eyes fixed
themselves with a stultified expression on the opposite seat. "Well!" he said... "Well!"
He remained in silence; and seeing how discomf=
ited
he was she put her face against his cheek, murmuring, "Don't be vexed,
dear!"
"Oh--there's no harm done," he said. "But--I understood it l= ike that... Is this a sudden change of mind?"<= o:p>
"You have no right to ask me such a quest=
ion;
and I shan't answer!" she said, smiling.
"My dear one, your happiness is more to me
than anything--although we seem to verge on quarrelling so often!--and your
will is law to me. I am something more than a mere--selfish fellow, I hope.=
Have it as you wish!" On reflection his brow showed
perplexity. "But perhaps it i=
s that
you don't love me--not that you have become conventional! Much as, under yo=
ur
teaching, I hate convention, I hope it IS that, not the other terrible
alternative!"
Even at this obvious moment for candour Sue co=
uld
not be quite candid as to the state of that mystery, her heart. "Put it down to my timidity,"=
she
said with hurried evasiveness; "to a woman's natural timidity when the
crisis comes. I may feel as well a=
s you
that I have a perfect right to live with you as you thought--from this mome=
nt. I may hold the opinion that, in a proper
state of society, the father of a woman's child will be as much a private
matter of hers as the cut of her underlinen, on whom nobody will have any r=
ight
to question her. But partly, perha=
ps,
because it is by his generosity that I am now free, I would rather not be o=
ther
than a little rigid. If there had =
been a
rope-ladder, and he had run after us with pistols, it would have seemed
different, and I may have acted otherwise.
But don't press me and criticize me, Jude! Assume that I haven't the courage of my
opinions. I know I am a poor miser=
able creature. My nature is not so passionate as
yours!"
He repeated simply! "I thought--what I naturally
thought. But if we are not lovers,=
we
are not. Phillotson thought so, I =
am
sure. See, here is what he has wri=
tten
to me." He opened the letter =
she
had brought, and read:
"I make only one condition--that you are
tender and kind to her. I know you=
love
her. But even love may be cruel at
times. You are made for each other=
: it
is obvious, palpable, to any unbiased older person. You were all along 'the shadowy third' =
in my
short life with her. I repeat, tak=
e care
of Sue."
"He's a good fellow, isn't he!" she =
said
with latent tears. On reconsiderat=
ion
she added, "He was very resigned to letting me go--too resigned
almost! I never was so near being =
in
love with him as when he made such thoughtful arrangements for my being
comfortable on my journey, and offering to provide money. Yet I was not. If I loved him ever so little as a wife=
, I'd
go back to him even now."
"But you don't, do you?"
"It is true--oh so terribly true!--I
don't."
"Nor me neither, I half-fear!" he sa=
id
pettishly. "Nor anybody perha=
ps! Sue, sometimes, when I am vexed with yo=
u, I
think you are incapable of real love."
"That's not good and loyal of you!" =
she
said, and drawing away from him as far as she could, looked severely out in=
to
the darkness. She added in hurt to=
nes,
without turning round: "My liking for you is not as some women's
perhaps. But it is a delight in be=
ing
with you, of a supremely delicate kind, and I don't want to go further and =
risk
it by--an attempt to intensify it! I
quite realized that, as woman with man, it was a risk to come. But, as me with you, I resolved to trus=
t you
to set my wishes above your gratification.
Don't discuss it further, dear Jude!"
"Of course, if it would make you reproach
yourself... but you do like me very much, Sue? Say you do!
Say that you do a quarter, a tenth, as much as I do you, and I'll be
content!"
"I've let you kiss me, and that tells
enough."
"Just once or so!"
"Well--don't be a greedy boy."
He leant back, and did not look at her for a l=
ong
time. That episode in her past his=
tory
of which she had told him--of the poor Christminster graduate whom she had
handled thus, returned to Jude's mind; and he saw himself as a possible sec=
ond
in such a torturing destiny.
"This is a queer elopement!" he
murmured. "Perhaps you are ma=
king a
cat's paw of me with Phillotson all this time.
Upon my word it almost seems so--to see you sitting up there so
prim!"
"Now you mustn't be angry--I won't let
you!" she coaxed, turning and moving nearer to him. "You did kiss me just now, you kno=
w; and
I didn't dislike you to, I own it, Jude.
Only I don't want to let you do it again, just yet--considering how =
we
are circumstanced, don't you see!"
He could never resist her when she pleaded (as=
she
well knew). And they sat side by side with joined hands, till she aroused
herself at some thought.
"I can't possibly go to that Temperance I=
nn,
after your telegraphing that message!"
"Why not?"
"You can see well enough!"
"Very well; there'll be some other one op=
en,
no doubt. I have sometimes thought,
since your marrying Phillotson because of a stupid scandal, that under the
affectation of independent views you are as enslaved to the social code as =
any
woman I know!"
"Not mentally. But I haven't the courage of my views, =
as I
said before. I didn't marry him
altogether because of the scandal. But sometimes a woman's LOVE OF BEING LO=
VED
gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the though=
t of
treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't lo=
ve him
at all. Then, when she sees him
suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she can to repair the
wrong."
"You simply mean that you flirted
outrageously with him, poor old chap, and then repented, and to make
reparation, married him, though you tortured yourself to death by doing
it."
"Well--if you will put it brutally!--it w=
as a
little like that--that and the scandal together--and your concealing from me
what you ought to have told me before!"
He could see that she was distressed and tearf=
ul
at his criticisms, and soothed her, saying: "There, dear; don't mind!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Crucify me, if you will! You know you are all the world to me,
whatever you do!"
"I am very bad and unprincipled--I know y=
ou
think that!" she said, trying to blink away her tears.
"I think and know you are my dear Sue, fr=
om
whom neither length nor breadth, nor things present nor things to come, can
divide me!"
Though so sophisticated in many things she was
such a child in others that this satisfied her, and they reached the end of
their journey on the best of terms. It
was about ten o'clock when they arrived at Aldbrickham, the county town of
North Wessex. As she would not go =
to the
Temperance Hotel because of the form of his telegram, Jude inquired for
another; and a youth who volunteered to find one wheeled their luggage to t=
he
George farther on, which proved to be the inn at which Jude had stayed with
Arabella on that one occasion of their meeting after their division for yea=
rs.
Owing, however, to their now entering it by an=
other
door, and to his preoccupation, he did not at first recognize the place.
"I think, ma'am, I remember your relation=
, or
friend, or whatever he is, coming here once before--late, just like this, w=
ith
his wife--a lady, at any rate, that wasn't you by no manner of means--jest =
as
med be with you now."
"Oh do you?" said Sue, with a certain
sickness of heart. "Though I =
think
you must be mistaken! How long ago=
was
it?"
"About a month or two. A handsome, full-figured woman. They had this room."
When Jude came back and sat down to supper Sue
seemed moping and miserable.
"Jude," she said to him plaintively, at their parting that
night upon the landing, "it is not so nice and pleasant as it used to =
be
with us! I don't like it here--I c=
an't
bear the place! And I don't like you so well as I did!"
"How fidgeted you seem, dear! Why do you change like this?"
"Because it was cruel to bring me here!&q=
uot;
"Why?"
"You were lately here with Arabella. There, now I have said it!"
"Dear me, why--" said Jude looking r=
ound
him. "Yes--it is the same! I =
really
didn't know it, Sue. Well--it is n=
ot
cruel, since we have come as we have--two relations staying together."=
"How long ago was it you were here? Tell me, tell me!"
"The day before I met you in Christminste=
r,
when we went back to Marygreen together.
I told you I had met her."
"Yes, you said you had met her, but you d=
idn't
tell me all. Your story was that y=
ou had
met as estranged people, who were not husband and wife at all in Heaven's
sight--not that you had made it up with her."
"We didn't make it up," he said
sadly. "I can't explain, Sue.=
"
"You've been false to me; you, my last
hope! And I shall never forget it,
never!"
"But by your own wish, dear Sue, we are o=
nly
to be friends, not lovers! It is s=
o very
inconsistent of you to--"
"Friends can be jealous!"
"I don't see that. You concede nothing to me and I have to
concede everything to you. After a=
ll,
you were on good terms with your husband at that time."
"No, I wasn't, Jude. Oh how can you think so! And you have taken me in, even if you d=
idn't
intend to." She was so mortif=
ied
that he was obliged to take her into her room and close the door lest the
people should hear. "Was it t=
his
room? Yes it was--I see by your lo=
ok it was! I won't have it for mine! Oh it was treacherous of you to have her
again! I jumped out of the window!=
"
"But Sue, she was, after all, my legal wi=
fe,
if not--"
Slipping down on her knees Sue buried her face=
in
the bed and wept.
"I never knew such an unreasonable--such a
dog-in-the-manger feeling," said Jude.
"I am not to approach you, nor anybody else!"
"Oh don't you UNDERSTAND my feeling! Why don't you! Why are you so gross! I jumped out of the window!"
"Jumped out of window?"
"I can't explain!"
It was true that he did not understand her
feelings very well. But he did a l=
ittle;
and began to love her none the less.
"I--I thought you cared for nobody--desir=
ed
nobody in the world but me at that time--and ever since!" continued Su=
e.
"It is true.
I did not, and don't now!" said Jude, as distressed as she.
"But you must have thought much of her! Or--"
"No--I need not--you don't understand me
either--women never do! Why should=
you
get into such a tantrum about nothing?"
Looking up from the quilt she pouted provoking=
ly:
"If it hadn't been for that, perhaps I would have gone on to the
Temperance Hotel, after all, as you proposed; for I was beginning to think I
did belong to you!"
"Oh, it is of no consequence!" said =
Jude
distantly.
"I thought, of course, that she had never
been really your wife since she left you of her own accord years and years
ago! My sense of it was, that a pa=
rting
such as yours from her, and mine from him, ended the marriage."
"I can't say more without speaking against
her, and I don't want to do that," said he. "Yet I must tell you one thing, wh=
ich
would settle the matter in any case. She
has married another man--really married him!
I knew nothing about it till after the visit we made here."
"Married another? ... It is a crime--as the world treats it, =
but does
not believe."
"There--now you are yourself again. Yes, it is a crime--as you don't hold, =
but
would fearfully concede. But I sha=
ll
never inform against her! And it is
evidently a prick of conscience in her that has led her to urge me to get a
divorce, that she may remarry this man legally.
So you perceive I shall not be likely to see her again."
"And you didn't really know anything of t=
his
when you saw her?" said Sue more gently, as she rose.
"I did not.
Considering all things, I don't think you ought to be angry,
darling!"
"I am not.
But I shan't go to the Temperance Hotel!"
He laughed.
"Never mind!" he said.
"So that I am near you, I am comparatively happy. It is more than this earthly wretch cal=
led Me
deserves--you spirit, you disembodied creature, you dear, sweet, tantalizing
phantom--hardly flesh at all; so that when I put my arms round you I almost
expect them to pass through you as through air! Forgive me for being gross,=
as
you call it! Remember that our cal=
ling
cousins when really strangers was a snare.
The enmity of our parents gave a piquancy to you in my eyes that was=
intenser
even than the novelty of ordinary new acquaintance."
"Say those pretty lines, then, from Shell=
ey's
'Epipsychidion' as if they meant me!" she solicited, slanting up close=
r to
him as they stood. "Don't you=
know
them?"
"I know hardly any poetry," he repli=
ed
mournfully.
"Don't you?
These are some of them:
There was a Being whom my spirit oft <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Met on its visioned wanderings far alo=
ft.
* * * =
* *
A s=
eraph
of Heaven, too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of
woman...
Oh it=
is
too flattering, so I won't go on! =
But
say it's me! Say it's me!"
"It is you, dear; exactly like you!"=
"Now I forgive you! And you shall kiss me just once there--=
not
very long." She put the tip o=
f her
finger gingerly to her cheek; and he did as commanded. "You do care for me very much, don=
't
you, in spite of my not--you know?"
"Yes, sweet!" he said with a sigh; a=
nd
bade her good-night.
VI
In
returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phillotson had won =
the
interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants, who, though they did=
not
honour him for his miscellaneous aquirements as he would have been honoured
elsewhere, retained for him a sincere regard.
When, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a pretty wife--awkw=
ardly
pretty for him, if he did not take care, they said--they were glad to have =
her
settle among them.
For some time after her flight from that home
Sue's absence did not excite comment.
Her place as monitor in the school was taken by another young woman
within a few days of her vacating it, which substitution also passed without
remark, Sue's services having been of a provisional nature only. When, however, a month had passed, and =
Phillotson
casually admitted to an acquaintance that he did not know where his wife was
staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till, jumping to conclusions, people
ventured to affirm that Sue had played him false and run away from him. The schoolmaster's growing languor and
listlessness over his work gave countenance to the idea.
Though Phillotson had held his tongue as long =
as
he could, except to his friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would=
not
allow him to do so when misapprehensions as to Sue's conduct spread abroad.=
On
a Monday morning the chairman of the school committee called, and after
attending to the business of the school drew Phillotson aside out of earsho=
t of
the children.
"You'll excuse my asking, Phillotson, sin=
ce
everybody is talking of it: is this true as to your domestic affairs--that =
your
wife's going away was on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover? If so, I condole with you."
"Don't," said Phillotson. "There was no secret about it.&quo=
t;
"She has gone to visit friends?"
"No."
"Then what has happened?"
"She has gone away under circumstances th=
at
usually call for condolence with the husband.
But I gave my consent."
The chairman looked as if he had not apprehend=
ed
the remark.
"What I say is quite true," Phillots=
on
continued testily. "She asked=
leave
to go away with her lover, and I let her.
Why shouldn't I? A woman of=
full
age, it was a question of her own conscience--not for me. I was not her gaoler. I can't explain any further. I don't wish to be questioned."
The children observed that much seriousness ma=
rked
the faces of the two men, and went home and told their parents that somethi=
ng new
had happened about Mrs. Phillotson. Then
Phillotson's little maidservant, who was a schoolgirl just out of her
standards, said that Mr. Phillotson had helped in his wife's packing, had
offered her what money she required, and had written a friendly letter to h=
er
young man, telling him to take care of her.
The chairman of committee thought the matter over, and talked to the
other managers of the school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet the=
m privately. The meeting lasted a long time, and at =
the
end the school-master came home, looking as usual pale and worn. Gillingham was sitting in his house awa=
iting
him.
"Well; it is as you said," observed
Phillotson, flinging himself down wearily in a chair. "They have requested me to send in=
my resignation
on account of my scandalous conduct in giving my tortured wife her liberty-=
-or,
as they call it, condoning her adultery.
But I shan't resign!"
"I think I would."
"I won't. It is no business of theirs.
"If you make a fuss it will get into the
papers, and you'll never get appointed to another school. You see, they have to consider what you=
did
as done by a teacher of youth--and its effects as such upon the morals of t=
he
town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position is indefensible. You must let me say that."
To this good advice, however, Phillotson would=
not
listen.
"I don't care," he said. "I don't go unless I am turned out=
. And for this reason; that by resigning I
acknowledge I have acted wrongly by her; when I am more and more convinced
every day that in the sight of Heaven and by all natural, straightforward
humanity, I have acted rightly."
Gillingham saw that his rather headstrong frie=
nd
would not be able to maintain such a position as this; but he said nothing
further, and in due time--indeed, in a quarter of an hour--the formal lette=
r of
dismissal arrived, the managers having remained behind to write it after
Phillotson's withdrawal. The latter
replied that he should not accept dismissal; and called a public meeting, w=
hich
he attended, although he looked so weak and ill that his friend implored hi=
m to
stay at home. When he stood up to =
give
his reasons for contesting the decision of the managers he advanced them
firmly, as he had done to his friend, and contended, moreover, that the mat=
ter
was a domestic theory which did not concern them. This they over-ruled, insisting that the
private eccentricities of a teacher came quite within their sphere of contr=
ol,
as it touched the morals of those he taught.
Phillotson replied that he did not see how an act of natural charity
could injure morals.
All the respectable inhabitants and well-to-do
fellow-natives of the town were against Phillotson to a man. But, somewhat to his surprise, some doz=
en or
more champions rose up in his defence as from the ground.
It has been stated that Shaston was the anchor=
age
of a curious and interesting group of itinerants, who frequented the numero=
us
fairs and markets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumn mont=
hs. Although Phillotson had never spoken to=
one
of these gentlemen they now nobly led the forlorn hope in his defence. The =
body
included two cheap Jacks, a shooting-gallery proprietor and the ladies who
loaded the guns, a pair of boxing-masters, a steam-roundabout manager, two
travelling broom-makers, who called themselves widows, a gingerbread-stall
keeper, a swing-boat owner, and a "test-your-strength" man.
This generous phalanx of supporters, and a few
others of independent judgment, whose own domestic experiences had been not
without vicissitude, came up and warmly shook hands with Phillotson; after =
which
they expressed their thoughts so strongly to the meeting that issue was joi=
ned,
the result being a general scuffle, wherein a black board was split, three
panes of the school windows were broken, an inkbottle was spilled over a
town-councillor's shirt front, a churchwarden was dealt such a topper with =
the
map of Palestine that his head went right through Samaria, and many black e=
yes
and bleeding noses were given, one of which, to everybody's horror, was the
venerable incumbent's, owing to the zeal of an emancipated chimney-sweep, w=
ho
took the side of Phillotson's party.
When Phillotson saw the blood running down the rector's face he depl=
ored
almost in groans the untoward and degrading circumstances, regretted that he
had not resigned when called upon, and went home so ill that next morning he
could not leave his bed.
The farcical yet melancholy event was the
beginning of a serious illness for him; and he lay in his lonely bed in the
pathetic state of mind of a middle-aged man who perceives at length that hi=
s life,
intellectual and domestic, is tending to failure and gloom. Gillingham came=
to
see him in the evenings, and on one occasion mentioned Sue's name.
"She doesn't care anything about me!"
said Phillotson. "Why should =
she?"
"She doesn't know you are ill."
"So much the better for both of us."=
"Where are her lover and she living?"=
;
"At Melchester--I suppose; at least he was
living there some time ago."
When Gillingham reached home he sat and reflec=
ted,
and at last wrote an anonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reach=
ing
her, the letter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at the dioc=
esan
capital. Arriving at that place it=
was
forwarded to Marygreen in North Wessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the on=
ly person
who knew his present address--the widow who had nursed his aunt.
Three days later, in the evening, when the sun=
was
going down in splendour over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shas=
ton windows
like tongues of fire to the eyes of the rustics in that vale, the sick man
fancied that he heard somebody come to the house, and a few minutes after t=
here
was a tap at the bedroom door.
Phillotson did not speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and ther=
e entered--Sue.
She was in light spring clothing, and her adve=
nt
seemed ghostly--like the flitting in of a moth.
He turned his eyes upon her, and flushed; but appeared to check his
primary impulse to speak.
"I have no business here," she said,
bending her frightened face to him.
"But I heard you were ill--very ill; and--and as I know that you
recognize other feelings between man and woman than physical love, I have
come."
"I am not very ill, my dear friend. Only unwell."
"I didn't know that; and I am afraid that
only a severe illness would have justified my coming!"
"Yes... yes.
And I almost wish you had not come!
It is a little too soon--that's all I mean. Still, let us make the best of it. You haven't heard about the school, I
suppose?"
"No--what about it?"
"Only that I am going away from here to
another place. The managers and I =
don't agree,
and we are going to part--that's all."
Sue did not for a moment, either now or later,
suspect what troubles had resulted to him from letting her go; it never once
seemed to cross her mind, and she had received no news whatever from Shasto=
n. They
talked on slight and ephemeral subjects, and when his tea was brought up he
told the amazed little servant that a cup was to be set for Sue. That young person was much more interes=
ted in
their history than they supposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted
her eyes and hands in grotesque amazement.
While they sipped Sue went to the window and thoughtfully said, &quo=
t;It
is such a beautiful sunset, Richard."
"They are mostly beautiful from here, owi=
ng
to the rays crossing the mist of the vale.
But I lose them all, as they don't shine into this gloomy corner whe=
re I
lie."
"Wouldn't you like to see this particular
one? It is like heaven opened.&quo=
t;
"Ah yes!
But I can't."
"I'll help you to."
"No--the bedstead can't be shifted."=
"But see how I mean."
She went to where a swing-glass stood, and tak=
ing
it in her hands carried it to a spot by the window where it could catch the
sunshine, moving the glass till the beams were reflected into Phillotson's =
face.
"There--you can see the great red sun
now!" she said. "And I a=
m sure
it will cheer you--I do so hope it will!"
She spoke with a childlike, repentant kindness, as if she could not =
do
too much for him.
Phillotson smiled sadly. "You are an odd creature!" he
murmured as the sun glowed in his eyes.
"The idea of your coming to see me after what has passed!"=
"Don't let us go back upon that!" she
said quickly. "I have to catc=
h the
omnibus for the train, as Jude doesn't know I have come; he was out when I
started; so I must return home almost directly.
Richard, I am so very glad you are better. You don't hate me, do you? You have been such a kind friend to me!=
"
"I am glad to know you think so," sa=
id
Phillotson huskily. "No. I do=
n't
hate you!"
It grew dusk quickly in the gloomy room during
their intermittent chat, and when candles were brought and it was time to l=
eave
she put her hand in his or rather allowed it to flit through his; for she w=
as significantly
light in touch. She had nearly clo=
sed
the door when he said, "Sue!"
He had noticed that, in turning away from him, tears were on her face
and a quiver in her lip.
It was bad policy to recall her--he knew it wh=
ile
he pursued it. But he could not help it.
She came back.
"Sue," he murmured, "do you wis=
h to
make it up, and stay? I'll forgive=
you
and condone everything!"
"Oh you can't, you can't!" she said
hastily. "You can't condone i=
t now!"
"HE is your husband now, in effect, you m=
ean,
of course?"
"You may assume it. He is obtaining a divorce from his wife=
Arabella."
"His wife!
It is altogether news to me that he has a wife."
"It was a bad marriage."
"Like yours."
"Like mine.
He is not doing it so much on his own account as on hers. She wrote and told him it would be a ki=
ndness
to her, since then she could marry and live respectably. And Jude has agreed."
"A wife...
A kindness to her. Ah, yes;=
a
kindness to her to release her altogether...
But I don't like the sound of it.
I can forgive, Sue."
"No, no!
You can't have me back now I have been so wicked--as to do what I ha=
ve
done!"
There had arisen in Sue's face that incipient
fright which showed itself whenever he changed from friend to husband, and
which made her adopt any line of defence against marital feeling in him.
"I don't ask you to go, even now. I ask you to stay."
"I thank you, Richard; but I must. As you are not so ill as I thought, I C=
ANNOT
stay!"
"She's his--his from lips to heel!" =
said
Phillotson; but so faintly that in closing the door she did not hear it.
Gillingham was so interested in Phillotson's
affairs, and so seriously concerned about him, that he walked up the hill-s=
ide
to Shaston two or three times a week, although, there and back, it was a
journey of nine miles, which had to be performed between tea and supper, af=
ter
a hard day's work in school. When =
he
called on the next occasion after Sue's visit his friend was downstairs, an=
d Gillingham
noticed that his restless mood had been supplanted by a more fixed and comp=
osed
one.
"She's been here since you called last,&q=
uot;
said Phillotson.
"Not Mrs. Phillotson?"
"Yes."
"Ah!
You have made it up?"
"No...
She just came, patted my pillow with her little white hand, played t=
he
thoughtful nurse for half an hour, and went away."
"Well--I'm hanged! A little hussy!"
"What do you say?"
"Oh--nothing!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what a tantalizing, capricious
little woman! If she were not your
wife--"
"She is not; she's another man's except in
name and law. And I have been
thinking--it was suggested to me by a conversation I had with her--that, in
kindness to her, I ought to dissolve the legal tie altogether; which,
singularly enough, I think I can do, now she has been back, and refused my
request to stay after I said I had forgiven her. I believe that fact would afford me
opportunity of doing it, though I did not see it at the moment. What's the use of keeping her chained o=
n to
me if she doesn't belong to me? I
know--I feel absolutely certain--that she would welcome my taking such a st=
ep
as the greatest charity to her. For
though as a fellow-creature she sympathizes with, and pities me, and even w=
eeps
for me, as a husband she cannot endure me--she loathes me--there's no use in
mincing words--she loathes me, and my only manly, and dignified, and mercif=
ul course
is to complete what I have begun... And
for worldly reasons, too, it will be better for her to be independent. I have hopelessly ruined my prospects b=
ecause
of my decision as to what was best for us, though she does not know it; I s=
ee
only dire poverty ahead from my feet to the grave; for I can be accepted as
teacher no more. I shall probably =
have
enough to do to make both ends meet during the remainder of my life, now my
occupation's gone; and I shall be better able to bear it alone. I may as well tell you that what has su=
ggested
my letting her go is some news she brought me--the news that Fawley is doing
the same."
"Oh--he had a spouse, too? A queer couple, these lovers!"
"Well--I don't want your opinion on
that. What I was going to say is t=
hat my
liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open up a chance of
happiness for her which she has never dreamt of hitherto. For then they'll =
be
able to marry, as they ought to have done at first."
Gillingham did not hurry to reply. "I may disagree with your motive,&=
quot;
he said gently, for he respected views he could not share. "But I think
you are right in your determination--if you can carry it out. I doubt, howe=
ver,
if you can."
&qu= ot;Thy aerial part, and all the fiery parts which are mingled in thee, though by nature the= y have an upward tendency, still in obedience to the disposition of the universe they are over-powered here i= n the compound mass the body."--M. ANTONINUS (Long).<= o:p>
How
Gillingham's doubts were disposed of will most quickly appear by passing ov=
er
the series of dreary months and incidents that followed the events of the l=
ast
chapter, and coming on to a Sunday in the February of the year following.
Sue and Jude were living in Aldbrickham, in precisely the same relations that they had established between themselves w= hen she left Shaston to join him the year before. The proceedings in the law-courts had reached their consciousness, b= ut as a distant sound and an occasional missive which they hardly understood.<= o:p>
They had met, as usual, to breakfast together =
in
the little house with Jude's name on it, that he had taken at fifteen pound=
s a
year, with three-pounds-ten extra for rates and taxes, and furnished with h=
is
aunt's ancient and lumbering goods, which had cost him about their full val=
ue
to bring all the way from Marygreen. Sue
kept house, and managed everything.
As he entered the room this morning Sue held u=
p a
letter she had just received.
"Well; and what is it about?" he said
after kissing her.
"That the decree nisi in the case of
Phillotson versus Phillotson and Fawley, pronounced six months ago, has just
been made absolute."
"Ah," said Jude, as he sat down.
The same concluding incident in Jude's suit
against Arabella had occurred about a month or two earlier. Both cases had been too insignificant t=
o be
reported in the papers, further than by name in a long list of other undefe=
nded
cases.
"Now then, Sue, at any rate, you can do w=
hat
you like!" He looked at his s=
weetheart
curiously.
"Are we--you and I--just as free now as i=
f we
had never married at all?"
"Just as free--except, I believe, that a
clergyman may object personally to remarry you, and hand the job on to some=
body
else."
"But I wonder--do you think it is really =
so
with us? I know it is generally. But I have an uncomfortable feeling tha=
t my
freedom has been obtained under false pretences!"
"How?"
"Well--if the truth about us had been kno=
wn,
the decree wouldn't have been pronounced.
It is only, is it, because we have made no defence, and have led them
into a false supposition? Therefor=
e is
my freedom lawful, however proper it may be?"
"Well--why did you let it be under false
pretences? You have only yourself =
to
blame," he said mischievously.
"Jude--don't! You ought not to be touchy
about that still. You must take me=
as I
am."
"Very well, darling: so I will. Perhaps you were right. As to your question, we were not oblige=
d to
prove anything. That was their bus=
iness. Anyhow we are living together."
"Yes.
Though not in their sense."
"One thing is certain, that however the
decree may be brought about, a marriage is dissolved when it is dissolved.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There is this advantage in being poor o=
bscure
people like us--that these things are done for us in a rough and ready
fashion. It was the same with me a=
nd
Arabella. I was afraid her criminal
second marriage would have been discovered, and she punished; but nobody to=
ok
any interest in her--nobody inquired, nobody suspected it. If we'd been patented nobilities we sho=
uld
have had infinite trouble, and days and weeks would have been spent in
investigations."
By degrees Sue acquired her lover's cheerfulne=
ss
at the sense of freedom, and proposed that they should take a walk in the
fields, even if they had to put up with a cold dinner on account of it. Jude
agreed, and Sue went up-stairs and prepared to start, putting on a joyful
coloured gown in observance of her liberty; seeing which Jude put on a ligh=
ter
tie.
"Now we'll strut arm and arm," he sa=
id,
"like any other engaged couple.
We've a legal right to."
They rambled out of the town, and along a path
over the low-lying lands that bordered it, though these were frosty now, and
the extensive seed-fields were bare of colour and produce. The pair, however, were so absorbed in =
their
own situation that their surroundings were little in their consciousness.
"Well, my dearest, the result of all this=
is
that we can marry after a decent interval."
"Yes; I suppose we can," said Sue,
without enthusiasm.
"And aren't we going to?"
"I don't like to say no, dear Jude; but I
feel just the same about it now as I have done all along. I have just the same dread lest an iron
contract should extinguish your tenderness for me, and mine for you, as it =
did
between our unfortunate parents."
"Still, what can we do? I do love you, as you know, Sue."<= o:p>
"I know it abundantly. But I think I would much rather go on l=
iving always
as lovers, as we are living now, and only meeting by day. It is so much sweeter--for the woman at
least, and when she is sure of the man.
And henceforward we needn't be so particular as we have been about
appearances."
"Our experiences of matrimony with others
have not been encouraging, I own," said he with some gloom; "eith=
er
owing to our own dissatisfied, unpractical natures, or by our misfortune. But we two--"
"Should be two dissatisfied ones linked
together, which would be twice as bad as before... I think I should begin to be afraid of =
you,
Jude, the moment you had contracted to cherish me under a Government stamp,=
and
I was licensed to be loved on the premises by you--Ugh, how horrible and
sordid! Although, as you are, free=
, I trust
you more than any other man in the world."
"No, no--don't say I should change!"=
he
expostulated; yet there was misgiving in his own voice also.
"Apart from ourselves, and our unhappy
peculiarities, it is foreign to a man's nature to go on loving a person whe=
n he
is told that he must and shall be that person's lover. There would be a much likelier chance o=
f his
doing it if he were told not to love. If
the marriage ceremony consisted in an oath and signed contract between the
parties to cease loving from that day forward, in consideration of personal
possession being given, and to avoid each other's society as much as possib=
le
in public, there would be more loving couples than there are now. Fancy the secret meetings between the
perjuring husband and wife, the denials of having seen each other, the clam=
bering
in at bedroom windows, and the hiding in closets! There'd be little cooling then."
"Yes; but admitting this, or something li=
ke
it, to be true, you are not the only one in the world to see it, dear little
Sue. People go on marrying because=
they
can't resist natural forces, although many of them may know perfectly well =
that
they are possibly buying a month's pleasure with a life's discomfort. No doubt my father and mother, and your
father and mother, saw it, if they at all resembled us in habits of
observation. But then they went and
married just the same, because they had ordinary passions. But you, Sue, are such a phantasmal, bo=
diless
creature, one who--if you'll allow me to say it--has so little animal passi=
on
in you, that you can act upon reason in the matter, when we poor unfortunate
wretches of grosser substance can't."
"Well," she sighed, "you've own=
ed
that it would probably end in misery for us.
And I am not so exceptional a woman as you think. Fewer women like
marriage than you suppose, only they enter into it for the dignity it is
assumed to confer, and the social advantages it gains them sometimes--a dig=
nity
and an advantage that I am quite willing to do without."
Jude fell back upon his old complaint--that,
intimate as they were, he had never once had from her an honest, candid
declaration that she loved or could love him.
"I really fear sometimes that you cannot," he said, with a
dubiousness approaching anger. &qu=
ot;And
you are so reticent. I know that w=
omen
are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a
man. But the highest form of affec=
tion
is based on full sincerity on both sides.
Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those =
he
has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was=
the
soul of truth in her conduct. The =
better
class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging and parrying, =
is
not retained by them. A Nemesis at=
tends
the woman who plays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt
for her that, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow
her to go unlamented to her grave."
Sue, who was regarding the distance, had acqui=
red
a guilty look; and she suddenly replied in a tragic voice: "I don't th=
ink
I like you to-day so well as I did, Jude!"
"Don't you?
Why?"
"Oh, well--you are not nice--too
sermony. Though I suppose I am so =
bad
and worthless that I deserve the utmost rigour of lecturing!"
"No, you are not bad. You are a dear. But as slippery as an eel when I want t=
o get
a confession from you."
"Oh yes I am bad, and obstinate, and all
sorts! It is no use your pretendin=
g I am
not! People who are good don't want
scolding as I do... But now that I=
have
nobody but you, and nobody to defend me, it is very hard that I mustn't hav=
e my
own way in deciding how I'll live with you, and whether I'll be married or
no!"
"Sue, my own comrade and sweetheart, I do=
n't
want to force you either to marry or to do the other thing--of course I
don't! It is too wicked of you to =
be so
pettish! Now we won't say any more=
about
it, and go on just the same as we have done; and during the rest of our walk
we'll talk of the meadows only, and the floods, and the prospect of the far=
mers
this coming year."
After this the subject of marriage was not
mentioned by them for several days, though living as they were with only a
landing between them it was constantly in their minds. Sue was assisting Jude very materially =
now:
he had latterly occupied himself on his own account in working and lettering
headstones, which he kept in a little yard at the back of his little house,
where in the intervals of domestic duties she marked out the letters full s=
ize
for him, and blacked them in after he had cut them. It was a lower class of handicraft than=
were
his former performances as a cathedral mason, and his only patrons were the
poor people who lived in his own neighbourhood, and knew what a cheap man t=
his
"Jude Fawley: Monumental Mason" (as he called himself on his front
door) was to employ for the simple memorials they required for their dead.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But he seemed more independent than bef=
ore,
and it was the only arrangement under which Sue, who particularly wished to=
be
no burden on him, could render any assistance.
It wa=
s an
evening at the end of the month, and Jude had just returned home from heari=
ng a
lecture on ancient history in the public hall not far off. When he entered, Sue, who had been keep=
ing
indoors during his absence, laid out supper for him. Contrary to custom she did not speak. Jude had taken up some illustrated pape=
r,
which he perused till, raising his eyes, he saw that her face was troubled.=
"Are you depressed, Sue?" he said.
She paused a moment. "I have a message for you," s=
he
answered.
"Somebody has called?"
"Yes.
A woman." Sue's voice
quavered as she spoke, and she suddenly sat down from her preparations, laid
her hands in her lap, and looked into the fire.
"I don't know whether I did right or not!" she continued.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "I said you were not at home, and =
when
she said she would wait, I said I thought you might not be able to see
her."
"Why did you say that, dear? I suppose she wanted a headstone. Was she in mourning?"
"No. She wasn't in mourning, and she didn=
't
want a headstone; and I thought you couldn't see her." Sue looked critically and imploringly a=
t him.
"But who was she? Didn't she say?"
"No. She wouldn't give her name. But I know who she was--I think I do! It was Arabella!"
"Heaven save us! What should Arabella come for? What made you think it was she?"
"Oh, I can hardly tell. But I know it was! I feel perfectly certain it was--by the=
light
in her eyes as she looked at me. S=
he was
a fleshy, coarse woman."
"Well--I should not have called Arabella
coarse exactly, except in speech, though she may be getting so by this time
under the duties of the public house.
She was rather handsome when I knew her."
"Handsome!
But yes!--so she is!"
"I think I heard a quiver in your little
mouth. Well, waiving that, as she =
is
nothing to me, and virtuously married to another man, why should she come
troubling us?"
"Are you sure she's married? Have you definite news of it?"
"No--not definite news. But that was why she asked me to releas=
e her. She and the man both wanted to lead a p=
roper
life, as I understood."
"Oh Jude--it was, it WAS Arabella!"
cried Sue, covering her eyes with her hand.
"And I am so miserable! It
seems such an ill omen, whatever she may have come for. You could not possibly see her, could
you?"
"I don't really think I could. It would be so very painful to talk to =
her
now--for her as much as for me. Ho=
wever,
she's gone. Did she say she would =
come
again?"
"No. But she went away very
reluctantly."
Sue, whom the least thing upset, could not eat=
any
supper, and when Jude had finished his he prepared to go to bed. He had no sooner raked out the fire, fa=
stened
the doors, and got to the top of the stairs than there came a knock. Sue instantly emerged from her room, wh=
ich
she had but just entered.
"There she is again!" Sue whispered in appalled accents.
"How do you know?"
"She knocked like that last time."
They listened, and the knocking came again.
He accordingly went into his bedroom and lifted
the sash. The lonely street of ear=
ly
retiring workpeople was empty from end to end save of one figure--that of a
woman walking up and down by the lamp a few yards off.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"Is that Mr. Fawley?" came up from t=
he
woman, in a voice which was unmistakably Arabella's.
Jude replied that it was.
"Is it she?" asked Sue from the door,
with lips apart.
"Yes, dear," said Jude. "What do you want, Arabella?"=
he
inquired.
"I beg your pardon, Jude, for disturbing
you," said Arabella humbly. "But I called earlier--I wanted
particularly to see you to-night, if I could.
I am in trouble, and have nobody to help me!"
"In trouble, are you?"
"Yes."
There was a silence. An inconvenient sympathy seemed to be r=
ising
in Jude's breast at the appeal.
"But aren't you married?" he said.
Arabella hesitated. "No, Jude, I am not," she
returned. "He wouldn't, after
all. And I am in great difficulty.=
I hope to get another situation as barm=
aid
soon. But it takes time, and I rea=
lly am
in great distress because of a sudden responsibility that's been sprung upo=
n me
from Australia; or I wouldn't trouble you--believe me I wouldn't. I want to
tell you about it."
Sue remained at gaze, in painful tension, hear=
ing
every word, but speaking none.
"You are not really in want of money,
Arabella?" he asked, in a distinctly softened tone.
"I have enough to pay for the night's lod=
ging
I have obtained, but barely enough to take me back again."
"Where are you living?"
"In London still." She was about to give the address, but =
she said,
"I am afraid somebody may hear, so I don't like to call out particular=
s of
myself so loud. If you could come =
down
and walk a little way with me towards the Prince Inn, where I am staying to=
-night,
I would explain all. You may as we=
ll,
for old time's sake!"
"Poor thing!
I must do her the kindness of hearing what's the matter, I
suppose," said Jude in much perplexity.
"As she's going back to-morrow it can't make much difference.&q=
uot;
"But you can go and see her to-morrow,
Jude! Don't go now, Jude!" ca=
me in
plaintive accents from the doorway.
"Oh, it is only to entrap you, I know it is, as she did
before! Don't go, dear! She is such a low-passioned woman--I ca=
n see
it in her shape, and hear it in her voice!
"But I shall go," said Jude. "Don't attempt to detain me, Sue.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> God knows I love her little enough now,=
but I
don't want to be cruel to her." He
turned to the stairs.
"But she's not your wife!" cried Sue distractedly. "And I--"<= o:p>
"And you are not either, dear, yet,"
said Jude.
"Oh, but are you going to her? Don't!
Stay at home! Please, pleas=
e stay
at home, Jude, and not go to her, now she's not your wife any more than
I!"
"Well, she is, rather more than you, come=
to
that," he said, taking his hat determinedly. "I've wanted you to be, and I've w=
aited
with the patience of Job, and I don't see that I've got anything by my self=
-denial. I shall certainly give her something, a=
nd
hear what it is she is so anxious to tell me; no man could do less!"
There was that in his manner which she knew it would be futile to oppose. She sai= d no more, but, turning to her room as meekly as a martyr, heard him go downstai= rs, unbolt the door, and close it behind him. With a woman's disregard of her dignity when in the presence of nobo= dy but herself, she also trotted down, sobbing articulately as she went. She listened. She knew exactly how far it was to the inn that Arabella had named as her lodging. It would occupy about= seven minutes to get there at an ordinary walking pace; seven to come back again. If he did not return in fou= rteen minutes he would have lingered. She looked at the clock. It was twenty= -five minutes to eleven. He MIGHT enter the inn = with Arabella, as they would reach it before closing time; she might get him to drink with her; and Heaven only knew what disasters would befall him then.<= o:p>
In a still suspense she waited on. It seemed as if the whole time had near=
ly
elapsed when the door was opened again, and Jude appeared.
Sue gave a little ecstatic cry. "Oh, I knew I could trust you!--ho=
w good
you are!"--she began.
"I can't find her anywhere in this street,
and I went out in my slippers only. She
has walked on, thinking I've been so hard-hearted as to refuse her requests=
entirely,
poor woman. I've come back for my =
boots,
as it is beginning to rain."
"Oh, but why should you take such trouble=
for
a woman who has served you so badly!" said Sue in a jealous burst of
disappointment.
"But, Sue, she's a woman, and I once care=
d for
her; and one can't be a brute in such circumstances."
"She isn't your wife any longer!"
exclaimed Sue, passionately excited.
"You MUSTN'T go out to find her!
It isn't right! You CAN'T j=
oin
her, now she's a stranger to you. =
How
can you forget such a thing, my dear, dear one!"
"She seems much the same as ever--an erri=
ng,
careless, unreflecting fellow-creature," he said, continuing to pull on
his boots. "What those legal
fellows have been playing at in London makes no difference in my real relat=
ions
to her. If she was my wife while s=
he was
away in Australia with another husband she's my wife now."
"But she wasn't! That's just what I hold! There's the absurdity!-- Well--you'll c=
ome
straight back, after a few minutes, won't you, dear? She is too low, too coarse for you to t=
alk to
long, Jude, and was always!"
"Perhaps I am coarse too, worse luck! I have the germs of every human infirmi=
ty in
me, I verily believe--that was why I saw it was so preposterous of me to th=
ink
of being a curate. I have cured my=
self
of drunkenness I think; but I never know in what new form a suppressed vice
will break out in me! I do love yo=
u,
Sue, though I have danced attendance on you so long for such poor returns!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> All that's best and noblest in me loves=
you,
and your freedom from everything that's gross has elevated me, and enabled =
me
to do what I should never have dreamt myself capable of, or any man, a year=
or
two ago. It is all very well to pr=
each
about self-control, and the wickedness of coercing a woman. But I should just like a few virtuous p=
eople
who have condemned me in the past, about Arabella and other things, to have
been in my tantalizing position with you through these late weeks!--they'd
believe, I think, that I have exercised some little restraint in always giv=
ing
in to your wishes--living here in one house, and not a soul between us.&quo=
t;
"Yes, you have been good to me, Jude; I k=
now
you have, my dear protector."
"Well--Arabella has appealed to me for
help. I must go out and speak to h=
er,
Sue, at least!"
"I can't say any more!--Oh, if you must, =
you
must!" she said, bursting out into sobs that seemed to tear her
heart. "I have nobody but you,
Jude, and you are deserting me! I =
didn't
know you were like this--I can't bear it, I can't! If she were yours it would be
different!"
"Or if you were."
"Very well then--if I must I must. Since you will have it so, I agree! I will be.
Only I didn't mean to! And I
didn't want to marry again, either! ...
But, yes--I agree, I agree! I do
love you. I ought to have known that you would conquer in the long run, liv=
ing like
this!"
She ran across and flung her arms round his
neck. "I am not a cold-nature=
d,
sexless creature, am I, for keeping you at such a distance? I am sure you don't think so! Wait and see!
I do belong to you, don't I? I
give in!"
"And I'll arrange for our marriage to-mor=
row,
or as soon as ever you wish."
"Yes, Jude."
"Then I'll let her go," said he,
embracing Sue softly. "I do f=
eel that
it would be unfair to you to see her, and perhaps unfair to her. She is not
like you, my darling, and never was: it is only bare justice to say that. Don't cry any more. There; and there; and there!" He kissed her on one side, and on the o=
ther,
and in the middle, and rebolted the front door.
The next morning it was wet.
"Now, dear," said Jude gaily at
breakfast; "as this is Saturday I mean to call about the banns at once=
, so
as to get the first publishing done to-morrow, or we shall lose a week. Banns will do? We shall save a pound or
two."
Sue absently agreed to banns. But her mind for the moment was running=
on
something else. A glow had passed =
away
from her, and depression sat upon her features.
"I feel I was wickedly selfish last
night!" she murmured. "I=
t was sheer
unkindness in me--or worse--to treat Arabella as I did. I didn't care about her being in troubl=
e, and
what she wished to tell you! Perha=
ps it
was really something she was justified in telling you. That's some more of my badness, I
suppose! Love has its own dark mor=
ality
when rivalry enters in--at least, mine has, if other people's hasn't... I wonder how she got on? I hope she reached the inn all right, p=
oor
woman."
"Oh yes: she got on all right," said
Jude placidly.
"I hope she wasn't shut out, and that she
hadn't to walk the streets in the rain.
Do you mind my putting on my waterproof and going to see if she got
in? I've been thinking of her all =
the
morning."
"Well--is it necessary? You haven't the least idea how Arabella=
is able
to shift for herself. Still, darli=
ng, if
you want to go and inquire you can."
There was no limit to the strange and unnecess=
ary
penances which Sue would meekly undertake when in a contrite mood; and this
going to see all sorts of extraordinary persons whose relation to her was p=
recisely
of a kind that would have made other people shun them was her instinct ever=
, so
that the request did not surprise him.
"And when you come back," he added,
"I'll be ready to go about the banns.
You'll come with me?"
Sue agreed, and went off under cloak and umbre=
lla letting
Jude kiss her freely, and returning his kisses in a way she had never done =
before. Times had decidedly changed. "The little bird is caught at last=
!"
she said, a sadness showing in her smile.
"No--only nested," he assured her.
She walked along the muddy street till she rea=
ched
the public house mentioned by Arabella, which was not so very far off. She was informed that Arabella had not =
yet
left, and in doubt how to announce herself so that her predecessor in Jude's
affections would recognize her, she sent up word that a friend from Spring
Street had called, naming the place of Jude's residence. She was asked to step upstairs, and on =
being
shown into a room found that it was Arabella's bedroom, and that the latter=
had
not yet risen. She halted on the t=
urn of
her toe till Arabella cried from the bed, "Come in and shut the
door," which Sue accordingly did.
Arabella lay facing the window, and did not at
once turn her head: and Sue was wicked enough, despite her penitence, to wi=
sh
for a moment that Jude could behold her forerunner now, with the daylight f=
ull
upon her. She may have seemed hand=
some
enough in profile under the lamps, but a frowsiness was apparent this morni=
ng;
and the sight of her own fresh charms in the looking-glass made Sue's manne=
r bright,
till she reflected what a meanly sexual emotion this was in her, and hated
herself for it.
"I've just looked in to see if you got ba=
ck
comfortably last night, that's all," she said gently. "I was afraid afterwards that you =
might
have met with any mishap?"
"Oh--how stupid this is! I thought my visitor was--your friend--=
your husband--Mrs.
Fawley, as I suppose you call yourself?" said Arabella, flinging her h=
ead
back upon the pillows with a disappointed toss, and ceasing to retain the
dimple she had just taken the trouble to produce.
"Indeed I don't," said Sue.
"Oh, I thought you might have, even if he=
's
not really yours. Decency is decency, any hour of the twenty-four."
"I don't know what you mean," said S=
ue
stiffly. "He is mine, if you =
come
to that!"
"He wasn't yesterday."
Sue coloured roseate, and said, "How do y=
ou
know?"
"From your manner when you talked to me at
the door. Well, my dear, you've be=
en
quick about it, and I expect my visit last night helped it on--ha-ha! But I don't want to get him away from
you."
Sue looked out at the rain, and at the dirty
toilet-cover, and at the detached tail of Arabella's hair hanging on the
looking-glass, just as it had done in Jude's time; and wished she had not
come. In the pause there was a kno=
ck at
the door, and the chambermaid brought in a telegram for "Mrs.
Cartlett."
Arabella opened it as she lay, and her ruffled
look disappeared.
"I am much obliged to you for your anxiety
about me," she said blandly when the maid had gone; "but it is not
necessary you should feel it. My m=
an
finds he can't do without me after all, and agrees to stand by the promise =
to
marry again over here that he has made me all along. See here!
This is in answer to one from me."
She held out the telegram for Sue to read, but Sue did not take it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "He asks me to come back. His little corner public in Lambeth wou=
ld go
to pieces without me, he says. But=
he
isn't going to knock me about when he has had a drop, any more after we are
spliced by English law than before! ...
As for you, I should coax Jude to take me before the parson straight
off, and have done with it, if I were in your place. I say it as a friend, my dear."
"He's waiting to, any day," returned
Sue, with frigid pride.
"Then let him, in Heaven's name. Life with a man is more businesslike af=
ter
it, and money matters work better. And
then, you see, if you have rows, and he turns you out of doors, you can get=
the
law to protect you, which you can't otherwise, unless he half-runs you thro=
ugh
with a knife, or cracks your noddle with a poker. And if he bolts away from you--I say it
friendly, as woman to woman, for there's never any knowing what a man med
do--you'll have the sticks o' furniture, and won't be looked upon as a
thief. I shall marry my man over a=
gain,
now he's willing, as there was a little flaw in the first ceremony. In my telegram last night which this is=
an
answer to, I told him I had almost made it up with Jude; and that frightene=
d him,
I expect! Perhaps I should quite h=
ave
done it if it hadn't been for you," she said laughing; "and then =
how
different our histories might have been from to-day! Never such a tender fool as Jude is if a
woman seems in trouble, and coaxes him a bit!
Just as he used to be about birds and things. However, as it happens, it is just as w=
ell as
if I had made it up, and I forgive you.
And, as I say, I'd advise you to get the business legally done as so=
on
as possible. You'll find it an awful bother later on if you don't."
"I have told you he is asking me to marry
him--to make our natural marriage a legal one," said Sue, with yet more
dignity. "It was quite by my =
wish
that he didn't the moment I was free."
"Ah, yes--you are a oneyer too, like
myself," said Arabella, eyeing her visitor with humorous criticism.
"Good morning!--I must go," said Sue
hastily.
"And I, too, must up and off!" repli=
ed
the other, springing out of bed so suddenly that the soft parts of her pers=
on
shook. Sue jumped aside in
trepidation. "Lord, I am only=
a
woman--not a six-foot sojer! ... J=
ust a
moment, dear," she continued, putting her hand on Sue's arm. "I really did want to consult Jude=
on a
little matter of business, as I told him.
I came about that more than anything else. Would he run up to speak =
to
me at the station as I am going? Y=
ou think
not. Well, I'll write to him about
it. I didn't want to write it, but=
never
mind--I will."
When =
Sue
reached home Jude was awaiting her at the door to take the initial step tow=
ards
their marriage. She clasped his ar=
m, and
they went along silently together, as true comrades oft-times do. He saw that she was preoccupied, and fo=
rbore
to question her.
"Oh Jude--I've been talking to her,"=
she
said at last. "I wish I hadn'=
t! And yet it is best to be reminded of
things."
"I hope she was civil."
"Yes.
I--I can't help liking her--just a little bit! She's not an ungenerous nature; and I a=
m so
glad her difficulties have all suddenly ended." She explained how Arabella had been sum=
moned
back, and would be enabled to retrieve her position. "I was referring to our old
question. What Arabella has been s=
aying
to me has made me feel more than ever how hopelessly vulgar an institution
legal marriage is--a sort of trap to catch a man--I can't bear to think of
it. I wish I hadn't promised to le=
t you
put up the banns this morning!"
"Oh, don't mind me. Any time will do for me. I thought you might like to get it over
quickly, now."
"Indeed, I don't feel any more anxious now
than I did before. Perhaps with any other man I might be a little anxious; =
but
among the very few virtues possessed by your family and mine, dear, I think=
I may
set staunchness. So I am not a bit
frightened about losing you, now I really am yours and you really are
mine. In fact, I am easier in my m=
ind
than I was, for my conscience is clear about Richard, who now has a right to
his freedom. I felt we were deceiv=
ing
him before."
"Sue, you seem when you are like this to =
be
one of the women of some grand old civilization, whom I used to read about =
in
my bygone, wasted, classical days, rather than a denizen of a mere Christia=
n country. I almost expect you to say at these tim=
es
that you have just been talking to some friend whom you met in the Via Sacr=
a, about
the latest news of Octavia or Livia; or have been listening to Aspasia's
eloquence, or have been watching Praxiteles chiselling away at his latest
Venus, while Phryne made complaint that she was tired of posing."
They had now reached the house of the parish
clerk. Sue stood back, while her l=
over
went up to the door. His hand was =
raised
to knock when she said: "Jude!"
He looked round.
"Wait a minute, would you mind?"
He came back to her.
"Just let us think," she said
timidly. "I had such a horrid=
dream
one night! ... And Arabella--"=
;
"What did Arabella say to you?" he
asked.
"Oh, she said that when people were tied =
up
you could get the law of a man better if he beat you--and how when couples =
quarrelled... Jude, do you think that when you must h=
ave me
with you by law, we shall be so happy as we are now? The men and women of our family are very
generous when everything depends upon their goodwill, but they always kick
against compulsion. Don't you drea=
d the
attitude that insensibly arises out of legal obligation? Don't you think it=
is
destructive to a passion whose essence is its gratuitousness?"
"Upon my word, love, you are beginning to
frighten me, too, with all this foreboding!
Well, let's go back and think it over."
Her face brightened. "Yes--so we will!" said she.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And they turned from the clerk's door, =
Sue
taking his arm and murmuring as they walked on homeward:
Can you keep the bee from ranging,
They
thought it over, or postponed thinking.
Certainly they postponed action, and seemed to live on in a dreamy
paradise. At the end of a fortnight or three weeks matters remained unadvan=
ced,
and no banns were announced to the ears of any Aldbrickham congregation.
Whilst they were postponing and postponing thu=
s a
letter and a newspaper arrived before breakfast one morning from Arabella. =
Seeing
the handwriting Jude went up to Sue's room and told her, and as soon as she=
was
dressed she hastened down. Sue ope=
ned
the newspaper; Jude the letter. Af=
ter glancing
at the paper she held across the first page to him with her finger on a
paragraph; but he was so absorbed in his letter that he did not turn awhile=
.
"Look!" said she.
He looked and read. The paper was one that circulated in So=
uth London
only, and the marked advertisement was simply the announcement of a marriag=
e at
St. John's Church, Waterloo Road, under the names, "CARTLETT--DONN&quo=
t;;
the united pair being Arabella and the inn-keeper.
"Well, it is satisfactory," said Sue
complacently. "Though, after =
this,
it seems rather low to do likewise, and I am glad. However, she is provided for now in a w=
ay, I
suppose, whatever her faults, poor thing.
It is nicer that we are able to think that, than to be uneasy about
her. I ought, too, to write to Ric=
hard
and ask him how he is getting on, perhaps?"
But Jude's attention was still absorbed. Having merely glanced at the announceme=
nt he
said in a disturbed voice: "Listen to this letter. What shall I say or do?"
THE THREE HORNS, LAMBETH.
DEA=
R JUDE
(I won't be so distant as to call you Mr. Fawley),--I send to-day a newspaper, f=
rom
which useful document you will l=
earn
that I was married over again to Cartlett last Tuesday. So that business is settled right and tight at last. But what I write about more particular =
is that private affair I wanted to spe=
ak to
you on when I came down to
Aldbrickham. I couldn't very well =
tell
it to your lady friend, and shou=
ld
much have liked to let you know =
it by
word of mouth, as I could have explained better than by letter. The fact is, Jude, that, though I have =
never informed you before, there was a=
boy
born of our marriage, eight mont=
hs
after I left you, when I was at Sydney, living with my father and
mother. All that is easily provable. As I had separated from you before I thought such a thing was going to
happen, and I was over there, and our quarrel had been sharp,=
I did
not think it convenient to write=
about
the birth. I was then looking out for a good situation, so my parent=
s took
the child, and he has been with =
them
ever since. That was why I did They have, however, packed him off to me in charge of some
friends who happened to be comin=
g home,
and I must ask you to take him w=
hen he
arrives, for I don't know what to do with him. He is lawfully yours, that I solemnly
swear. If anybody says he isn't, call them brimstone lia=
rs,
for my sake. Whatever I may have=
done
before or afterwards, I was hone=
st to
you from the time we were married till I went away, and I remain, yours, &c.,
ARA=
BELLA
CARTLETT.
Sue's=
look
was one of dismay. "What will=
you
do, dear?" she asked faintly.
Jude did not reply, and Sue watched him anxiou=
sly,
with heavy breaths.
"It hits me hard!" said he in an
under-voice. "It MAY be true! I can't make it out. Certainly, if his birth was exactly whe=
n she
says, he's mine. I cannot think wh=
y she
didn't tell me when I met her at Christminster, and came on here that eveni=
ng
with her! ... Ah--I do remember no=
w that
she said something about having a thing on her mind that she would like me =
to
know, if ever we lived together again."
"The poor child seems to be wanted by
nobody!" Sue replied, and her=
eyes
filled.
Jude had by this time come to himself. "What a view of life he must have,=
mine
or not mine!" he said. "=
I must
say that, if I were better off, I should not stop for a moment to think who=
se
he might be. I would take him and =
bring
him up. The beggarly question of p=
arentage--what
is it, after all? What does it mat=
ter,
when you come to think of it, whether a child is yours by blood or not? All the little ones of our time are
collectively the children of us adults of the time, and entitled to our gen=
eral
care. That excessive regard of par=
ents
for their own children, and their dislike of other people's, is, like
class-feeling, patriotism, save-your-own-soul-ism, and other virtues, a mean
exclusiveness at bottom."
Sue jumped up and kissed Jude with passionate
devotion. "Yes--so it is,
dearest! And we'll have him here!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And if he isn't yours it makes it all t=
he
better. I do hope he isn't--though
perhaps I ought not to feel quite that!
If he isn't, I should like so much for us to have him as an adopted =
child!"
"Well, you must assume about him what is =
most
pleasing to you, my curious little comrade!" he said. "I feel that, anyhow, I don't like=
to
leave the unfortunate little fellow to neglect.
Just think of his life in a Lambeth pothouse, and all its evil
influences, with a parent who doesn't want him, and has, indeed, hardly seen
him, and a stepfather who doesn't know him.
'Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was
said, There is a man child conceived!'
That's what the boy--MY boy, perhaps, will find himself saying before
long!"
"Oh no!"
"As I was the petitioner, I am really
entitled to his custody, I suppose."
"Whether or no, we must have him. I see that.
I'll do the best I can to be a mother to him, and we can afford to k=
eep
him somehow. I'll work harder. I w=
onder
when he'll arrive?"
"In the course of a few weeks, I
suppose."
"I wish--When shall we have courage to ma=
rry,
Jude?"
"Whenever you have it, I think I shall. It remains with you entirely, dear. Only say the word, and it's done."=
"Before the boy comes?"
"Certainly."
"It would make a more natural home for hi=
m,
perhaps," she murmured.
Jude thereupon wrote in purely formal terms to
request that the boy should be sent on to them as soon as he arrived, makin=
g no
remark whatever on the surprising nature of Arabella's information, nor vou=
chsafing
a single word of opinion on the boy's paternity, nor on whether, had he kno=
wn
all this, his conduct towards her would have been quite the same.
In the down-train that was timed to reach
Aldbrickham station about ten o'clock the next evening, a small, pale child=
's
face could be seen in the gloom of a third-class carriage. He had large, frightened eyes, and wore=
a
white woollen cravat, over which a key was suspended round his neck by a pi=
ece
of common string: the key attracting attention by its occasional shine in t=
he
lamplight. In the band of his hat his half-ticket was stuck. His eyes remained mostly fixed on the b=
ack of
the seat opposite, and never turned to the window even when a station was
reached and called. On the other seat were two or three passengers, one of =
them
a working woman who held a basket on her lap, in which was a tabby kitten. =
The
woman opened the cover now and then, whereupon the kitten would put out its
head, and indulge in playful antics. At
these the fellow-passengers laughed, except the solitary boy bearing the ke=
y and
ticket, who, regarding the kitten with his saucer eyes, seemed mutely to sa=
y:
"All laughing comes from misapprehension.
Rightly looked at there is no laughable thing under the sun."
Occasionally at a stoppage the guard would look
into the compartment and say to the boy, "All right, my man. Your box is safe in the van." The boy would say, "Yes," wit=
hout
animation, would try to smile, and fail.
He was Age masquerading as Juvenility, and doi=
ng
it so badly that his real self showed through crevices. A ground-swell from ancient years of ni=
ght
seemed now and then to lift the child in this his morning-life, when his fa=
ce
took a back view over some great Atlantic of Time, and appeared not to care
about what it saw.
When the other travellers closed their eyes, w=
hich
they did one by one--even the kitten curling itself up in the basket, weary=
of
its too circumscribed play--the boy remained just as before. He then seemed to be doubly awake, like=
an
enslaved and dwarfed divinity, sitting passive and regarding his companions=
as
if he saw their whole rounded lives rather than their immediate figures.
This was Arabella's boy. With her usual carelessness she had pos=
tponed
writing to Jude about him till the eve of his landing, when she could
absolutely postpone no longer, though she had known for weeks of his
approaching arrival, and had, as she truly said, visited Aldbrickham mainly=
to
reveal the boy's existence and his near home-coming to Jude. This very day on which she had received=
her former
husband's answer at some time in the afternoon, the child reached the London
Docks, and the family in whose charge he had come, having put him into a cab
for Lambeth and directed the cabman to his mother's house, bade him good-by=
e,
and went their way.
On his arrival at the Three Horns, Arabella had
looked him over with an expression that was as good as saying, "You are
very much what I expected you to be," had given him a good meal, a lit=
tle
money, and, late as it was getting, dispatched him to Jude by the next trai=
n, wishing
her husband Cartlett, who was out, not to see him.
The train reached Aldbrickham, and the boy was
deposited on the lonely platform beside his box. The collector took his ticket and, with=
a
meditative sense of the unfitness of things, asked him where he was going by
himself at that time of night.
"Going to Spring Street," said the
little one impassively.
"Why, that's a long way from here; a'most=
out
in the country; and the folks will be gone to bed."
"I've got to go there."
"You must have a fly for your box."<= o:p>
"No. I must walk."
"Oh well: you'd better leave your box here
and send for it. There's a 'bus go=
es
half-way, but you'll have to walk the rest."
"I am not afraid."
"Why didn't your friends come to meet
'ee?"
"I suppose they didn't know I was
coming."
"Who is your friends?"
"Mother didn't wish me to say."
"All I can do, then, is to take charge of
this. Now walk as fast as you can.=
"
Saying nothing further the boy came out into t=
he
street, looking round to see that nobody followed or observed him. When he had walked some little distance=
he
asked for the street of his destination.
He was told to go straight on quite into the outskirts of the place.=
The child fell into a steady mechanical creep
which had in it an impersonal quality--the movement of the wave, or of the
breeze, or of the cloud. He follow=
ed his
directions literally, without an inquiring gaze at anything. It could have been seen that the boy's =
ideas
of life were different from those of the local boys. Children begin with detail, and learn u=
p to
the general; they begin with the contiguous, and gradually comprehend the
universal. The boy seemed to have =
begun
with the generals of life, and never to have concerned himself with the
particulars. To him the houses, the
willows, the obscure fields beyond, were apparently regarded not as brick r=
esidences,
pollards, meadows; but as human dwellings in the abstract, vegetation, and =
the
wide dark world.
He found the way to the little lane, and knock=
ed
at the door of Jude's house. Jude =
had
just retired to bed, and Sue was about to enter her chamber adjoining when =
she
heard the knock and came down.
"Is this where Father lives?" asked =
the
child.
"Who?"
"Mr. Fawley, that's his name."
Sue ran up to Jude's room and told him, and he hurried down as soon as he could, though to her impatience he seemed long.<= o:p>
"What--is it he--so soon?" she asked=
as
Jude came.
She scrutinized the child's features, and sudd=
enly
went away into the little sitting-room adjoining. Jude lifted the boy to a level with him=
self,
keenly regarded him with gloomy tenderness, and telling him he would have b=
een
met if they had known of his coming so soon, set him provisionally in a cha=
ir
whilst he went to look for Sue, whose supersensitiveness was disturbed, as =
he
knew. He found her in the dark, be=
nding
over an arm-chair. He enclosed her=
with
his arm, and putting his face by hers, whispered, "What's the
matter?"
"What Arabella says is true--true! I see you in him!"
"Well: that's one thing in my life as it
should be, at any rate."
"But the other half of him is--SHE! And that's what I can't bear! But I oug=
ht
to--I'll try to get used to it; yes, I ought!"
"Jealous little Sue! I withdraw all remarks about your
sexlessness. Never mind! Time may =
right
things... And Sue, darling; I have=
an idea! We'll educate and train him with a view=
to
the university. What I couldn't accomplish in my own person perhaps I can c=
arry
out through him? They are making it
easier for poor students now, you know."
"Oh you dreamer!" said she, and hold=
ing
his hand returned to the child with him.
The boy looked at her as she had looked at him. "Is it you who'=
s my
REAL mother at last?" he inquired.
"Why?
Do I look like your father's wife?"
"Well, yes; 'cept he seems fond of you, a=
nd
you of him. Can I call you Mother?=
"
Then a yearning look came over the child and he
began to cry. Sue thereupon could =
not
refrain from instantly doing likewise, being a harp which the least wind of
emotion from another's heart could make to vibrate as readily as a radical =
stir
in her own.
"You may call me Mother, if you wish to, =
my
poor dear!" she said, bending her cheek against his to hide her tears.=
"What's this round your neck?" asked
Jude with affected calmness.
"The key of my box that's at the
station."
They bustled about and got him some supper, and made him up a temporary bed, where he soon fell asleep. Both went and looked at him as he lay.<= o:p>
"He called you Mother two or three times
before he dropped off," murmured Jude.
"Wasn't it odd that he should have wanted to!"
"Well--it was significant," said
Sue. "There's more for us to =
think about
in that one little hungry heart than in all the stars of the sky... I suppose, dear, we must pluck up coura=
ge,
and get that ceremony over? It is =
no use
struggling against the current, and I feel myself getting intertwined with =
my
kind. Oh Jude, you'll love me dear=
ly,
won't you, afterwards! I do want t=
o be
kind to this child, and to be a mother to him; and our adding the legal for=
m to
our marriage might make it easier for me."
Their=
next
and second attempt thereat was more deliberately made, though it was begun =
on
the morning following the singular child's arrival at their home.
Him they found to be in the habit of sitting
silent, his quaint and weird face set, and his eyes resting on things they =
did
not see in the substantial world.
"His face is like the tragic mask of
Melpomene," said Sue. "W=
hat is
your name, dear? Did you tell us?&=
quot;
"Little Father Time is what they always
called me. It is a nickname; becau=
se I
look so aged, they say."
"And you talk so, too," said Sue
tenderly. "It is strange, Jud=
e, that
these preternaturally old boys almost always come from new countries. But what were you christened?"
"I never was."
"Why was that?"
"Because, if I died in damnation, 'twould
save the expense of a Christian funeral."
"Oh--your name is not Jude, then?" s=
aid
his father with some disappointment.
The boy shook his head. "Never heerd on it."
"Of course not," said Sue quickly;
"since she was hating you all the time!"
"We'll have him christened," said Ju=
de;
and privately to Sue: "The day we are married." Yet the advent of the child disturbed h=
im.
Their position lent them shyness, and having an
impression that a marriage at a superintendent registrar's office was more
private than an ecclesiastical one, they decided to avoid a church this tim=
e. Both
Sue and Jude together went to the office of the district to give notice: th=
ey
had become such companions that they could hardly do anything of importance
except in each other's company.
Jude Fawley signed the form of notice, Sue loo=
king
over his shoulder and watching his hand as it traced the words. As she read the four-square undertaking,
never before seen by her, into which her own and Jude's names were inserted,
and by which that very volatile essence, their love for each other, was
supposed to be made permanent, her face seemed to grow painfully apprehensi=
ve. "Names
and Surnames of the Parties"--(they were to be parties now, not lovers,
she thought). "Condition"--(a horrid idea)--"Rank or Occupat=
ion"--"Age"--"Dwelling
at"--"Length of Residence"--"Church or Building in which
the Marriage is to be solemnized"--"District and County in which =
the
Parties respectively dwell."
"It spoils the sentiment, doesn't it!&quo=
t;
she said on their way home. "It seems making a more sordid business of=
it
even than signing the contract in a vestry.
There is a little poetry in a church.
But we'll try to get through with it, dearest, now."
"We will.
'For what man is he that hath betrothed a wife and hath not taken
her? Let him go and return unto his
house, lest he die in the battle, and another man take her.' So said the Jewish law-giver."
"How you know the Scriptures, Jude! You really ought to have been a parson.=
I can only quote profane writers!"=
During the interval before the issuing of the
certificate Sue, in her housekeeping errands, sometimes walked past the off=
ice,
and furtively glancing in saw affixed to the wall the notice of the purposed
clinch to their union. She could n=
ot
bear its aspect. Coming after her =
previous
experience of matrimony, all the romance of their attachment seemed to be s=
tarved
away by placing her present case in the same category. She was usually leading little Father T=
ime by
the hand, and fancied that people thought him hers, and regarded the intend=
ed ceremony
as the patching up of an old error.
Meanwhile Jude decided to link his present with
his past in some slight degree by inviting to the wedding the only person
remaining on earth who was associated with his early life at Marygreen--the
aged widow Mrs. Edlin, who had been his great-aunt's friend and nurse in her
last illness. He hardly expected t=
hat
she would come; but she did, bringing singular presents, in the form of app=
les,
jam, brass snuffers, an ancient pewter dish, a warming-pan, and an enormous=
bag
of goose feathers towards a bed. S=
he was
allotted the spare room in Jude's house, whither she retired early, and whe=
re
they could hear her through the ceiling below, honestly saying the Lord's
Prayer in a loud voice, as the Rubric directed.
As, however, she could not sleep, and discover=
ed
that Sue and Jude were still sitting up--it being in fact only ten o'clock-=
-she
dressed herself again and came down, and they all sat by the fire till a la=
te hour--Father
Time included; though, as he never spoke, they were hardly conscious of him=
.
"Well, I bain't set against marrying as y=
our
great-aunt was," said the widow.
"And I hope 'twill be a jocund wedding for ye in all respects t=
his
time. Nobody can hope it more, kno=
wing
what I do of your families, which is more, I suppose, than anybody else now=
living. For they have been unlucky that way, God
knows."
Sue breathed uneasily.
"They was always good-hearted people,
too--wouldn't kill a fly if they knowed it," continued the wedding
guest. "But things happened to
thwart 'em, and if everything wasn't vitty they were upset. No doubt that's how he that the tale is=
told
of came to do what 'a did--if he WERE one of your family."
"What was that?" said Jude.
"Well--that tale, ye know; he that was
gibbeted just on the brow of the hill by the Brown House--not far from the
milestone between Marygreen and Alfredston, where the other road branches
off. But Lord, 'twas in my grandfa=
ther's
time; and it medn' have been one of your folk at all."
"I know where the gibbet is said to have
stood, very well," murmured Jude.
"But I never heard of this.
What--did this man--my ancestor and Sue's--kill his wife?"
"'Twer not that exactly. She ran away from him, with their child=
, to
her friends; and while she was there the child died. He wanted the body, to bury it where his
people lay, but she wouldn't give it up.
Her husband then came in the night with a cart, and broke into the h=
ouse
to steal the coffin away; but he was catched, and being obstinate, wouldn't
tell what he broke in for. They br=
ought
it in burglary, and that's why he was hanged and gibbeted on Brown House Hi=
ll. His wife went mad after he was dead.
A small slow voice rose from the shade of the
fireside, as if out of the earth: "If I was you, Mother, I wouldn't ma=
rry
Father!" It came from little =
Time,
and they started, for they had forgotten him.
"Oh, it is only a tale," said Sue
cheeringly.
After this exhilarating tradition from the wid=
ow
on the eve of the solemnization they rose, and, wishing their guest good-ni=
ght,
retired.
The next morning Sue, whose nervousness
intensified with the hours, took Jude privately into the sitting-room before
starting. "Jude, I want you to kiss me, as a lover, incorporeally,&quo=
t;
she said, tremulously nestling up to him, with damp lashes. "It won't be ever like this any mo=
re,
will it! I wish we hadn't begun the
business. But I suppose we must go on.
How horrid that story was last night! It spoilt my thoughts of to-da=
y.
It makes me feel as if a tragic doom overhung our family, as it did the hou=
se
of Atreus."
"Or the house of Jeroboam," said the
quondam theologian.
"Yes.
And it seems awful temerity in us two to go marrying! I am going to vow to you in the same wo=
rds I
vowed in to my other husband, and you to me in the same as you used to your
other wife; regardless of the deterrent lesson we were taught by those
experiments!"
"If you are uneasy I am made unhappy,&quo=
t;
said he. "I had hoped you wou=
ld
feel quite joyful. But if you don'=
t, you
don't. It is no use pretending. It=
is a
dismal business to you, and that makes it so to me!"
"It is unpleasantly like that other
morning--that's all," she murmured.
"Let us go on now."
They started arm in arm for the office aforesa=
id,
no witness accompanying them except the Widow Edlin. The day was chilly and dull, and a clam=
my fog
blew through the town from "Royal-tower'd Thame." On the steps of the office there were t=
he
muddy foot-marks of people who had entered, and in the entry were damp
umbrellas Within the office several persons were gathered, and our couple p=
erceived
that a marriage between a soldier and a young woman was just in progress. Sue, Jude, and the widow stood in the
background while this was going on, Sue reading the notices of marriage on =
the wall. The room was a dreary place to two of t=
heir
temperament, though to its usual frequenters it doubtless seemed ordinary
enough. Law-books in musty calf covered one wall, and elsewhere were post-o=
ffice
directories, and other books of reference.
Papers in packets tied with red tape were pigeon-holed around, and s=
ome
iron safes filled a recess, while the bare wood floor was, like the door-st=
ep,
stained by previous visitors.
The soldier was sullen and reluctant: the bride
sad and timid; she was soon, obviously, to become a mother, and she had a b=
lack
eye. Their little business was soon done, and the twain and their friends s=
traggled
out, one of the witnesses saying casually to Jude and Sue in passing, as if=
he
had known them before: "See the couple just come in? Ha, ha!
That fellow is just out of gaol this morning. She met him at the gaol
gates, and brought him straight here.
She's paying for everything."
Sue turned her head and saw an ill-favoured ma=
n,
closely cropped, with a broad-faced, pock-marked woman on his arm, ruddy wi=
th
liquor and the satisfaction of being on the brink of a gratified desire. Th=
ey
jocosely saluted the outgoing couple, and went forward in front of Jude and
Sue, whose diffidence was increasing.
The latter drew back and turned to her lover, her mouth shaping itse=
lf
like that of a child about to give way to grief:
"Jude--I don't like it here! I wish we hadn't come! The place gives me the horrors: it seem=
s so
unnatural as the climax of our love! I wish it had been at church, if it ha=
d to
be at all. It is not so vulgar
there!"
"Dear little girl," said Jude. "How troubled and pale you look!&q=
uot;
"It must be performed here now, I
suppose?"
"No--perhaps not necessarily."
He spoke to the clerk, and came back. "No--we need not marry here or any=
where,
unless we like, even now," he said.
"We can be married in a church, if not with the same certificate
with another he'll give us, I think.
Anyhow, let us go out till you are calmer, dear, and I too, and talk=
it
over."
They went out stealthily and guiltily, as if t=
hey had
committed a misdemeanour, closing the door without noise, and telling the
widow, who had remained in the entry, to go home and await them; that they =
would
call in any casual passers as witnesses, if necessary. When in the street they turned into an =
unfrequented
side alley where they walked up and down as they had done long ago in the
market-house at Melchester.
"Now, darling, what shall we do? We are making a mess of it, it strikes
me. Still, ANYTHING that pleases y=
ou
will please me."
"But Jude, dearest, I am worrying you!
"Well, to tell the truth, when I got insi=
de I
felt as if I didn't care much about it.
The place depressed me almost as much as it did you--it was ugly.
They walked on vaguely, till she paused, and h=
er
little voice began anew: "It seems so weak, too, to vacillate like
this! And yet how much better than=
to
act rashly a second time... How te=
rrible
that scene was to me! The expressi=
on in
that flabby woman's face, leading her on to give herself to that gaol-bird,=
not
for a few hours, as she would, but for a lifetime, as she must. And the other poor soul--to escape a no=
minal
shame which was owing to the weakness of her character, degrading herself to
the real shame of bondage to a tyrant who scorned her--a man whom to avoid =
for
ever was her only chance of salvation...
This is our parish church, isn't it?
This is where it would have to be, if we did it in the usual way?
Jude went up and looked in at the door. "Why--it is a wedding here too,&qu=
ot; he
said. "Everybody seems to be =
on our
tack to-day."
Sue said she supposed it was because Lent was =
just
over, when there was always a crowd of marriages. "Let us listen," she said,
"and find how it feels to us when performed in a church."
They stepped in, and entered a back seat, and
watched the proceedings at the altar.
The contracting couple appeared to belong to the well-to-do middle
class, and the wedding altogether was of ordinary prettiness and interest.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They could see the flowers tremble in t=
he bride's
hand, even at that distance, and could hear her mechanical murmur of words
whose meaning her brain seemed to gather not at all under the pressure of h=
er
self-consciousness. Sue and Jude
listened, and severally saw themselves in time past going through the same =
form
of self-committal.
"It is not the same to her, poor thing, a=
s it
would be to me doing it over again with my present knowledge," Sue
whispered. "You see, they are=
fresh
to it, and take the proceedings as a matter of course. But having been awak=
ened
to its awful solemnity as we have, or at least as I have, by experience, an=
d to
my own too squeamish feelings perhaps sometimes, it really does seem immora=
l in
me to go and undertake the same thing again with open eyes. Coming in here and seeing this has frig=
htened
me from a church wedding as much as the other did from a registry one...
Then they tried to laugh, and went on debating=
in
whispers the object-lesson before them.
And Jude said he also thought they were both too thin-skinned--that =
they
ought never to have been born--much less have come together for the most
preposterous of all joint ventures for THEM--matrimony.
His betrothed shuddered; and asked him earnest=
ly
if he indeed felt that they ought not to go in cold blood and sign that lif=
e-undertaking
again? "It is awful if you th=
ink we
have found ourselves not strong enough for it, and knowing this, are propos=
ing to
perjure ourselves," she said.
"I fancy I do think it--since you ask
me," said Jude. "Remembe=
r I'll
do it if you wish, own darling."
While she hesitated he went on to confess that, though he thought th=
ey
ought to be able to do it, he felt checked by the dread of incompetency jus=
t as
she did--from their peculiarities, perhaps, because they were unlike other
people. "We are horribly sens=
itive;
that's really what's the matter with us, Sue!" he declared.
"I fancy more are like us than we
think!"
"Well, I don't know. The intention of the contract is good, =
and right
for many, no doubt; but in our case it may defeat its own ends because we a=
re
the queer sort of people we are--folk in whom domestic ties of a forced kind
snuff out cordiality and spontaneousness."
Sue still held that there was not much queer or
exceptional in them: that all were so.
"Everybody is getting to feel as we do. We are a little beforehand, that's all.=
In fifty, a hundred, years the descenda=
nts of
these two will act and feel worse than we.
They will see weltering humanity still more vividly than we do now, =
as
Shapes like our own selves hideously
multiplied,
and w=
ill be
afraid to reproduce them."
"What a terrible line of poetry! ... thou=
gh I
have felt it myself about my fellow-creatures, at morbid times."
Thus they murmured on, till Sue said more brig=
htly:
"Well--the general question is not our
business, and why should we plague ourselves about it? However different our reasons are we co=
me to
the same conclusion; that for us particular two, an irrevocable oath is
risky. Then, Jude, let us go home =
without
killing our dream! Yes? How good y=
ou
are, my friend: you give way to all my whims!"
"They accord very much with my own."=
He gave her a little kiss behind a pillar while
the attention of everybody present was taken up in observing the bridal pro=
cession
entering the vestry; and then they came outside the building. By the door they waited till two or thr=
ee
carriages, which had gone away for a while, returned, and the new husband a=
nd
wife came into the open daylight. =
Sue
sighed.
"The flowers in the bride's hand are sadly like the garland which decked the heifers of sacrifice in old times!"<= o:p>
"Still, Sue, it is no worse for the woman
than for the man. That's what some=
women
fail to see, and instead of protesting against the conditions they protest =
against
the man, the other victim; just as a woman in a crowd will abuse the man who
crushes against her, when he is only the helpless transmitter of the pressu=
re
put upon him."
"Yes--some are like that, instead of unit=
ing
with the man against the common enemy, coercion." The bride and bridegroom had by this ti=
me
driven off, and the two moved away with the rest of the idlers. "No--d=
on't
let's do it," she continued.
"At least just now."
They reached home, and passing the window arm =
in
arm saw the widow looking out at them.
"Well," cried their guest when they entered, "I said =
to
myself when I zeed ye coming so loving up to the door, 'They made up their
minds at last, then!'"
They briefly hinted that they had not.
"What--and ha'n't ye really done it? Chok' it all, that I should have lived =
to see
a good old saying like 'marry in haste and repent at leisure' spoiled like =
this
by you two! 'Tis time I got back a=
gain to
Marygreen--sakes if tidden--if this is what the new notions be leading us
to! Nobody thought o' being afeard=
o'
matrimony in my time, nor of much else but a cannon-ball or empty
cupboard! Why when I and my poor m=
an
were married we thought no more o't than of a game o' dibs!"
"Don't tell the child when he comes in,&q=
uot;
whispered Sue nervously. "He'll think it has all gone on right, and it
will be better that he should not be surprised and puzzled. Of course it is only put off for
reconsideration. If we are happy a=
s we
are, what does it matter to anybody?"
The p=
urpose
of a chronicler of moods and deeds does not require him to express his pers=
onal
views upon the grave controversy above given. That the twain were
happy--between their times of sadness--was indubitable. And when the unexpected apparition of J=
ude's
child in the house had shown itself to be no such disturbing event as it had
looked, but one that brought into their lives a new and tender interest of =
an
ennobling and unselfish kind, it rather helped than injured their happiness=
.
To be sure, with such pleasing anxious beings =
as
they were, the boy's coming also brought with it much thought for the futur=
e,
particularly as he seemed at present to be singularly deficient in all the
usual hopes of childhood. But the =
pair
tried to dismiss, for a while at least, a too strenuously forward view.
There is in Upper Wessex an old town of nine or
ten thousand souls; the town may be called Stoke-Barehills. It stands with its gaunt, unattractive,
ancient church, and its new red brick suburb, amid the open, chalk-soiled
cornlands, near the middle of an imaginary triangle which has for its three
corners the towns of Aldbrickham and Wintoncester, and the important milita=
ry
station of Quartershot. The great western highway from London passes through
it, near a point where the road branches into two, merely to unite again so=
me
twenty miles further westward. Out=
of
this bifurcation and reunion there used to arise among wheeled travellers,
before railway days, endless questions of choice between the respective
ways. But the question is now as d=
ead as
the scot-and-lot freeholder, the road waggoner, and the mail coachman who
disputed it; and probably not a single inhabitant of Stoke-Barehills is now
even aware that the two roads which part in his town ever meet again; for
nobody now drives up and down the great western highway dally.
The most familiar object in Stoke-Barehills
nowadays is its cemetery, standing among some picturesque mediæval ruins be=
side
the railway; the modern chapels, modern tombs, and modern shrubs having a l=
ook
of intrusiveness amid the crumbling and ivy-covered decay of the ancient wa=
lls.
On a certain day, however, in the particular y=
ear
which has now been reached by this narrative--the month being early June--t=
he
features of the town excite little interest, though many visitors arrive by=
the
trains; some down-trains, in especial, nearly emptying themselves here. It is the week of the Great Wessex
Agricultural Show, whose vast encampment spreads over the open outskirts of=
the
town like the tents of an investing army.
Rows of marquees, huts, booths, pavilions, arcades, porticoes--every
kind of structure short of a permanent one--cover the green field for the s=
pace
of a square half-mile, and the crowds of arrivals walk through the town in a
mass, and make straight for the exhibition ground. The way thereto is lined with shows, st=
alls,
and hawkers on foot, who make a market-place of the whole roadway to the sh=
ow
proper, and lead some of the improvident to lighten their pockets appreciab=
ly
before they reach the gates of the exhibition they came expressly to see.
It is the popular day, the shilling day, and of
the fast arriving excursion trains two from different directions enter the =
two contiguous
railway stations at almost the same minute.
One, like several which have preceded it, comes from London: the oth=
er
by a cross-line from Aldbrickham; and from the London train alights a coupl=
e; a
short, rather bloated man, with a globular stomach and small legs, resembli=
ng a
top on two pegs, accompanied by a woman of rather fine figure and rather red
face, dressed in black material, and covered with beads from bonnet to skir=
t,
that made her glisten as if clad in chain-mail.
They cast their eyes around. The man was about to hire a fly as some=
others
had done, when the woman said, "Don't be in such a hurry, Cartlett.
"You can't carry home furniture by excurs=
ion
train," said, in a thick voice, her husband, the landlord of The Three
Horns, Lambeth; for they had both come down from the tavern in that
"excellent, densely populated, gin-drinking neighbourhood," which
they had occupied ever since the advertisement in those words had attracted
them thither. The configuration of the landlord showed that he, too, like h=
is customers,
was becoming affected by the liquors he retailed.
"Then I'll get it sent, if I see any worth
having," said his wife.
They sauntered on, but had barely entered the =
town
when her attention was attracted by a young couple leading a child, who had
come out from the second platform, into which the train from Aldbrickham ha=
d steamed. They were walking just in front of the
inn-keepers.
"Sakes alive!" said Arabella.
"What's that?" said Cartlett.
"Who do you think that couple is? Don't you recognize the man?"
"No."
"Not from the photos I have showed you?&q=
uot;
"Is it Fawley?"
"Yes--of course."
"Oh, well.
I suppose he was inclined for a little sight-seeing like the rest of
us." Cartlett's interest in J=
ude
whatever it might have been when Arabella was new to him, had plainly flagg=
ed
since her charms and her idiosyncrasies, her supernumerary hair-coils, and =
her optional
dimples, were becoming as a tale that is told.
Arabella so regulated her pace and her husband=
's
as to keep just in the rear of the other three, which it was easy to do wit=
hout
notice in such a stream of pedestrians.
Her answers to Cartlett's remarks were vague and slight, for the gro=
up
in front interested her more than all the rest of the spectacle.
"They are rather fond of one another and =
of
their child, seemingly," continued the publican.
"THEIR child!
'Tisn't their child," said Arabella with a curious, sudden
covetousness. "They haven't b=
een
married long enough for it to be theirs!"
But although the smouldering maternal instinct=
was
strong enough in her to lead her to quash her husband's conjecture, she was=
not
disposed on second thoughts to be more candid than necessary. Mr. Cartlett had no other idea than tha=
t his
wife's child by her first husband was with his grandparents at the Antipode=
s.
"Oh I suppose not. She looks quite a girl."
"They are only lovers, or lately married,=
and
have the child in charge, as anybody can see."
All continued to move ahead. The unwitting Sue and Jude, the couple =
in
question, had determined to make this agricultural exhibition within twenty=
miles
of their own town the occasion of a day's excursion which should combine
exercise and amusement with instruction, at small expense. Not regardful of themselves alone, they=
had
taken care to bring Father Time, to try every means of making him kindle and
laugh like other boys, though he was to some extent a hindrance to the
delightfully unreserved intercourse in their pilgrimages which they so much
enjoyed. But they soon ceased to
consider him an observer, and went along with that tender attention to each
other which the shyest can scarcely disguise, and which these, among entire
strangers as they imagined, took less trouble to disguise than they might h=
ave
done at home. Sue, in her new summ=
er
clothes, flexible and light as a bird, her little thumb stuck up by the ste=
m of
her white cotton sunshade, went along as if she hardly touched ground, and =
as
if a moderately strong puff of wind would float her over the hedge into the
next field. Jude, in his light grey
holiday-suit, was really proud of her companionship, not more for her exter=
nal
attractiveness than for her sympathetic words and ways. That complete mutual understanding, in =
which
every glance and movement was as effectual as speech for conveying intellig=
ence
between them, made them almost the two parts of a single whole.
The pair with their charge passed through the
turnstiles, Arabella and her husband not far behind them. When inside the enclosure the publican'=
s wife
could see that the two ahead began to take trouble with the youngster, poin=
ting
out and explaining the many objects of interest, alive and dead; and a pass=
ing
sadness would touch their faces at their every failure to disturb his
indifference.
"How she sticks to him!" said
Arabella. "Oh no--I fancy the=
y are
not married, or they wouldn't be so much to one another as that... I wonder!"
"But I thought you said he did marry
her?"
"I heard he was going to--that's all, goi=
ng
to make another attempt, after putting it off once or twice... As far as they themselves are concerned=
they
are the only two in the show. I sh=
ould
be ashamed of making myself so silly if I were he!"
"I don't see as how there's anything
remarkable in their behaviour. I should never have noticed their being in l=
ove,
if you hadn't said so."
"You never see anything," she
rejoined. Nevertheless Cartlett's =
view of
the lovers' or married pair's conduct was undoubtedly that of the general
crowd, whose attention seemed to be in no way attracted by what Arabella's
sharpened vision discerned.
"He's charmed by her as if she were some
fairy!" continued Arabella. "See how he looks round at her, and l=
ets
his eyes rest on her. I am incline=
d to
think that she don't care for him quite so much as he does for her. She's not a particular warm-hearted cre=
ature
to my thinking, though she cares for him pretty middling much--as much as s=
he's
able to; and he could make her heart ache a bit if he liked to try--which h=
e's
too simple to do. There--now they =
are
going across to the cart-horse sheds.
Come along."
"I don't want to see the cart-horses. It is no business of ours to follow the=
se
two. If we have come to see the sh=
ow let
us see it in our own way, as they do in theirs."
"Well--suppose we agree to meet somewhere=
in
an hour's time--say at that refreshment tent over there, and go about
independent? Then you can look at =
what
you choose to, and so can I."
Cartlett was not loath to agree to this, and t=
hey
parted--he proceeding to the shed where malting processes were being exhibi=
ted,
and Arabella in the direction taken by Jude and Sue. Before, however, she had regained their=
wake
a laughing face met her own, and she was confronted by Anny, the friend of =
her
girlhood.
Anny had burst out in hearty laughter at the m=
ere
fact of the chance encounter. &quo=
t;I am
still living down there," she said, as soon as she was composed. "I am soon going to be married, bu=
t my
intended couldn't come up here to-day.
But there's lots of us come by excursion, though I've lost the rest =
of
'em for the present."
"Have you met Jude and his young woman, or
wife, or whatever she is? I saw 'em by now."
"No. Not a glimpse of un for years!"=
"Well, they are close by here somewhere.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yes--there they are--by that grey
horse!"
"Oh, that's his present young woman--wife=
did
you say? Has he married again?&quo=
t;
"I don't know."
"She's pretty, isn't she!"
"Yes--nothing to complain of; or jump
at. Not much to depend on, though;=
a
slim, fidgety little thing like that."
"He's a nice-looking chap, too! You ought to ha' stuck to un, Arabella.=
"
"I don't know but I ought," murmured
she.
Anny laughed.
"That's you, Arabella!
Always wanting another man than your own."
"Well, and what woman don't I should like= to know? As for that body with him--s= he don't know what love is--at least what I call love! I can see in her face she don't."<= o:p>
"And perhaps, Abby dear, you don't know w=
hat
she calls love."
"I'm sure I don't wish to! ... Ah--they are making for the art departm=
ent. I should like to see some pictures
myself. Suppose we go that way?--<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Why, if all Wessex isn't here, I verily
believe! There's Dr. Vilbert. Have=
n't
seen him for years, and he's not looking a day older than when I used to kn=
ow
him. How do you do, Physician? I was just saying that you don't look a=
day
older than when you knew me as a girl."
"Simply the result of taking my own pills
regular, ma'am. Only two and threepence a box--warranted efficacious by the
Government stamp. Now let me advise you to purchase the same immunity from =
the
ravages of time by following my example?
Only two-and-three."
The physician had produced a box from his
waistcoat pocket, and Arabella was induced to make the purchase.
"At the same time," continued he, wh=
en
the pills were paid for, "you have the advantage of me, Mrs.-- Surely not Mrs. Fawley, once Miss Donn,=
of
the vicinity of Marygreen?"
"Yes.
But Mrs. Cartlett now."
"Ah--you lost him, then? Promising young fellow! A pupil of mine, you know. I taught him the dead languages. And believe me, he soon knew nearly as =
much
as I."
"I lost him; but not as you think," =
said
Arabella dryly. "The lawyers =
untied
us. There he is, look, alive and l=
usty;
along with that young woman, entering the art exhibition."
"Ah--dear me!
Fond of her, apparently."
"They SAY they are cousins."
"Cousinship is a great convenience to the=
ir
feelings, I should say?"
"Yes.
So her husband thought, no doubt, when he divorced her... Shall we look at the pictures, too?&quo=
t;
The trio followed across the green and
entered. Jude and Sue, with the ch=
ild,
unaware of the interest they were exciting, had gone up to a model at one e=
nd
of the building, which they regarded with considerable attention for a long
while before they went on. Arabell=
a and
her friends came to it in due course, and the inscription it bore was:
"Model of Cardinal College, Christminster; by J. Fawley and S. F. M.
Bridehead."
"Admiring their own work," said Arabella. "How like Jude--alw= ays thinking of colleges and Christminster, instead of attending to his business!"<= o:p>
They glanced cursorily at the pictures, and
proceeded to the band-stand. When =
they
had stood a little while listening to the music of the military performers,
Jude, Sue, and the child came up on the other side. Arabella did not care if they should
recognize her; but they were too deeply absorbed in their own lives, as tra=
nslated
into emotion by the military band, to perceive her under her beaded veil. She walked round the outside of the lis=
tening
throng, passing behind the lovers, whose movements had an unexpected
fascination for her to-day. Scruti=
nizing
them narrowly from the rear she noticed that Jude's hand sought Sue's as th=
ey
stood, the two standing close together so as to conceal, as they supposed, =
this
tacit expression of their mutual responsiveness.
"Silly fools--like two children!"
Anny meanwhile had jokingly remarked to Vilber=
t on
Arabella's hankering interest in her first husband.
"Now," said the physician to Arabell=
a,
apart; "do you want anything such as this, Mrs. Cartlett? It is not compounded out of my regular =
pharmacopoeia,
but I am sometimes asked for such a thing." He produced a small phial of clear
liquid. "A love-philtre, such=
as
was used by the ancients with great effect.
I found it out by study of their writings, and have never known it to
fail."
"What is it made of?" asked Arabella
curiously.
"Well--a distillation of the juices of do=
ves'
hearts--otherwise pigeons'--is one of the ingredients. It took nearly a hundred hearts to prod=
uce
that small bottle full."
"How do you get pigeons enough?"
"To tell a secret, I get a piece of
rock-salt, of which pigeons are inordinately fond, and place it in a doveco=
t on
my roof. In a few hours the birds =
come
to it from all points of the compass--east, west, north, and south--and thu=
s I
secure as many as I require. You use the liquid by contriving that the desi=
red
man shall take about ten drops of it in his drink. But remember, all this is told you beca=
use I
gather from your questions that you mean to be a purchaser. You must keep faith with me?"
"Very well--I don't mind a bottle--to give
some friend or other to try it on her young man." She produced five shillings, the price =
asked,
and slipped the phial in her capacious bosom.
Saying presently that she was due at an appointment with her husband=
she
sauntered away towards the refreshment bar, Jude, his companion, and the ch=
ild
having gone on to the horticultural tent, where Arabella caught a glimpse of
them standing before a group of roses in bloom.
She waited a few minutes observing them, and t= hen proceeded to join her spouse with no very amiable sentiments. She found him seated on a stool by the = bar, talking to one of the gaily dressed maids who had served him with spirits.<= o:p>
"I should think you had enough of this
business at home!" Arabella remarked gloomily. "Surely you didn't come fifty mile=
s from
your own bar to stick in another? =
Come,
take me round the show, as other men do their wives! Dammy, one would think you were a young=
bachelor,
with nobody to look after but yourself!"
"But we agreed to meet here; and what cou=
ld I
do but wait?"
"Well, now we have met, come along,"=
she
returned, ready to quarrel with the sun for shining on her. And they left the tent together, this p=
ot-bellied
man and florid woman, in the antipathetic, recriminatory mood of the average
husband and wife of Christendom.
In the meantime the more exceptional couple and
the boy still lingered in the pavilion of flowers--an enchanted palace to t=
heir
appreciative taste--Sue's usually pale cheeks reflecting the pink of the ti=
nted
roses at which she gazed; for the gay sights, the air, the music, and the
excitement of a day's outing with Jude had quickened her blood and made her
eyes sparkle with vivacity. She ad=
ored
roses, and what Arabella had witnessed was Sue detaining Jude almost agains=
t his
will while she learnt the names of this variety and that, and put her face
within an inch of their blooms to smell them.
"I should like to push my face quite into
them--the dears!" she had said.
"But I suppose it is against the rules to touch them--isn't it,
Jude?"
"Yes, you baby," said he: and then
playfully gave her a little push, so that her nose went among the petals.
"The policeman will be down on us, and I
shall say it was my husband's fault!"
Then she looked up at him, and smiled in a way
that told so much to Arabella.
"Happy?" he murmured.
She nodded.
"Why?
Because you have come to the great Wessex Agricultural Show--or beca=
use
WE have come?"
"You are always trying to make me confess=
to
all sorts of absurdities. Because =
I am
improving my mind, of course, by seeing all these steam-ploughs, and
threshing-machines, and chaff-cutters, and cows, and pigs, and sheep."=
Jude was quite content with a baffle from his =
ever
evasive companion. But when he had forgotten that he had put the question, =
and
because he no longer wished for an answer, she went on: "I feel that we
have returned to Greek joyousness, and have blinded ourselves to sickness a=
nd
sorrow, and have forgotten what twenty-five centuries have taught the race
since their time, as one of your Christminster luminaries says... There is one immediate shadow, however-=
-only
one." And she looked at the a=
ged
child, whom, though they had taken him to everything likely to attract a yo=
ung
intelligence, they had utterly failed to interest.
He knew what they were saying and thinking.
The
unnoticed lives that the pair had hitherto led began, from the day of the
suspended wedding onwards, to be observed and discussed by other persons th=
an
Arabella. The society of Spring St=
reet
and the neighbourhood generally did not understand, and probably could not =
have
been made to understand, Sue and Jude's private minds, emotions, positions,=
and
fears. The curious facts of a child
coming to them unexpectedly, who called Jude "Father," and Sue
"Mother," and a hitch in a marriage ceremony intended for quietne=
ss
to be performed at a registrar's office, together with rumours of the
undefended cases in the law-courts, bore only one translation to plain mind=
s.
Little Time--for though he was formally turned
into "Jude," the apt nickname stuck to him--would come home from
school in the evening, and repeat inquiries and remarks that had been made =
to
him by the other boys; and cause Sue, and Jude when he heard them, a great =
deal
of pain and sadness.
The result was that shortly after the attempt =
at
the registrar's the pair went off--to London it was believed--for several d=
ays,
hiring somebody to look to the boy. When
they came back they let it be understood indirectly, and with total
indifference and weariness of mien, that they were legally married at
last. Sue, who had previously been
called Mrs. Bridehead now openly adopted the name of Mrs. Fawley. Her dull, cowed, and listless manner fo=
r days
seemed to substantiate all this.
But the mistake (as it was called) of their go=
ing
away so secretly to do the business, kept up much of the mystery of their
lives; and they found that they made not such advances with their neighbour=
s as
they had expected to do thereby. A
living mystery was not much less interesting than a dead scandal.
The baker's lad and the grocer's boy, who at f=
irst
had used to lift their hats gallantly to Sue when they came to execute their
errands, in these days no longer took the trouble to render her that homage=
, and
the neighbouring artizans' wives looked straight along the pavement when th=
ey
encountered her.
Nobody molested them, it is true; but an
oppressive atmosphere began to encircle their souls, particularly after the=
ir
excursion to the show, as if that visit had brought some evil influence to =
bear
on them. And their temperaments we=
re
precisely of a kind to suffer from this atmosphere, and to be indisposed to
lighten it by vigorous and open statements.
Their apparent attempt at reparation had come too late to be effecti=
ve.
The headstone and epitaph orders fell off: and=
two
or three months later, when autumn came, Jude perceived that he would have =
to
return to journey-work again, a course all the more unfortunate just now, in
that he had not as yet cleared off the debt he had unavoidably incurred in =
the
payment of the law-costs of the previous year.
One evening he sat down to share the common me=
al
with Sue and the child as usual. &=
quot;I
am thinking," he said to her, "that I'll hold on here no longer.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The life suits us, certainly; but if we=
could
get away to a place where we are unknown, we should be lighter hearted, and
have a better chance. And so I am =
afraid
we must break it up here, however awkward for you, poor dear!"
Sue was always much affected at a picture of
herself as an object of pity, and she saddened.
"Well--I am not sorry," said she
presently. "I am much depress=
ed by
the way they look at me here. And =
you
have been keeping on this house and furniture entirely for me and the boy!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You don't want it yourself, and the exp=
ense
is unnecessary. But whatever we do=
, wherever
we go, you won't take him away from me, Jude dear? I could not let him go now! The cloud upon his young mind makes him=
so pathetic
to me; I do hope to lift it some day!
And he loves me so. You won't take him away from me?"
"Certainly I won't, dear little girl! We'll get nice lodgings, wherever we go=
. I shall be moving about probably--getti=
ng a
job here and a job there."
"I shall do something too, of course,
till--till-- Well, now I can't be =
useful
in the lettering it behoves me to turn my hand to something else."
"Don't hurry about getting employment,&qu=
ot;
he said regretfully. "I don't=
want
you to do that. I wish you wouldn'=
t,
Sue. The boy and yourself are enou=
gh for
you to attend to."
There was a knock at the door, and Jude answer=
ed
it. Sue could hear the conversatio=
n:
"Is Mr. Fawley at home? ... Biles and Willis the building contracto=
rs
sent me to know if you'll undertake the relettering of the ten commandments=
in
a little church they've been restoring lately in the country near here.&quo=
t;
Jude reflected, and said he could undertake it=
.
"It is not a very artistic job,"
continued the messenger. "The=
clergyman
is a very old-fashioned chap, and he has refused to let anything more be do=
ne
to the church than cleaning and repairing."
"Excellent old man!" said Sue to herself, who was sentimentally opposed to the horrors of over-restoration.<= o:p>
"The Ten Commandments are fixed to the ea=
st
end," the messenger went on, "and they want doing up with the res=
t of
the wall there, since he won't have them carted off as old materials belong=
ing
to the contractor in the usual way of the trade."
A bargain as to terms was struck, and Jude came
indoors. "There, you see,&quo=
t; he
said cheerfully. "One more jo=
b yet,
at any rate, and you can help in it--at least you can try. We shall have all the church to ourselv=
es, as
the rest of the work is finished."
Next day Jude went out to the church, which was
only two miles off. He found that =
what
the contractor's clerk had said was true. The tables of the Jewish law towe=
red
sternly over the utensils of Christian grace, as the chief ornament of the
chancel end, in the fine dry style of the last century. And as their framework was constructed =
of
ornamental plaster they could not be taken down for repair. A portion, crumbled by damp, required
renewal; and when this had been done, and the whole cleansed, he began to r=
enew
the lettering. On the second morni=
ng Sue
came to see what assistance she could render, and also because they liked t=
o be
together.
The silence and emptiness of the building gave=
her
confidence, and, standing on a safe low platform erected by Jude, which she=
was
nevertheless timid at mounting, she began painting in the letters of the fi=
rst
Table while he set about mending a portion of the second. She was quite pleased at her powers; sh=
e had
acquired them in the days she painted illumined texts for the church-fitting
shop at Christminster. Nobody seem=
ed
likely to disturb them; and the pleasant twitter of birds, and rustle of
October leafage, came in through an open window, and mingled with their tal=
k.
They were not, however, to be left thus snug a=
nd
peaceful for long. About half-past twelve there came footsteps on the gravel
without. The old vicar and his churchwarden entered, and, coming up to see =
what
was being done, seemed surprised to discover that a young woman was
assisting. They passed on into an =
aisle,
at which time the door again opened, and another figure entered--a small on=
e,
that of little Time, who was crying. Sue
had told him where he might find her between school-hours, if he wished.
"I couldn't stay to eat my dinner in scho=
ol,
because they said--" He described how some boys had taunted him about =
his
nominal mother, and Sue, grieved, expressed her indignation to Jude aloft.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The child went into the churchyard, and=
Sue
returned to her work. Meanwhile th=
e door
had opened again, and there shuffled in with a businesslike air the
white-aproned woman who cleaned the church.
Sue recognized her as one who had friends in Spring Street, whom she
visited. The church-cleaner looked=
at
Sue, gaped, and lifted her hands; she had evidently recognized Jude's compa=
nion
as the latter had recognized her. =
Next
came two ladies, and after talking to the charwoman they also moved forward,
and as Sue stood reaching upward, watched her hand tracing the letters, and
critically regarded her person in relief against the white wall, till she g=
rew
so nervous that she trembled visibly.
They went back to where the others were standi=
ng,
talking in undertones: and one said--Sue could not hear which--"She's =
his
wife, I suppose?"
"Some say Yes: some say No," was the
reply from the charwoman.
"Not?
Then she ought to be, or somebody's--that's very clear!"
"They've only been married a very few wee=
ks,
whether or no."
"A strange pair to be painting the Two
Tables! I wonder Biles and Willis =
could
think of such a thing as hiring those!"
The churchwarden supposed that Biles and Willis
knew of nothing wrong, and then the other, who had been talking to the old
woman, explained what she meant by calling them strange people.
The probable drift of the subdued conversation
which followed was made plain by the churchwarden breaking into an anecdote=
, in
a voice that everybody in the church could hear, though obviously suggested=
by
the present situation:
"Well, now, it is a curious thing, but my
grandfather told me a strange tale of a most immoral case that happened at =
the
painting of the Commandments in a church out by Gaymead--which is quite wit=
hin
a walk of this one. In them days
Commandments were mostly done in gilt letters on a black ground, and that's=
how
they were out where I say, before the owld church was rebuilded. It must have been somewhere about a hun=
dred
years ago that them Commandments wanted doing up just as ours do here, and =
they
had to get men from Aldbrickham to do 'em. Now they wished to get the job
finished by a particular Sunday, so the men had to work late Saturday night,
against their will, for overtime was not paid then as 'tis now. There was no true religion in the count=
ry at
that date, neither among pa'sons, clerks, nor people, and to keep the men u=
p to
their work the vicar had to let 'em have plenty of drink during the
afternoon. As evening drawed on th=
ey sent
for some more themselves; rum, by all account.
It got later and later, and they got more and more fuddled, till at =
last
they went a-putting their rum-bottle and rummers upon the communion table, =
and drawed
up a trestle or two, and sate round comfortable and poured out again right
hearty bumpers. No sooner had they
tossed off their glasses than, so the story goes they fell down senseless, =
one
and all. How long they bode so they
didn't know, but when they came to themselves there was a terrible
thunder-storm a-raging, and they seemed to see in the gloom a dark figure w=
ith
very thin legs and a curious voot, a-standing on the ladder, and finishing
their work. When it got daylight t=
hey
could see that the work was really finished, and couldn't at all mind finis=
hing
it themselves. They went home, and=
the
next thing they heard was that a great scandal had been caused in the church
that Sunday morning, for when the people came and service began, all saw th=
at
the Ten Commandments wez painted with the 'nots' left out. Decent people wouldn't attend service t=
here
for a long time, and the Bishop had to be sent for to reconsecrate the
church. That's the tradition as I =
used
to hear it as a child. You must ta=
ke it
for what it is wo'th, but this case to-day has reminded me o't, as I say.&q=
uot;
The visitors gave one more glance, as if to see
whether Jude and Sue had left the "nots" out likewise, and then
severally left the church, even the old woman at last. Sue and Jude, who had not stopped worki=
ng,
sent back the child to school, and remained without speaking; till, looking=
at
her narrowly, he found she had been crying silently.
"Never mind, comrade!" he said. "I know what it is!"
"I can't BEAR that they, and everybody,
should think people wicked because they may have chosen to live their own
way! It is really these opinions t=
hat
make the best intentioned people reckless, and actually become immoral!&quo=
t;
"Never be cast down! It was only a funny story."
"Ah, but we suggested it! I am afraid I have done you mischief, J=
ude,
instead of helping you by coming!"
To have suggested such a story was certainly n=
ot
very exhilarating, in a serious view of their position. However, in a few minutes Sue seemed to=
see
that their position this morning had a ludicrous side, and wiping her eyes =
she
laughed.
"It is droll, after all," she said,
"that we two, of all people, with our queer history, should happen to =
be
here painting the Ten Commandments! You
a reprobate, and I--in my condition... =
span>O
dear!" ... And with her hand =
over
her eyes she laughed again silently and intermittently, till she was quite
weak.
"That's better," said Jude gaily.
"Oh but it is serious, all the same!"
she sighed as she took up the brush and righted herself. "But do you see they don't think w=
e are married? They WON'T believe it! It is extraordinary!"
"I don't care whether they think so or
not," said Jude. "I shan=
't take
any more trouble to make them."
They sat down to lunch--which they had brought
with them not to hinder time--and having eaten it were about to set to work
anew when a man entered the church, and Jude recognized in him the contract=
or Willis. He beckoned to Jude, and spoke to him a=
part.
"Here--I've just had a complaint about
this," he said, with rather breathless awkwardness. "I don't wish to go into the matte=
r--as
of course I didn't know what was going on--but I am afraid I must ask you a=
nd
her to leave off, and let somebody else finish this! It is best, to avoid all unpleasantness=
. I'll pay you for the week, all the
same."
Jude was too independent to make any fuss; and=
the
contractor paid him, and left. Jude
picked up his tools, and Sue cleansed her brush. Then their eyes met.
"How could we be so simple as to suppose =
we
might do this!" said she, dropping to her tragic note. "Of course we ought not--I ought n=
ot--to
have come!"
"I had no idea that anybody was going to
intrude into such a lonely place and see us!" Jude returned. "Well, it can't be helped, dear; a=
nd of
course I wouldn't wish to injure Willis's trade-connection by staying."=
; They sat down passively for a few minut=
es,
proceeded out of the church, and overtaking the boy pursued their thoughtful
way to Aldbrickham.
Fawley had still a pretty zeal in the cause of
education, and, as was natural with his experiences, he was active in
furthering "equality of opportunity" by any humble means open to
him. He had joined an Artizans' Mu=
tual
Improvement Society established in the town about the time of his arrival
there; its members being young men of all creeds and denominations, includi=
ng
Churchmen, Congregationalists, Baptists, Unitarians, Positivists, and
others--agnostics had scarcely been heard of at this time--their one common
wish to enlarge their minds forming a sufficiently close bond of union. The subscription was small, and the room
homely; and Jude's activity, uncustomary acquirements, and above all, singu=
lar
intuition on what to read and how to set about it--begotten of his years of
struggle against malignant stars--had led to his being placed on the commit=
tee.
A few evenings after his dismissal from the ch=
urch
repairs, and before he had obtained any more work to do, he went to attend =
a meeting
of the aforesaid committee. It was=
late
when he arrived: all the others had come, and as he entered they looked
dubiously at him, and hardly uttered a word of greeting. He guessed that something bearing on hi=
mself
had been either discussed or mooted.
Some ordinary business was transacted, and it was disclosed that the=
number
of subscriptions had shown a sudden falling off for that quarter. One member--a really well-meaning and u=
pright
man--began speaking in enigmas about certain possible causes: that it behov=
ed them
to look well into their constitution; for if the committee were not respect=
ed,
and had not at least, in their differences, a common standard of CONDUCT, t=
hey
would bring the institution to the ground. Nothing further was said in Jude=
's
presence, but he knew what this meant; and turning to the table wrote a note
resigning his office there and then.
Thus the supersensitive couple were more and m=
ore
impelled to go away. And then bill=
s were
sent in, and the question arose, what could Jude do with his great-aunt's h=
eavy
old furniture, if he left the town to travel he knew not whither? This, and the necessity of ready money,
compelled him to decide on an auction, much as he would have preferred to k=
eep
the venerable goods.
The day of the sale came on; and Sue for the l=
ast
time cooked her own, the child's, and Jude's breakfast in the little house =
he
had furnished. It chanced to be a =
wet
day; moreover Sue was unwell, and not wishing to desert her poor Jude in su=
ch
gloomy circumstances, for he was compelled to stay awhile, she acted on the
suggestion of the auctioneer's man, and ensconced herself in an upper room,
which could be emptied of its effects, and so kept closed to the bidders. H=
ere
Jude discovered her; and with the child, and their few trunks, baskets, and
bundles, and two chairs and a table that were not in the sale, the two sat =
in
meditative talk.
Footsteps began stamping up and down the bare
stairs, the comers inspecting the goods, some of which were of so quaint and
ancient a make as to acquire an adventitious value as art. Their door was tried once or twice, and=
to
guard themselves against intrusion Jude wrote "Private" on a scra=
p of
paper, and stuck it upon the panel.
They soon found that, instead of the furniture,
their own personal histories and past conduct began to be discussed to an
unexpected and intolerable extent by the intending bidders. It was not till now that they really
discovered what a fools' paradise of supposed unrecognition they had been
living in of late. Sue silently to=
ok her
companion's hand, and with eyes on each other they heard these passing
remarks--the quaint and mysterious personality of Father Time being a subje=
ct
which formed a large ingredient in the hints and innuendoes. At length the auction began in the room
below, whence they could hear each familiar article knocked down, the highly
prized ones cheaply, the unconsidered at an unexpected price.
"People don't understand us," he sig=
hed
heavily. "I am glad we have d=
ecided
to go."
"The question is, where to?"
"It ought to be to London. There one can live as one chooses."=
;
"No--not London, dear! I know it well. We should be unhappy there."
"Why?"
"Can't you think?"
"Because Arabella is there?"
"That's the chief reason."
"But in the country I shall always be une=
asy
lest there should be some more of our late experience. And I don't care to lessen it by explai=
ning,
for one thing, all about the boy's history.
To cut him off from his past I have determined to keep silence. I am sickened of ecclesiastical work no=
w; and
I shouldn't like to accept it, if offered me!"
"You ought to have learnt classic. Gothic is barbaric art, after all. Pugin was wrong, and Wren was right.
"Yes--you have half-converted me to that =
view
by what you have said before. But =
one
can work, and despise what one does. I
must do something, if not church-gothic."
"I wish we could both follow an occupatio=
n in
which personal circumstances don't count," she said, smiling up wistfu=
lly. "I am as disqualified for teaching=
as
you are for ecclesiastical art. Yo=
u must
fall back upon railway stations, bridges, theatres, music-halls, hotels--ev=
erything
that has no connection with conduct."
"I am not skilled in those... I ought to take to bread-baking. I grew up in the baking business with a=
unt,
you know. But even a baker must be
conventional, to get customers."
"Unless he keeps a cake and gingerbread s=
tall
at markets and fairs, where people are gloriously indifferent to everything
except the quality of the goods."
Their thoughts were diverted by the voice of t=
he
auctioneer: "Now this antique oak settle--a unique example of old Engl=
ish
furniture, worthy the attention of all collectors!"
"That was my great-grandfather's," s=
aid
Jude. "I wish we could have k=
ept
the poor old thing!"
One by one the articles went, and the afternoon
passed away. Jude and the other tw=
o were
getting tired and hungry, but after the conversation they had heard they we=
re
shy of going out while the purchasers were in their line of retreat. However, the later lots drew on, and it
became necessary to emerge into the rain soon, to take on Sue's things to t=
heir
temporary lodging.
"Now the next lot: two pairs of pigeons, =
all
alive and plump--a nice pie for somebody for next Sunday's dinner!"
The impending sale of these birds had been the
most trying suspense of the whole afternoon.
They were Sue's pets, and when it was found that they could not poss=
ibly
be kept, more sadness was caused than by parting from all the furniture.
Noting her dissembled distress Jude kissed her,
and said it was time to go and see if the lodgings were ready. He would go on with the boy, and fetch =
her
soon.
When she was left alone she waited patiently, =
but
Jude did not come back. At last she
started, the coast being clear, and on passing the poulterer's shop, not far
off, she saw her pigeons in a hamper by the door. An emotion at sight of them, assisted b=
y the
growing dusk of evening, caused her to act on impulse, and first looking ar=
ound
her quickly, she pulled out the peg which fastened down the cover, and went
on. The cover was lifted from with=
in,
and the pigeons flew away with a clatter that brought the chagrined poulter=
er
cursing and swearing to the door.
Sue reached the lodging trembling, and found J=
ude
and the boy making it comfortable for her.
"Do the buyers pay before they bring away the things?" she
asked breathlessly.
"Yes, I think. Why?"
"Because, then, I've done such a wicked
thing!" And she explained, in
bitter contrition.
"I shall have to pay the poulterer for th=
em,
if he doesn't catch them," said Jude.
"But never mind. Don't=
fret
about it, dear."
"It was so foolish of me! Oh why should Nature's law be mutual bu=
tchery!"
"Is it so, Mother?" asked the boy
intently.
"Yes!" said Sue vehemently.
"Well, they must take their chance, now, =
poor
things," said Jude. "As soon as the sale-account is wound up, and=
our
bills paid, we go."
"Where do we go to?" asked Time, in =
suspense.
"We must sail under sealed orders, that
nobody may trace us... We mustn't =
go to
Alfredston, or to Melchester, or to Shaston, or to Christminster. Apart from those we may go anywhere.&qu=
ot;
"Why mustn't we go there, Father?"
"Because of a cloud that has gathered over
us; though 'we have wronged no man, corrupted no man, defrauded no man!'
From =
that
week Jude Fawley and Sue walked no more in the town of Aldbrickham.
Whither they had gone nobody knew, chiefly bec=
ause
nobody cared to know. Any one
sufficiently curious to trace the steps of such an obscure pair might have
discovered without great trouble that they had taken advantage of his adapt=
ive
craftsmanship to enter on a shifting, almost nomadic, life, which was not
without its pleasantness for a time.
Wherever Jude heard of free-stone work to be d=
one,
thither he went, choosing by preference places remote from his old haunts a=
nd
Sue's. He laboured at a job, long or briefly, till it was finished; and then
moved on.
Two whole years and a half passed thus. Sometimes he might have been found shap=
ing
the mullions of a country mansion, sometimes setting the parapet of a
town-hall, sometimes ashlaring an hotel at Sandbourne, sometimes a museum at
Casterbridge, sometimes as far down as Exonbury, sometimes at
Stoke-Barehills. Later still he wa=
s at Kennetbridge,
a thriving town not more than a dozen miles south of Marygreen, this being =
his
nearest approach to the village where he was known; for he had a sensitive
dread of being questioned as to his life and fortunes by those who had been
acquainted with him during his ardent young manhood of study and promise, a=
nd
his brief and unhappy married life at that time.
At some of these places he would be detained f=
or
months, at others only a few weeks. His
curious and sudden antipathy to ecclesiastical work, both episcopal and
noncomformist, which had risen in him when suffering under a smarting sense=
of
misconception, remained with him in cold blood, less from any fear of renew=
ed
censure than from an ultra-conscientiousness which would not allow him to s=
eek
a living out of those who would disapprove of his ways; also, too, from a s=
ense
of inconsistency between his former dogmas and his present practice, hardly=
a
shred of the beliefs with which he had first gone up to Christminster now
remaining with him. He was mentall=
y approaching
the position which Sue had occupied when he first met her.
On a Saturday evening in May, nearly three yea=
rs
after Arabella's recognition of Sue and himself at the agricultural show, s=
ome
of those who there encountered each other met again.
It was the spring fair at Kennetbridge, and,
though this ancient trade-meeting had much dwindled from its dimensions of =
former
times, the long straight street of the borough presented a lively scene abo=
ut
midday. At this hour a light trap,=
among
other vehicles, was driven into the town by the north road, and up to the d=
oor
of a temperance inn. There alighte=
d two
women, one the driver, an ordinary country person, the other a finely built
figure in the deep mourning of a widow.
Her sombre suit, of pronounced cut, caused her to appear a little ou=
t of
place in the medley and bustle of a provincial fair.
"I will just find out where it is, Anny," said the widow-lady to her companion, when the horse and cart h= ad been taken by a man who came forward: "and then I'll come back, and me= et you here; and we'll go in and have something to eat and drink. I begin to feel quite a sinking."<= o:p>
"With all my heart," said the
other. "Though I would sooner=
have put
up at the Chequers or The Jack. You
can't get much at these temperance houses."
"Now, don't you give way to gluttonous
desires, my child," said the woman in weeds reprovingly. "This is the proper place. Very well: we'll meet in half an hour, =
unless
you come with me to find out where the site of the new chapel is?"
"I don't care to. You can tell me."
The companions then went their several ways, t=
he
one in crape walking firmly along with a mien of disconnection from her
miscellaneous surroundings. Making
inquiries she came to a hoarding, within which were excavations denoting the
foundations of a building; and on the boards without one or two large poste=
rs
announcing that the foundation-stone of the chapel about to be erected woul=
d be
laid that afternoon at three o'clock by a London preacher of great populari=
ty among
his body.
Having ascertained thus much the immensely wee=
ded
widow retraced her steps, and gave herself leisure to observe the movements=
of
the fair. By and by her attention was arrested by a little stall of cakes a=
nd ginger-breads,
standing between the more pretentious erections of trestles and canvas. It was covered with an immaculate cloth=
, and tended
by a young woman apparently unused to the business, she being accompanied b=
y a
boy with an octogenarian face, who assisted her.
"Upon my--senses!" murmured the wido=
w to
herself. "His wife Sue--if sh=
e is
so!" She drew nearer to the
stall. "How do you do, Mrs. F=
awley?"
she said blandly.
Sue changed colour and recognized Arabella thr=
ough
the crape veil.
"How are you, Mrs. Cartlett?" she sa=
id
stiffly. And then perceiving Arabe=
lla's
garb her voice grew sympathetic in spite of herself. "What?--you have
lost--"
"My poor husband. Yes.
He died suddenly, six weeks ago, leaving me none too well off, thoug=
h he
was a kind husband to me. But what=
ever profit
there is in public-house keeping goes to them that brew the liquors, and no=
t to
them that retail 'em... And you, m=
y little
old man! You don't know me, I
expect?"
"Yes, I do.
You be the woman I thought wer my mother for a bit, till I found you
wasn't," replied Father Time, who had learned to use the Wessex tongue
quite naturally by now.
"All right.
Never mind. I am a friend.&=
quot;
"Juey," said Sue suddenly, "go =
down
to the station platform with this tray--there's another train coming in, I
think."
When he was gone Arabella continued: "He'=
ll
never be a beauty, will he, poor chap!
Does he know I am his mother really?"
"No. He thinks there is some mystery about
his parentage--that's all. Jude is going to tell him when he is a little
older."
"But how do you come to be doing this?
"It is only a temporary occupation--a fan=
cy
of ours while we are in a difficulty."
"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 question=
ing,
and her tender little mouth began to quiver.
"Lord--I mean goodness gracious--what is
there to cry about? Some folks wou=
ld 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 questi=
on
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 s=
ort 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 pr=
oud
now!" And Sue's lips quivered
again. "I am doing this becau=
se 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, a=
nd
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 busines=
s, and
it occurred to him to try his hand at these, which he can make without comi=
ng
out of doors. We call them Christm=
inster
cakes. They are a great success."
"I never saw any like 'em. Why, they are windows and towers, and p=
innacles! 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 wind=
ows,
and cloisters, you see. It was a w=
him of
his to do them in pastry."
"Still harping on Christminster--even in =
his
cakes!" laughed Arabella.
"Just like Jude. A rul=
ing
passion. What a queer fellow he is=
, and
always will be!"
Sue sighed, and she looked her distress at hea=
ring
him criticized.
"Don't you think he is? Come now; you do, though you are so fon=
d of him!"
"Of course Christminster is a sort of fix=
ed
vision with him, which I suppose he'll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks it a great centre of hi=
gh 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 g=
uess
was right.
"Here comes the boy back again,"
continued Arabella. "My boy a=
nd 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 sh=
ould
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; a=
nd I
am not the woman to find fault with what the Lord has ordained. I've reached a more resigned frame of m=
ind."
"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 so=
cial
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 fr=
om a
shower of rain. I felt a need of s=
ome
sort of support under my loss, and, as 'twas righter than gin, I took to go=
ing
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 h=
ere to
the fair to-day. There's to be the foundation-stone of a new chapel laid th=
is
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=
.
In the
afternoon Sue and the other people bustling about Kennetbridge fair could h=
ear
singing inside the placarded hoarding farther down the street. Those who peeped through the opening sa=
w a
crowd of persons in broadcloth, with hymn-books in their hands, standing ro=
und the
excavations for the new chapel-walls. Arabella Cartlett and her weeds stood
among them. She had a clear, power=
ful
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 An=
ny
and Mrs. Cartlett, having had tea at the Temperance Hotel, started on their
return journey across the high and open country which stretches between Ken=
netbridge
and Alfredston. Arabella was in a
thoughtful mood; but her thoughts were not of the new chapel, as Anny at fi=
rst
surmised.
"No--it is something else," at last =
said
Arabella sullenly. "I came he=
re
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 happe=
ned to
turn my mind another way quite. An=
ny,
I've heard of un again, and I've seen HER!"
"Who?"
"I've heard of Jude, and I've seen his
wife. And ever since, do what I wi=
ll,
and though I sung the hymns wi' all my strength, I have not been able to he=
lp
thinking about 'n; which I've no right to do as a chapel member."
"Can't ye fix your mind upon what was sai=
d by
the London preacher to-day, and try to get rid of your wandering fancies th=
at
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 k=
new
what I do dream sometimes o' nights quite against my wishes, you'd say I ha=
d my
struggles!" (Anny, too, had g=
rown
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 eve=
ry
hour of the day."
"I haven't a morsel!--and if I had 'twoul=
d be
no good... After all that's said a=
bout
the comforts of this religion, I wish I had Jude back again!"
"You must fight valiant against the feeli=
ng,
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 o=
f 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 junc=
tion
of the highway and the cross-lane leading to that village, whose church-tow=
er
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 place, she could control herself no longer.
"He's more mine than hers!" she burst
out. "What right has she to h=
im, I
should like to know! I'd take him =
from
her if I could!"
"Fie, Abby!
And your husband only six weeks gone!
Pray against it!"
"Be damned if I do! Feelings are feelings! I won't be a creeping hypocrite any
longer--so there!"
Arabella had hastily drawn from her pocket a
bundle of tracts which she had brought with her to distribute at the fair, =
and
of which she had given away several. As
she spoke she flung the whole remainder of the packet into the hedge. "I've tried that sort o' physic an=
d have
failed wi' it. I must be as I was
born!"
"Hush!
You be excited, dear! Now y=
ou
come along home quiet, and have a cup of tea, and don't let us talk about u=
n no
more. We won't come out this road =
again,
as it leads to where he is, because it inflames 'ee so. You'll be all right again soon."
Arabella did calm herself down by degrees; and
they crossed the ridge-way. When t=
hey
began to descend the long, straight hill, they saw plodding along in front =
of
them an elderly man of spare stature and thoughtful gait. In his hand he carried a basket; and th=
ere
was a touch of slovenliness in his attire, together with that indefinable s=
omething
in his whole appearance which suggested one who was his own housekeeper,
purveyor, confidant, and friend, through possessing nobody else at all in t=
he
world to act in those capacities for him. The remainder of the journey was
down-hill, and guessing him to be going to Alfredston they offered him a li=
ft,
which he accepted.
Arabella looked at him, and looked again, till=
at
length she spoke. "If I don't mistake I am talking to Mr.
Phillotson?"
The wayfarer faced round and regarded her in
turn. "Yes; my name is Phillo=
tson,"
he said. "But I don't recogni=
ze
you, ma'am."
"I remember you well enough when you used=
to
be schoolmaster out at Marygreen, and I one of your scholars. I used to walk up there from Cresscombe=
every
day, because we had only a mistress down at our place, and you taught
better. But you wouldn't remember =
me as
I should you?--Arabella Donn."
He shook his head.
"No," he said politely, "I don't recall the name. And=
I
should hardly recognize in your present portly self the slim school child no
doubt you were then."
"Well, I always had plenty of flesh on my
bones. However, I am staying down =
here
with some friends at present. You =
know,
I suppose, who I married?"
"No."
"Jude Fawley--also a scholar of yours--at
least a night scholar--for some little time I think? And known to you afterwards, if I am no=
t mistaken."
"Dear me, dear me," said Phillotson,
starting out of his stiffness. "YOU Fawley's wife? To be sure--he had a wife! And he--I understood--"
"Divorced her--as you did yours--perhaps =
for
better reasons."
"Indeed?"
"Well--he med have been right in doing
it--right for both; for I soon married again, and all went pretty straight =
till
my husband died lately. But you--y=
ou
were decidedly wrong!"
"No," said Phillotson, with sudden
testiness. "I would rather no=
t talk
of this, but--I am convinced I did only what was right, and just, and
moral. I have suffered for my act =
and
opinions, but I hold to them; though her loss was a loss to me in more ways
than one!"
"You lost your school and good income thr=
ough
her, did you not?"
"I don't care to talk of it. I have recently come back here--to Mary=
green.
I mean."
"You are keeping the school there again, =
just
as formerly?"
The pressure of a sadness that would out unsea=
led
him. "I am there," he
replied. "Just as formerly,
no. Merely on sufferance. It was a last resource--a small thing to
return to after my move upwards, and my long indulged hopes--a returning to
zero, with all its humiliations. B=
ut it
is a refuge. I like the seclusion =
of the
place, and the vicar having known me before my so-called eccentric conduct
towards my wife had ruined my reputation as a schoolmaster, he accepted my
services when all other schools were closed against me. However, although I take fifty pounds a=
year
here after taking above two hundred elsewhere, I prefer it to running the r=
isk
of having my old domestic experiences raked up against me, as I should do i=
f I
tried to make a move."
"Right you are. A contented mind is a continual feast.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She has done no better."
"She is not doing well, you mean?"
"I met her by accident at Kennetbridge th=
is
very day, and she is anything but thriving.
Her husband is ill, and she anxious.
You made a fool of a mistake about her, I tell 'ee again, and the ha=
rm you
did yourself by dirting your own nest serves you right, excusing the
liberty."
"How?"
"She was innocent."
"But nonsense! They did not even defend the case!"=
;
"That was because they didn't care to.
Phillotson grasped the edge of the spring-cart,
and appeared to be much stressed and worried by the information. "Still--she wanted to go," he=
said.
"Yes.
But you shouldn't have let her.
That's the only way with these fanciful women that chaw high--innoce=
nt
or guilty. She'd have come round in
time. We all do! Custom does it! It's all the same in the end! However, I think she's fond of her man
still--whatever he med be of her. =
You
were too quick about her. I should=
n't have
let her go! I should have kept her
chained on--her spirit for kicking would have been broke soon enough! There's nothing like bondage and a ston=
e-deaf
taskmaster for taming us women. Be=
sides,
you've got the laws on your side. =
Moses
knew. Don't you call to mind what =
he
says?"
"Not for the moment, ma'am, I regret to
say."
"Call yourself a schoolmaster! I used to think o't when they read it in
church, and I was carrying on a bit.
'Then shall the man be guiltless; but the woman shall bear her
iniquity.' Damn rough on us women;=
but
we must grin and put up wi' it! Haw
haw! Well; she's got her deserts
now."
"Yes," said Phillotson, with biting
sadness. "Cruelty is the law =
pervading
all nature and society; and we can't get out of it if we would!"
"Well--don't you forget to try it next ti=
me,
old man."
"I cannot answer you, madam. I have never known much of womankind.&q=
uot;
They had now reached the low levels bordering
Alfredston, and passing through the outskirts approached a mill, to which
Phillotson said his errand led him; whereupon they drew up, and he alighted,
bidding them good-night in a preoccupied mood.
In the meantime Sue, though remarkably success=
ful
in her cake-selling experiment at Kennetbridge fair, had lost the temporary
brightness which had begun to sit upon her sadness on account of that succe=
ss. When
all her "Christminster" cakes had been disposed of she took upon =
her
arm the empty basket, and the cloth which had covered the standing she had
hired, and giving the other things to the boy left the street with him. They followed a lane to a distance of h=
alf a mile,
till they met an old woman carrying a child in short clothes, and leading a
toddler in the other hand.
Sue kissed the children, and said, "How i=
s he
now?"
"Still better!" returned Mrs. Edlin
cheerfully. "Before you are u=
pstairs
again your husband will be well enough--don't 'ee trouble."
They turned, and came to some old, dun-tiled
cottages with gardens and fruit-trees.
Into one of these they entered by lifting the latch without knocking,
and were at once in the general living-room.
Here they greeted Jude, who was sitting in an arm-chair, the increas=
ed delicacy
of his normally delicate features, and the childishly expectant look in his
eyes, being alone sufficient to show that he had been passing through a sev=
ere
illness.
"What--you have sold them all?" he s=
aid,
a gleam of interest lighting up his face.
"Yes.
Arcades, gables, east windows and all." She told him the pecuniary results, and=
then
hesitated. At last, when they were=
left alone,
she informed him of the unexpected meeting with Arabella, and the latter's
widowhood.
Jude was discomposed. "What--is she living here?" he
said.
"No; at Alfredston," said Sue.
Jude's countenance remained clouded. "I thought I had better tell you?&=
quot;
she continued, kissing him anxiously.
"Yes...
Dear me! Arabella not in the
depths of London, but down here! I=
t is
only a little over a dozen miles across the country to Alfredston. What is she doing there?"
She told him all she knew. "She has taken to chapel-going,&qu=
ot;
Sue added; "and talks accordingly."
"Well," said Jude, "perhaps it =
is
for the best that we have almost decided to move on. I feel much better to-day, and shall be=
well enough
to leave in a week or two. Then Mr=
s.
Edlin can go home again--dear faithful old soul--the only friend we have in=
the
world!"
"Where do you think to go to?" Sue asked, a troublousness in her tones=
.
Then Jude confessed what was in his mind. He said it would surprise her, perhaps,=
after
his having resolutely avoided all the old places for so long. But one thing and another had made him =
think
a great deal of Christminster lately, and, if she didn't mind, he would lik=
e to
go back there. Why should they car=
e if
they were known? It was oversensit=
ive of
them to mind so much. They could g=
o on
selling cakes there, for that matter, if he couldn't work. He had no sense of shame at mere povert=
y; and
perhaps he would be as strong as ever soon, and able to set up stone-cutting
for himself there.
"Why should you care so much for
Christminster?" she said pensively. "Christminster cares nothing =
for
you, poor dear!"
"Well, I do, I can't help it. I love the place--although I know how it
hates all men like me--the so-called self-taught--how it scorns our laboured
acquisitions, when it should be the first to respect them; how it sneers at=
our
false quantities and mispronunciations, when it should say, I see you want
help, my poor friend! ... Neverthe=
less,
it is the centre of the universe to me, because of my early dream: and noth=
ing
can alter it. Perhaps it will soon=
wake
up, and be generous. I pray so! ..=
. I should like to go back to live
there--perhaps to die there! In tw=
o or
three weeks I might, I think. It w=
ill
then be June, and I should like to be there by a particular day."
His hope that he was recovering proved so far =
well
grounded that in three weeks they had arrived in the city of many memories;
were actually treading its pavements, receiving the reflection of the sunsh=
ine
from its wasting walls.
"... And she humbled h=
er
body greatly, and all the places of
her joy she filled with her torn hair."--ESTHER (Apoc.).
"There are two who decline, a =
woman
and I, And enjoy our death in=
the
darkness here." --R. BROWN=
ING.
On th=
eir
arrival the station was lively with straw-hatted young men, welcoming young
girls who bore a remarkable family likeness to their welcomers, and who were
dressed up in the brightest and lightest of raiment.
"The place seems gay," said Sue. "Why--it is Remembrance Day!--Jude=
--how
sly of you--you came to-day on purpose!"
"Yes," said Jude quietly, as he took
charge of the small child, and told Arabella's boy to keep close to them, S=
ue
attending to their own eldest. &qu=
ot;I
thought we might as well come to-day as on any other."
"But I am afraid it will depress you!&quo=
t;
she said, looking anxiously at him up and down.
"Oh, I mustn't let it interfere with our
business; and we have a good deal to do before we shall be settled here.
Having left their luggage and his tools at the
station they proceeded on foot up the familiar street, the holiday people a=
ll
drifting in the same direction. Re=
aching
the Fourways they were about to turn off to where accommodation was likely =
to
be found when, looking at the clock and the hurrying crowd, Jude said:
"Let us go and see the procession, and never mind the lodgings just
now? We can get them afterwards.&q=
uot;
"Oughtn't we to get a house over our heads
first?" she asked.
But his soul seemed full of the anniversary, a=
nd
together they went down Chief Street, their smallest child in Jude's arms, =
Sue
leading her little girl, and Arabella's boy walking thoughtfully and silent=
ly beside
them. Crowds of pretty sisters in =
airy
costumes, and meekly ignorant parents who had known no college in their you=
th,
were under convoy in the same direction by brothers and sons bearing the
opinion written large on them that no properly qualified human beings had l=
ived
on earth till they came to grace it here and now.
"My failure is reflected on me by every o=
ne
of those young fellows," said Jude.
"A lesson on presumption is awaiting me to-day!--Humiliation Day
for me! ... If you, my dear darlin=
g,
hadn't come to my rescue, I should have gone to the dogs with despair!"=
;
She saw from his face that he was getting into=
one
of his tempestuous, self-harrowing moods.
"It would have been better if we had gone at once about our own
affairs, dear," she answered.
"I am sure this sight will awaken old sorrows in you, and do no
good!"
"Well--we are near; we will see it now,&q=
uot;
said he.
They turned in on the left by the church with =
the
Italian porch, whose helical columns were heavily draped with creepers, and
pursued the lane till there arose on Jude's sight the circular theatre with=
that
well-known lantern above it, which stood in his mind as the sad symbol of h=
is
abandoned hopes, for it was from that outlook that he had finally surveyed =
the
City of Colleges on the afternoon of his great meditation, which convinced =
him
at last of the futility of his attempt to be a son of the university.
To-day, in the open space stretching between t=
his
building and the nearest college, stood a crowd of expectant people. A passage was kept clear through their =
midst
by two barriers of timber, extending from the door of the college to the do=
or
of the large building between it and the theatre.
"Here is the place--they are just going to
pass!" cried Jude in sudden excitement.
And pushing his way to the front he took up a position close to the
barrier, still hugging the youngest child in his arms, while Sue and the ot=
hers
kept immediately behind him. The crowd filled in at their back, and fell to
talking, joking, and laughing as carriage after carriage drew up at the low=
er
door of the college, and solemn stately figures in blood-red robes began to=
alight. The sky had grown overcast and livid, a=
nd
thunder rumbled now and then.
Father Time shuddered. "It do seem like the Judgment Day!=
"
he whispered.
"They are only learned doctors," said
Sue.
While they waited big drops of rain fell on th=
eir
heads and shoulders, and the delay grew tedious. Sue again wished not to stay.
"They won't be long now," said Jude,
without turning his head.
But the procession did not come forth, and
somebody in the crowd, to pass the time, looked at the façade of the nearest
college, and said he wondered what was meant by the Latin inscription in its
midst. Jude, who stood near the inquirer, explained it, and finding that the
people all round him were listening with interest, went on to describe the
carving of the frieze (which he had studied years before), and to criticize
some details of masonry in other college fronts about the city.
The idle crowd, including the two policemen at=
the
doors, stared like the Lycaonians at Paul, for Jude was apt to get too
enthusiastic over any subject in hand, and they seemed to wonder how the
stranger should know more about the buildings of their town than they thems=
elves
did; till one of them said: "Why, I know that man; he used to work here
years ago--Jude Fawley, that's his name!
Don't you mind he used to be nicknamed Tutor of St. Slums, d'ye
mind?--because he aimed at that line o' business? He's married, I suppose, then, and that=
's his
child he's carrying. Taylor would =
know
him, as he knows everybody."
The speaker was a man named Jack Stagg, with w=
hom
Jude had formerly worked in repairing the college masonries; Tinker Taylor =
was
seen to be standing near. Having h=
is
attention called the latter cried across the barriers to Jude: "You've
honoured us by coming back again, my friend!"
Jude nodded.
"An' you don't seem to have done any great
things for yourself by going away?"
Jude assented to this also.
"Except found more mouths to fill!"<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This came in a new voice, and Jude reco=
gnized
its owner to be Uncle Joe, another mason whom he had known.
Jude replied good-humouredly that he could not
dispute it; and from remark to remark something like a general conversation
arose between him and the crowd of idlers, during which Tinker Taylor asked
Jude if he remembered the Apostles' Creed in Latin still, and the night of =
the
challenge in the public house.
"But Fortune didn't lie that way?" t=
hrew
in Joe. "Yer powers wasn't en=
ough
to carry 'ee through?"
"Don't answer them any more!" entrea=
ted
Sue.
"I don't think I like Christminster!"
murmured little Time mournfully, as he stood submerged and invisible in the
crowd.
But finding himself the centre of curiosity,
quizzing, and comment, Jude was not inclined to shrink from open declaratio=
ns
of what he had no great reason to be ashamed of; and in a little while was =
stimulated
to say in a loud voice to the listening throng generally:
"It is a difficult question, my friends, =
for
any young man--that question I had to grapple with, and which thousands are
weighing at the present moment in these uprising times--whether to follow u=
ncritically
the track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it, or to
consider what his aptness or bent may be, and re-shape his course
accordingly. I tried to do the lat=
ter,
and I failed. But I don't admit th=
at my
failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success would have mad=
e it
a right one; though that's how we appraise such attempts nowadays--I mean, =
not
by their essential soundness, but by their accidental outcomes. If I had ended by becoming like one of =
these
gentlemen in red and black that we saw dropping in here by now, everybody w=
ould
have said: 'See how wise that young man was, to follow the bent of his
nature!' But having ended no bette=
r than
I began they say: 'See what a fool that fellow was in following a freak of =
his
fancy!'
"However it was my poverty and not my will
that consented to be beaten. It ta=
kes
two or three generations to do what I tried to do in one; and my
impulses--affections--vices perhaps they should be called--were too strong =
not
to hamper a man without advantages; who should be as cold-blooded as a fish=
and
as selfish as a pig to have a really good chance of being one of his countr=
y's
worthies. You may ridicule me--I am
quite willing that you should--I am a fit subject, no doubt. But I think if you knew what I have gone
through these last few years you would rather pity me. And if they knew"--he nodded towar=
ds the
college at which the dons were severally arriving--"it is just possible
they would do the same."
"He do look ill and worn-out, it is
true!" said a woman.
Sue's face grew more emotional; but though she
stood close to Jude she was screened.
"I may do some good before I am dead--be a
sort of success as a frightful example of what not to do; and so illustrate=
a
moral story," continued Jude, beginning to grow bitter, though he had =
opened
serenely enough. "I was, perh=
aps,
after all, a paltry victim to the spirit of mental and social restlessness =
that
makes so many unhappy in these days!"
"Don't tell them that!" whispered Sue
with tears, at perceiving Jude's state of mind.
"You weren't that. You
struggled nobly to acquire knowledge, and only the meanest souls in the wor=
ld
would blame you!"
Jude shifted the child into a more easy positi=
on
on his arm, and concluded: "And what I appear, a sick and poor man, is=
not
the worst of me. I am in a chaos of
principles--groping in the dark--acting by instinct and not after example.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Eight or nine years ago when I came here
first, I had a neat stock of fixed opinions, but they dropped away one by o=
ne;
and the further I get the less sure I am.
I doubt if I have anything more for my present rule of life than
following inclinations which do me and nobody else any harm, and actually g=
ive pleasure
to those I love best. There, gentl=
emen,
since you wanted to know how I was getting on, I have told you. Much good may it do you! I cannot expla=
in
further here. I perceive there is
something wrong somewhere in our social formulas: what it is can only be
discovered by men or women with greater insight than mine--if, indeed, they
ever discover it--at least in our time.
'For who knoweth what is good for man in this life?--and who can tel=
l a
man what shall be after him under the sun?'"
"Hear, hear," said the populace.
"Well preached!" said Tinker
Taylor. And privately to his neigh=
bours:
"Why, one of them jobbing pa'sons swarming about here, that takes the
services when our head reverends want a holiday, wouldn't ha' discoursed su=
ch
doctrine for less than a guinea down? Hey?
I'll take my oath not one o' 'em would!
And then he must have had it wrote down for 'n. And this only a working-man!"
As a sort of objective commentary on Jude's
remarks there drove up at this moment with a belated doctor, robed and pant=
ing,
a cab whose horse failed to stop at the exact point required for setting do=
wn
the hirer, who jumped out and entered the door.
The driver, alighting, began to kick the animal in the belly.
"If that can be done," said Jude,
"at college gates in the most religious and educational city in the wo=
rld,
what shall we say as to how far we've got?"
"Order!" said one of the policemen, =
who
had been engaged with a comrade in opening the large doors opposite the
college. "Keep yer tongue qui=
et, my
man, while the procession passes."
The rain came on more heavily, and all who had umbrellas opened
them. Jude was not one of these, a=
nd Sue
only possessed a small one, half sunshade.
She had grown pale, though Jude did not notice it then.
"Let us go on, dear," she whispered,
endeavouring to shelter him. "We haven't any lodgings yet, remember, a=
nd
all our things are at the station; and you are by no means well yet. I am afraid this wet will hurt you!&quo=
t;
"They are coming now. Just a moment, and I'll go!" said =
he.
A peal of six bells struck out, human faces be=
gan
to crowd the windows around, and the procession of heads of houses and new
doctors emerged, their red and black gowned forms passing across the field =
of Jude's
vision like inaccessible planets across an object glass.
As they went their names were called by knowing
informants, and when they reached the old round theatre of Wren a cheer rose
high.
"Let's go that way!" cried Jude, and
though it now rained steadily he seemed not to know it, and took them round=
to
the theatre. Here they stood upon =
the
straw that was laid to drown the discordant noise of wheels, where the quai=
nt
and frost-eaten stone busts encircling the building looked with pallid grim=
ness
on the proceedings, and in particular at the bedraggled Jude, Sue, and their
children, as at ludicrous persons who had no business there.
"I wish I could get in!" he said to = her fervidly. "Listen--I may catc= h a few words of the Latin speech by staying here; the windows are open."<= o:p>
However, beyond the peals of the organ, and the
shouts and hurrahs between each piece of oratory, Jude's standing in the wet
did not bring much Latin to his intelligence more than, now and then, a son=
orous
word in um or ibus.
"Well--I'm an outsider to the end of my
days!" he sighed after a while.
"Now I'll go, my patient Sue.
How good of you to wait in the rain all this time--to gratify my
infatuation! I'll never care any m=
ore
about the infernal cursed place, upon my soul I won't! But what made you tremble so when we we=
re at
the barrier? And how pale you are,=
Sue!"
"I saw Richard amongst the people on the
other side."
"Ah--did you!"
"He is evidently come up to Jerusalem to =
see
the festival like the rest of us: and on that account is probably living no=
t so
very far away. He had the same han=
kering
for the university that you had, in a milder form. I don't think he saw me, though he must=
have
heard you speaking to the crowd. B=
ut he
seemed not to notice."
"Well--suppose he did. Your mind is free from worries about hi=
m now,
my Sue?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But I am weak. Although I know it is all right with our
plans, I felt a curious dread of him; an awe, or terror, of conventions I d=
on't
believe in. It comes over me at ti=
mes
like a sort of creeping paralysis, and makes me so sad!"
"You are getting tired, Sue. Oh--I forgot, darling! Yes, we'll go on at once."
They started in quest of the lodging, and at l=
ast
found something that seemed to promise well, in Mildew Lane--a spot which to
Jude was irresistible--though to Sue it was not so fascinating--a narrow la=
ne close
to the back of a college, but having no communication with it. The little houses were darkened to gloo=
m by
the high collegiate buildings, within which life was so far removed from th=
at
of the people in the lane as if it had been on opposite sides of the globe;=
yet
only a thickness of wall divided them.
Two or three of the houses had notices of rooms to let, and the
newcomers knocked at the door of one, which a woman opened.
"Ah--listen!" said Jude suddenly,
instead of addressing her.
"What?"
"Why the bells--what church can that be?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The tones are familiar."
Another peal of bells had begun to sound out at
some distance off.
"I don't know!" said the landlady
tartly. "Did you knock to ask=
that?"
"No; for lodgings," said Jude, comin=
g to
himself.
The householder scrutinized Sue's figure a
moment. "We haven't any to
let," said she, shutting the door.
Jude looked discomfited, and the boy
distressed. "Now, Jude,"=
said Sue,
"let me try. You don't know t=
he
way."
They found a second place hard by; but here the
occupier, observing not only Sue, but the boy and the small children, said
civilly, "I am sorry to say we don't let where there are children"=
;;
and also closed the door.
The small child squared its mouth and cried
silently, with an instinct that trouble loomed.
The boy sighed. "I don=
't
like Christminster!" he said.
"Are the great old houses gaols?"
"No; colleges," said Jude; "whi=
ch
perhaps you'll study in some day."
"I'd rather not!" the boy rejoined.<= o:p>
"Now we'll try again," said Sue. "I'll pull my cloak more round me.=
.. Leaving Kennetbridge for this place is =
like
coming from Caiaphas to Pilate! ... How
do I look now, dear?"
"Nobody would notice it now," said J=
ude.
There was one other house, and they tried a th=
ird
time. The woman here was more amia=
ble;
but she had little room to spare, and could only agree to take in Sue and t=
he
children if her husband could go elsewhere.
This arrangement they perforce adopted, in the stress from delaying
their search till so late. They ca=
me to
terms with her, though her price was rather high for their pockets. But they could not afford to be critica=
l till
Jude had time to get a more permanent abode; and in this house Sue took
possession of a back room on the second floor with an inner closet-room for=
the
children. Jude stayed and had a cu=
p of
tea; and was pleased to find that the window commanded the back of another =
of
the colleges. Kissing all four he =
went
to get a few necessaries and look for lodgings for himself.
When he was gone the landlady came up to talk a
little with Sue, and gather something of the circumstances of the family she
had taken in. Sue had not the art of prevarication, and, after admitting
several facts as to their late difficulties and wanderings, she was startle=
d by
the landlady saying suddenly:
"Are you really a married woman?"
Sue hesitated; and then impulsively told the w=
oman
that her husband and herself had each been unhappy in their first marriages,
after which, terrified at the thought of a second irrevocable union, and le=
st
the conditions of the contract should kill their love, yet wishing to be
together, they had literally not found the courage to repeat it, though they
had attempted it two or three times. Therefore, though in her own sense of =
the
words she was a married woman, in the landlady's sense she was not.
The housewife looked embarrassed, and went
downstairs. Sue sat by the window =
in a
reverie, watching the rain. Her qu=
iet
was broken by the noise of someone entering the house, and then the voices =
of a
man and woman in conversation in the passage below. The landlady's husband had arrived, and=
she
was explaining to him the incoming of the lodgers during his absence.
His voice rose in sudden anger. "Now who wants such a woman here? =
and
perhaps a confinement! ... Besides,
didn't I say I wouldn't have children?
The hall and stairs fresh painted, to be kicked about by them! You must have known all was not straigh=
t with
'em--coming like that. Taking in a
family when I said a single man."
The wife expostulated, but, as it seemed, the
husband insisted on his point; for presently a tap came to Sue's door, and =
the
woman appeared.
"I am sorry to tell you, ma'am," she
said, "that I can't let you have the room for the week after all. My husband objects; and therefore I mus=
t ask
you to go. I don't mind your stayi=
ng
over to-night, as it is getting late in the afternoon; but I shall be glad =
if
you can leave early in the morning."
Though she knew that she was entitled to the
lodging for a week, Sue did not wish to create a disturbance between the wi=
fe
and husband, and she said she would leave as requested. When the landlady had gone Sue looked o=
ut of
the window again. Finding that the=
rain
had ceased she proposed to the boy that, after putting the little ones to b=
ed,
they should go out and search about for another place, and bespeak it for t=
he
morrow, so as not to be so hard-driven then as they had been that day.
Therefore, instead of unpacking her boxes, whi=
ch
had just been sent on from the station by Jude, they sallied out into the d=
amp
though not unpleasant streets, Sue resolving not to disturb her husband with
the news of her notice to quit while he was perhaps worried in obtaining a
lodging for himself. In the compan=
y of
the boy she wandered into this street and into that; but though she tried a
dozen different houses she fared far worse alone than she had fared in Jude=
's
company, and could get nobody to promise her a room for the following day.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Every householder looked askance at suc=
h a
woman and child inquiring for accommodation in the gloom.
"I ought not to be born, ought I?" s=
aid
the boy with misgiving.
Thoroughly tired at last Sue returned to the p=
lace
where she was not welcome, but where at least she had temporary shelter.
Sue s=
at
looking at the bare floor of the room, the house being little more than an =
old
intramural cottage, and then she regarded the scene outside the uncurtained
window. At some distance opposite,=
the
outer walls of Sarcophagus College--silent, black, and windowless--threw th=
eir
four centuries of gloom, bigotry, and decay into the little room she occupi=
ed,
shutting out the moonlight by night and the sun by day. The outlines of Rubric College also were
discernible beyond the other, and the tower of a third farther off still. She thought of the strange operation of=
a
simple-minded man's ruling passion, that it should have led Jude, who loved=
her
and the children so tenderly, to place them here in this depressing purlieu,
because he was still haunted by his dream.
Even now he did not distinctly hear the freezing negative that those
scholared walls had echoed to his desire.
The failure to find another lodging, and the l=
ack
of room in this house for his father, had made a deep impression on the boy=
--a brooding
undemonstrative horror seemed to have seized him. The silence was broken by his saying:
"Mother, WHAT shall we do to-morrow!"
"I don't know!" said Sue
despondently. "I am afraid th=
is
will trouble your father."
"I wish Father was quite well, and there =
had
been room for him! Then it wouldn't matter so much! Poor Father!"
"It wouldn't!"
"Can I do anything?"
"No!
All is trouble, adversity, and suffering!"
"Father went away to give us children roo=
m,
didn't he?"
"Partly."
"It would be better to be out o' the world
than in it, wouldn't it?"
"It would almost, dear."
"'Tis because of us children, too, isn't =
it,
that you can't get a good lodging?"
"Well--people do object to children
sometimes."
"Then if children make so much trouble, w=
hy
do people have 'em?"
"Oh--because it is a law of nature."=
"But we don't ask to be born?"
"No indeed."
"And what makes it worse with me is that =
you
are not my real mother, and you needn't have had me unless you liked. I oughtn't to have come to 'ee--that's =
the
real truth! I troubled 'em in Aust=
ralia,
and I trouble folk here. I wish I =
hadn't
been born!"
"You couldn't help it, my dear."
"I think that whenever children be born t=
hat
are not wanted they should be killed directly, before their souls come to '=
em,
and not allowed to grow big and walk about!"
Sue did not reply.
She was doubtfully pondering how to treat this too reflective child.=
She at last concluded that, so far as
circumstances permitted, she would be honest and candid with one who entered
into her difficulties like an aged friend.
"There is going to be another in our fami=
ly
soon," she hesitatingly remarked.
"How?"
"There is going to be another baby."=
"What!"
The boy jumped up wildly.
"Oh God, Mother, you've never a-sent for another; and such trou=
ble
with what you've got!"
"Yes, I have, I am sorry to say!"
murmured Sue, her eyes glistening with suspended tears.
The boy burst out weeping. "Oh you don't care, you don't
care!" he cried in bitter reproach.
"How EVER could you, Mother, be so wicked and cruel as this, wh=
en
you needn't have done it till we was better off, and Father well! To bring us all into MORE trouble! No room for us, and Father a-forced to =
go
away, and we turned out to-morrow; and yet you be going to have another of =
us
soon! ... 'Tis done o' purpose!--'=
tis--'tis!" He walked up and down sobbing.
"Y-you must forgive me, little Jude!"
she pleaded, her bosom heaving now as much as the boy's. "I can't
explain--I will when you are older. It
does seem--as if I had done it on purpose, now we are in these
difficulties! I can't explain,
dear! But it--is not quite on purp=
ose--I
can't help it!"
"Yes it is--it must be! For nobody would interfere with us, lik=
e that,
unless you agreed! I won't forgive=
you,
ever, ever! I'll never believe you=
care
for me, or Father, or any of us any more!"
He got up, and went away into the closet adjoi=
ning
her room, in which a bed had been spread on the floor. There she heard him say: "If we ch=
ildren
was gone there'd be no trouble at all!"
"Don't think that, dear," she cried,
rather peremptorily. "But go =
to sleep!"
The following morning she awoke at a little pa=
st
six, and decided to get up and run across before breakfast to the inn which
Jude had informed her to be his quarters, to tell him what had happened bef=
ore he
went out. She arose softly, to avo=
id
disturbing the children, who, as she knew, must be fatigued by their exerti=
ons
of yesterday.
She found Jude at breakfast in the obscure tav=
ern
he had chosen as a counterpoise to the expense of her lodging: and she
explained to him her homelessness. He
had been so anxious about her all night, he said. Somehow, now it was morning, the reques=
t to
leave the lodgings did not seem such a depressing incident as it had seemed=
the
night before, nor did even her failure to find another place affect her so =
deeply
as at first. Jude agreed with her =
that
it would not be worth while to insist upon her right to stay a week, but to
take immediate steps for removal.
"You must all come to this inn for a day =
or
two," he said. "It is a =
rough
place, and it will not be so nice for the children, but we shall have more =
time
to look round. There are plenty of
lodgings in the suburbs--in my old quarter of Beersheba. Have breakfast with me now you are here=
, my
bird. You are sure you are well? There will be plenty of time to get bac=
k and
prepare the children's meal before they wake.
In fact, I'll go with you."
She joined Jude in a hasty meal, and in a quar=
ter
of an hour they started together, resolving to clear out from Sue's too
respectable lodging immediately. On
reaching the place and going upstairs she found that all was quiet in the
children's room, and called to the landlady in timorous tones to please bri=
ng
up the tea-kettle and something for their breakfast. This was perfunctorily done, and produc=
ing a
couple of eggs which she had brought with her she put them into the boiling
kettle, and summoned Jude to watch them for the youngsters, while she went =
to
call them, it being now about half-past eight o'clock.
Jude stood bending over the kettle, with his w=
atch
in his hand, timing the eggs, so that his back was turned to the little inn=
er chamber
where the children lay. A shriek f=
rom
Sue suddenly caused him to start round.
He saw that the door of the room, or rather closet--which had seemed=
to
go heavily upon its hinges as she pushed it back--was open, and that Sue had
sunk to the floor just within it. Hastening forward to pick her up he turned
his eyes to the little bed spread on the boards; no children were there.
Half-paralyzed by the strange and consummate
horror of the scene he let Sue lie, cut the cords with his pocket-knife and
threw the three children on the bed; but the feel of their bodies in the
momentary handling seemed to say that they were dead. He caught up Sue, who was in fainting f=
its,
and put her on the bed in the other room, after which he breathlessly summo=
ned
the landlady and ran out for a doctor.
When he got back Sue had come to herself, and =
the
two helpless women, bending over the children in wild efforts to restore th=
em, and
the triplet of little corpses, formed a sight which overthrew his
self-command. The nearest surgeon =
came
in, but, as Jude had inferred, his presence was superfluous. The children were past saving, for thou=
gh
their bodies were still barely cold it was conjectured that they had been
hanging more than an hour. The pro=
bability
held by the parents later on, when they were able to reason on the case, was
that the elder boy, on waking, looked into the outer room for Sue, and, fin=
ding
her absent, was thrown into a fit of aggravated despondency that the events=
and
information of the evening before had induced in his morbid temperament.
Done because we are too menny.
At si=
ght of
this Sue's nerves utterly gave way, an awful conviction that her discourse =
with
the boy had been the main cause of the tragedy, throwing her into a convuls=
ive
agony which knew no abatement. They
carried her away against her wish to a room on the lower floor; and there s=
he
lay, her slight figure shaken with her gasps, and her eyes staring at the
ceiling, the woman of the house vainly trying to soothe her.
They could hear from this chamber the people
moving about above, and she implored to be allowed to go back, and was only
kept from doing so by the assurance that, if there were any hope, her prese=
nce
might do harm, and the reminder that it was necessary to take care of herse=
lf
lest she should endanger a coming life.
Her inquiries were incessant, and at last Jude came down and told her
there was no hope. As soon as she could speak she informed him what she had
said to the boy, and how she thought herself the cause of this.
"No," said Jude. "It was in his nature to do it.
Jude had kept back his own grief on account of
her; but he now broke down; and this stimulated Sue to efforts of sympathy
which in some degree distracted her from her poignant self-reproach. When everybody was gone, she was allowe=
d to
see the children.
The boy's face expressed the whole tale of the=
ir
situation. On that little shape had
converged all the inauspiciousness and shadow which had darkened the first
union of Jude, and all the accidents, mistakes, fears, errors of the last.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was their nodal point, their focus, =
their
expression in a single term. For t=
he
rashness of those parents he had groaned, for their ill assortment he had
quaked, and for the misfortunes of these he had died.
When the house was silent, and they could do n=
othing
but await the coroner's inquest, a subdued, large, low voice spread into the
air of the room from behind the heavy walls at the back.
"What is it?" said Sue, her spasmodic
breathing suspended.
"The organ of the college chapel. The organist practising I suppose. It's=
the
anthem from the seventy-third Psalm; 'Truly God is loving unto Israel.'&quo=
t;
She sobbed again.
"Oh, oh my babies! The=
y had
done no harm! Why should they have=
been
taken away, and not I!"
There was another stillness--broken at last by=
two
persons in conversation somewhere without.
"They are talking about us, no doubt!&quo=
t;
moaned Sue. "'We are made a s=
pectacle
unto the world, and to angels, and to men!'"
Jude listened--"No--they are not talking =
of
us," he said. "They are =
two
clergymen of different views, arguing about the eastward position. Good God--the eastward position, and all
creation groaning!"
Then another silence, till she was seized with
another uncontrollable fit of grief.
"There is something external to us which says, 'You shan't!'
He tried to soothe her by saying, "That's
bitter of you, darling."
"But it's true!"
Thus they waited, and she went back again to h=
er
room. The baby's frock, shoes, and
socks, which had been lying on a chair at the time of his death, she would =
not
now have removed, though Jude would fain have got them out of her sight.
Jude dreaded her dull apathetic silences almost
more than her paroxysms. "Why=
don't
you speak to me, Jude?" she cried out, after one of these. "Don't turn away from me! I can't BEAR the loneliness of being ou=
t of
your looks!"
"There, dear; here I am," he said,
putting his face close to hers.
"Yes...
Oh, my comrade, our perfect union--our two-in-oneness--is now stained
with blood!"
"Shadowed by death--that's all."
"Ah; but it was I who incited him really,
though I didn't know I was doing it! I
talked to the child as one should only talk to people of mature age. I said the world was against us, that i=
t was
better to be out of life than in it at this price; and he took it literally=
. And
I told him I was going to have another child.
It upset him. Oh how bitter=
ly he
upbraided me!"
"Why did you do it, Sue?"
"I can't tell. It was that I wanted to be truthful.
"Your plan might have been a good one for=
the
majority of cases; only in our peculiar case it chanced to work badly
perhaps. He must have known sooner=
or
later."
"And I was just making my baby darling a =
new
frock; and now I shall never see him in it, and never talk to him any more!
... My eyes are so swollen that I =
can
scarcely see; and yet little more than a year ago I called myself happy!
She sank into a quiet contemplation, till she
said, "It is best, perhaps, that they should be gone.--Yes--I see it
is! Better that they should be plu=
cked
fresh than stay to wither away miserably!"
"Yes," replied Jude. "Some say that the elders should r=
ejoice
when their children die in infancy."
"But they don't know! ... Oh my babies, my babies, could you be a=
live
now! You may say the boy wished to=
be
out of life, or he wouldn't have done it.
It was not unreasonable for him to die: it was part of his incurably=
sad
nature, poor little fellow! But th=
en the
others--my OWN children and yours!"
Again Sue looked at the hanging little frock a=
nd
at the socks and shoes; and her figure quivered like a string. "I am a pitiable creature," s=
he
said, "good neither for earth nor heaven any more! I am driven out of =
my
mind by things! What ought to be
done?" She stared at Jude, and tightly held his hand.
"Nothing can be done," he replied. "Things are as they are, and will =
be
brought to their destined issue."
She paused.
"Yes! Who said that?&q=
uot;
she asked heavily.
"It comes in the chorus of the Agamemnon.=
It has been in my mind continually sinc=
e this
happened."
"My poor Jude--how you've missed
everything!--you more than I, for I did get you! To think you should know that by your
unassisted reading, and yet be in poverty and despair!"
After such momentary diversions her grief would
return in a wave.
The jury duly came and viewed the bodies, the
inquest was held; and next arrived the melancholy morning of the funeral. Accounts in the newspapers had brought =
to the
spot curious idlers, who stood apparently counting the window-panes and the
stones of the walls. Doubt of the real relations of the couple added zest to
their curiosity. Sue had declared =
that
she would follow the two little ones to the grave, but at the last moment s=
he
gave way, and the coffins were quietly carried out of the house while she w=
as
lying down. Jude got into the vehi=
cle,
and it drove away, much to the relief of the landlord, who now had only Sue=
and
her luggage remaining on his hands, which he hoped to be also clear of late=
r on
in the day, and so to have freed his house from the exasperating notoriety =
it
had acquired during the week through his wife's unlucky admission of these
strangers. In the afternoon he pri=
vately
consulted with the owner of the house, and they agreed that if any objectio=
n to
it arose from the tragedy which had occurred there they would try to get its
number changed.
When Jude had seen the two little boxes--one
containing little Jude, and the other the two smallest--deposited in the ea=
rth
he hastened back to Sue, who was still in her room, and he therefore did no=
t disturb
her just then. Feeling anxious, ho=
wever,
he went again about four o'clock. =
The
woman thought she was still lying down, but returned to him to say that she=
was
not in her bedroom after all. Her hat and jacket, too, were missing: she had
gone out. Jude hurried off to the =
public
house where he was sleeping. She h=
ad not
been there. Then bethinking himsel=
f of
possibilities he went along the road to the cemetery, which he entered, and
crossed to where the interments had recently taken place. The idlers who had followed to the spot=
by
reason of the tragedy were all gone now.
A man with a shovel in his hands was attempting to earth in the comm=
on
grave of the three children, but his arm was held back by an expostulating =
woman
who stood in the half-filled hole. It
was Sue, whose coloured clothing, which she had never thought of changing f=
or
the mourning he had bought, suggested to the eye a deeper grief than the
conventional garb of bereavement could express.
"He's filling them in, and he shan't till
I've seen my little ones again!" she cried wildly when she saw Jude. "I want to see them once more. Oh Jude--please Jude--I want to see
them! I didn't know you would let =
them
be taken away while I was asleep! =
You
said perhaps I should see them once more before they were screwed down; and
then you didn't, but took them away! Oh
Jude, you are cruel to me too!"
"She's been wanting me to dig out the gra=
ve
again, and let her get to the coffins," said the man with the spade. "She ought to be took home, by the=
look
o' her. She is hardly responsible,=
poor
thing, seemingly. Can't dig 'em up=
again
now, ma'am. Do ye go home with your
husband, and take it quiet, and thank God that there'll be another soon to
swage yer grief."
But Sue kept asking piteously: "Can't I s=
ee
them once more--just once! Can't I=
? Only just one little minute, Jude? It would not take long! And I should be so glad, Jude! I will be so good, and not disobey you =
ever
any more, Jude, if you will let me? I
would go home quietly afterwards, and not want to see them any more! Can't I? Why can't I?"
Thus she went on.
Jude was thrown into such acute sorrow that he almost felt he would =
try
to get the man to accede. But it c=
ould do
no good, and might make her still worse; and he saw that it was imperative =
to
get her home at once. So he coaxed=
her,
and whispered tenderly, and put his arm round her to support her; till she
helplessly gave in, and was induced to leave the cemetery.
He wished to obtain a fly to take her back in,=
but
economy being so imperative she deprecated his doing so, and they walked al=
ong
slowly, Jude in black crape, she in brown and red clothing. They were to have gone to a new lodging=
that
afternoon, but Jude saw that it was not practicable, and in course of time =
they
entered the now hated house. Sue w=
as at
once got to bed, and the doctor sent for.
Jude waited all the evening downstairs. At a very late hour the intelligence was
brought to him that a child had been prematurely born, and that it, like the
others, was a corpse.
Sue w=
as
convalescent, though she had hoped for death, and Jude had again obtained w=
ork
at his old trade. They were in oth=
er
lodgings now, in the direction of Beersheba, and not far from the Church of=
Ceremonies--Saint
Silas.
They would sit silent, more bodeful of the dir=
ect
antagonism of things than of their insensate and stolid obstructiveness.
"We must conform!" she said
mournfully. "All the ancient =
wrath
of the Power above us has been vented upon us, His poor creatures, and we m=
ust
submit. There is no choice. We must.
It is no use fighting against God!"
"It is only against man and senseless
circumstance," said Jude.
"True!" she murmured. "What have I been thinking of! I am getting as superstitious as a sava=
ge!
... But whoever or whatever our fo=
e may
be, I am cowed into submission. I =
have
no more fighting strength left; no more enterprise. I am beaten, beaten! ... 'We are made a spectacle unto the world=
, and
to angels, and to men!' I am alway=
s saying
that now."
"I feel the same!"
"What shall we do? You are in work now; but remember, it m=
ay only
be because our history and relations are not absolutely known... Possibly, if they knew our marriage had=
not
been formalized they would turn you out of your job as they did at
Aldbrickham!"
"I hardly know. Perhaps they would hardly do that. However, I think that we ought to make =
it
legal now--as soon as you are able to go out."
"You think we ought?"
"Certainly."
And Jude fell into thought. "I have seemed to myself lately,&q=
uot; he
said, "to belong to that vast band of men shunned by the virtuous--the=
men
called seducers. It amazes me when=
I
think of it! I have not been conscious of it, or of any wrongdoing towards =
you,
whom I love more than myself. Yet =
I am
one of those men! I wonder if any =
other
of them are the same purblind, simple creatures as I? ... Yes, Sue--that's what I am. I seduced you... You were a distinct type--a refined cre=
ature,
intended by Nature to be left intact.
But I couldn't leave you alone!"
"No, no, Jude!" she said quickly.
"I supported you in your resolve to leave
Phillotson; and without me perhaps you wouldn't have urged him to let you
go."
"I should have, just the same. As to ourselves, the fact of our not ha=
ving
entered into a legal contract is the saving feature in our union. We have thereby avoided insulting, as it
were, the solemnity of our first marriages."
"Solemnity?" Jude looked at her with some surprise, =
and
grew conscious that she was not the Sue of their earlier time.
"Yes," she said, with a little quive=
r in
her words, "I have had dreadful fears, a dreadful sense of my own
insolence of action. I have thought--that I am still his wife!"
"Whose?"
"Richard's."
"Good God, dearest!--why?"
"Oh I can't explain! Only the thought comes to me."
"It is your weakness--a sick fancy, witho=
ut
reason or meaning! Don't let it trouble you."
Sue sighed uneasily.
As a set-off against such discussions as these
there had come an improvement in their pecuniary position, which earlier in=
their
experience would have made them cheerful.
Jude had quite unexpectedly found good employment at his old trade
almost directly he arrived, the summer weather suiting his fragile
constitution; and outwardly his days went on with that monotonous uniformity
which is in itself so grateful after vicissitude. People seemed to have forgotten that he=
had
ever shown any awkward aberrancies: and he daily mounted to the parapets and
copings of colleges he could never enter, and renewed the crumbling freesto=
nes
of mullioned windows he would never look from, as if he had known no wish t=
o do
otherwise.
There was this change in him; that he did not
often go to any service at the churches now.
One thing troubled him more than any other; that Sue and himself had
mentally travelled in opposite directions since the tragedy: events which h=
ad
enlarged his own views of life, laws, customs, and dogmas, had not operated=
in
the same manner on Sue's. She was =
no
longer the same as in the independent days, when her intellect played like
lambent lightning over conventions and formalities which he at that time
respected, though he did not now.
On a particular Sunday evening he came in rath=
er
late. She was not at home, but she=
soon
returned, when he found her silent and meditative.
"What are you thinking of, little
woman?" he asked curiously.
"Oh I can't tell clearly! I have thought that we have been selfis=
h, careless,
even impious, in our courses, you and I.
Our life has been a vain attempt at self-delight. But self-abnegation is the higher road.=
We should mortify the flesh--the terrib=
le
flesh--the curse of Adam!"
"Sue!" he murmured. "What has come over you?"
"We ought to be continually sacrificing
ourselves on the altar of duty! Bu=
t I
have always striven to do what has pleased me.
I well deserved the scourging I have got! I wish something would take the evil ri=
ght
out of me, and all my monstrous errors, and all my sinful ways!"
"Sue--my own too suffering dear!--there's=
no
evil woman in you. Your natural
instincts are perfectly healthy; not quite so impassioned, perhaps, as I co=
uld
wish; but good, and dear, and pure. And
as I have often said, you are absolutely the most ethereal, least sensual w=
oman
I ever knew to exist without inhuman sexlessness. Why do you talk in such a changed way?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> We have not been selfish, except when n=
o one
could profit by our being otherwise. You
used to say that human nature was noble and long-suffering, not vile and
corrupt, and at last I thought you spoke truly.
And now you seem to take such a much lower view!"
"I want a humble heart; and a chastened m=
ind;
and I have never had them yet!"
"You have been fearless, both as a thinker
and as a feeler, and you deserved more admiration than I gave. I was too full of narrow dogmas at that=
time
to see it."
"Don't say that, Jude! I wish my every fearless word and thoug=
ht could
be rooted out of my history. Self-=
renunciation--that's
everything! I cannot humiliate mys=
elf
too much. I should like to prick m=
yself
all over with pins and bleed out the badness that's in me!"
"Hush!" he said, pressing her little
face against his breast as if she were an infant. "It is bereavement that has brough=
t you
to this! Such remorse is not for you, my sensitive plant, but for the wicke=
d ones
of the earth--who never feel it!"
"I ought not to stay like this," she
murmured, when she had remained in the position a long while.
"Why not?"
"It is indulgence."
"Still on the same tack! But is there anything better on earth t=
han that
we should love one another?"
"Yes.
It depends on the sort of love; and yours--ours--is the wrong."=
"I won't have it, Sue! Come, when do you wish our marriage to =
be signed
in a vestry?"
She paused, and looked up uneasily. "Never," she whispered.
Not knowing the whole of her meaning he took t=
he
objection serenely, and said nothing.
Several minutes elapsed, and he thought she had fallen asleep; but he
spoke softly, and found that she was wide awake all the time. She sat upright and sighed.
"There is a strange, indescribable perfum=
e or
atmosphere about you to-night, Sue," he said. "I mean not only mentally, but abo=
ut
your clothes, also. A sort of vege=
table
scent, which I seem to know, yet cannot remember."
"It is incense."
"Incense?"
"I have been to the service at St. Silas',
and I was in the fumes of it."
"Oh--St. Silas."
"Yes.
I go there sometimes."
"Indeed.
You go there!"
"You see, Jude, it is lonely here in the
weekday mornings, when you are at work, and I think and think of--of
my--" She stopped till she co=
uld
control the lumpiness of her throat.
"And I have taken to go in there, as it is so near."
"Oh well--of course, I say nothing against
it. Only it is odd, for you. They little think what sort of chiel is=
amang
them!"
"What do you mean, Jude?"
"Well--a sceptic, to be plain."
"How can you pain me so, dear Jude, in my
trouble! Yet I know you didn't mean
it. But you ought not to say that.=
"
"I won't. But I am much surprised!"<= o:p>
"Well--I want to tell you something else,
Jude. You won't be angry, will you=
? I have thought of it a good deal since =
my
babies died. I don't think I ought to be your wife--or as your wife--any
longer."
"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 reas=
ons
for fears. But experience has proved how we misjudged ourselves, and overra=
ted our
infirmities; and if you are beginning to respect rites and ceremonies, as y=
ou
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 perver=
se,
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 replie=
d 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 again=
st
the light; but no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general =
aspect
and air. Yet something seemed to d=
enote
that she was not quite so comfortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly atti=
red,
as she had been during Cartlett's lifetime.
The three attempted an awkward conversation ab=
out
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 fou=
nd 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 rea=
ch
the ideal of a catastrophic manner, fumbled with iterations. "But I am glad I found the grave.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As 'tis your trade, Jude, you'll be abl=
e to
put up a handsome stone to 'em."
"I shall put up a headstone," said J=
ude
drearily.
"He was my child, and naturally I feel for
him."
"I hope so.
We all did."
"The others that weren't mine I didn't fe=
el
so much for, as was natural."
"Of course."
A sigh came from the dark corner where Sue sat=
.
"I had often wished I had mine with me,&q=
uot;
continued Mrs. Cartlett. "Perhaps 'twouldn't have happened then! But of course I didn't wish to take him=
away
from your wife."
"I am not his wife," came from Sue.<= o:p>
The unexpectedness of her words struck Jude
silent.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure," s=
aid
Arabella. "I thought you were=
!"
Jude had known from the quality of Sue's tone =
that
her new and transcendental views lurked in her words; but all except their =
obvious
meaning was, naturally, missed by Arabella.
The latter, after evincing that she was struck by Sue's avowal,
recovered herself, and went on to talk with placid bluntness about
"her" boy, for whom, though in his lifetime she had shown no care=
at
all, she now exhibited a ceremonial mournfulness that was apparently sustai=
ning
to the conscience. She alluded to =
the
past, and in making some remark appealed again to Sue. There was no answer: Sue had invisibly =
left
the room.
"She said she was not your wife?"
resumed Arabella in another voice. "Why should she do that?"
"I cannot inform you," said Jude
shortly.
"She is, isn't she? She once told me so."
"I don't criticize what she says."
"Ah--I see!
Well, my time is up. I am s=
taying
here to-night, and thought I could do no less than call, after our mutual
affliction. I am sleeping at the place where I used to be barmaid, and
to-morrow I go back to Alfredston.
Father is come home again, and I am living with him."
"He has returned from Australia?" sa=
id
Jude with languid curiosity.
"Yes.
Couldn't get on there. Had a
rough time of it. Mother died of
dys--what do you call it--in the hot weather, and Father and two of the you=
ng
ones have just got back. He has go=
t a
cottage near the old place, and for the present I am keeping house for
him."
Jude's former wife had maintained a stereotyped
manner of strict good breeding even now that Sue was gone, and limited her =
stay
to a number of minutes that should accord with the highest respectability.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When she had departed Jude, much reliev=
ed,
went to the stairs and called Sue--feeling anxious as to what had become of
her.
There was no answer, and the carpenter who kept
the lodgings said she had not come in.
Jude was puzzled, and became quite alarmed at her absence, for the h=
our
was growing late. The carpenter ca=
lled
his wife, who conjectured that Sue might have gone to St. Silas' church, as=
she
often went there.
"Surely not at this time o' night?" =
said
Jude. "It is shut."
"She knows somebody who keeps the key, and
she has it whenever she wants it."
"How long has she been going on with
this?"
"Oh, some few weeks, I think."
Jude went vaguely in the direction of the chur=
ch,
which he had never once approached since he lived out that way years before,
when his young opinions were more mystical than they were now. The spot was deserted, but the door was
certainly unfastened; he lifted the latch without noise, and pushing to the
door behind him, stood absolutely still inside.
The prevalent silence seemed to contain a faint sound, explicable as=
a
breathing, or a sobbing, which came from the other end of the building. The floor-cloth deadened his footsteps =
as he moved
in that direction through the obscurity, which was broken only by the faint=
est
reflected night-light from without.
High overhead, above the chancel steps, Jude c=
ould
discern a huge, solidly constructed Latin cross--as large, probably, as the
original it was designed to commemorate.
It seemed to be suspended in the air by invisible wires; it was set =
with
large jewels, which faintly glimmered in some weak ray caught from outside,=
as
the cross swayed to and fro in a silent and scarcely perceptible motion.
"Sue!" he whispered.
Something white disclosed itself; she had turn=
ed
up her face.
"What--do you want with me here, Jude?&qu=
ot;
she said almost sharply. "You shouldn't come! I wanted to be alone! Why did you intrude here?"
"How can you ask!" he retorted in qu=
ick
reproach, for his full heart was wounded to its centre at this attitude of =
hers
towards him. "Why do I come? =
Who
has a right to come, I should like to know, if I have not! I, who love you better than my own
self--better--far better--than you have loved me! What made you leave me to come here alo=
ne?"
"Don't criticize me, Jude--I can't bear
it!--I have often told you so. You=
must
take me as I am. I am a wretch--br=
oken
by my distractions! I couldn't BEA=
R it
when Arabella came--I felt so utterly miserable I had to come away. She seems to be your wife still, and Ri=
chard
to be my husband!"
"But they are nothing to us!"
"Yes, dear friend, they are. I see marriage differently now. My babies have been taken from me to sh=
ow me
this! Arabella's child killing min=
e was
a judgement--the right slaying the wrong.
What, WHAT shall I do! I am=
such
a vile creature--too worthless to mix with ordinary human beings!"
"This is terrible!" said Jude, vergi=
ng
on tears. "It is monstrous an=
d unnatural
for you to be so remorseful when you have done no wrong!"
"Ah--you don't know my badness!"
He returned vehemently: "I do! Every atom and dreg of it! You make me hate Christianity, or mysti=
cism,
or Sacerdotalism, or whatever it may be called, if it's that which has caus=
ed
this deterioration in you. That a
woman-poet, a woman-seer, a woman whose soul shone like a diamond--whom all=
the
wise of the world would have been proud of, if they could have known
you--should degrade herself like this! =
span>I
am glad I had nothing to do with Divinity--damn glad--if it's going to ruin=
you
in this way!"
"You are angry, Jude, and unkind to me, a=
nd
don't see how things are."
"Then come along home with me, dearest, a=
nd
perhaps I shall. I am overburdened=
--and
you, too, are unhinged just now."
He put his arm round her and lifted her; but though she came, she
preferred to walk without his support.
"I don't dislike you, Jude," she sai=
d in
a sweet and imploring voice. "I love you as much as ever! Only--I ought not to love you--any more=
. Oh I must not any more!"
"I can't own it."
"But I have made up my mind that I am not
your wife! I belong to him--I
sacramentally joined myself to him for life.
Nothing can alter it!"
"But surely we are man and wife, if ever =
two
people were in this world? Nature'=
s own
marriage it is, unquestionably!"
"But not Heaven's. Another was made for me there, and rati=
fied eternally
in the church at Melchester."
"Sue, Sue--affliction has brought you to =
this
unreasonable state! After converting me to your views on so many things, to
find you suddenly turn to the right-about like this--for no reason whatever=
, confounding
all you have formerly said through sentiment merely! You root out of me what
little affection and reverence I had left in me for the Church as an old
acquaintance... What I can't under=
stand in
you is your extraordinary blindness now to your old logic. Is it peculiar to you, or is it common =
to
woman? Is a woman a thinking unit =
at
all, or a fraction always wanting its integer?
How you argued that marriage was only a clumsy contract--which it
is--how you showed all the objections to it--all the absurdities! If two and two made four when we were h=
appy
together, surely they make four now? I can't
understand it, I repeat!"
"Ah, dear Jude; that's because you are li=
ke a
totally deaf man observing people listening to music. You say 'What are they regarding? Nothing is there.' But something is."
"That is a hard saying from you; and not a
true parallel! You threw off old h=
usks
of prejudices, and taught me to do it; and now you go back upon yourself. I confess I am utterly stultified in my
estimate of you."
"Dear friend, my only friend, don't be ha=
rd
with me! I can't help being as I a=
m, I
am convinced I am right--that I see the light at last. But oh, how to profit by it!"
They walked along a few more steps till they w=
ere
outside the building and she had returned the key. "Can this be the girl," said =
Jude
when she came back, feeling a slight renewal of elasticity now that he was =
in
the open street; "can this be the girl who brought the pagan deities i=
nto
this most Christian city?--who mimicked Miss Fontover when she crushed them
with her heel?--quoted Gibbon, and Shelley, and Mill? Where are dear Apollo, and dear Venus
now!"
"Oh don't, don't be so cruel to me, Jude,=
and
I so unhappy!" she sobbed. &q=
uot;I
can't bear it! I was in error--I c=
annot
reason with you. I was wrong--proud in my own conceit! Arabella's coming was the finish. Don't satirize me: it cuts like a
knife!"
He flung his arms round her and kissed her
passionately there in the silent street, before she could hinder him. They went on till they came to a little
coffee-house. "Jude," she said with suppressed tears, "would=
you
mind getting a lodging here?"
"I will--if, if you really wish? But do you?
Let me go to our door and understand you."
He went and conducted her in. She said she wanted no supper, and went=
in
the dark upstairs and struck a light.
Turning she found that Jude had followed her, and was standing at the
chamber door. She went to him, put=
her
hand in his, and said "Good-night."
"But Sue!
Don't we live here?"
"You said you would do as I wished!"=
"Yes.
Very well! ... Perhaps it w=
as
wrong of me to argue distastefully as I have done! Perhaps as we couldn't conscientiously =
marry
at first in the old-fashioned way, we ought to have parted. Perhaps the wor=
ld
is not illuminated enough for such experiments as ours! Who were we, to think we could act as
pioneers!"
"I am so glad you see that much, at any
rate. I never deliberately meant t=
o do
as I did. I slipped into my false
position through jealousy and agitation!"
"But surely through love--you loved me?&q=
uot;
"Yes.
But I wanted to let it stop there, and go on always as mere lovers;
until--"
"But people in love couldn't live for ever
like that!"
"Women could: men can't, because they--wo=
n't.
An average woman is in this superior to an average man--that she never
instigates, only responds. We ough=
t to
have lived in mental communion, and no more."
"I was the unhappy cause of the change, a=
s I
have said before! ... Well, as you=
will!
... But human nature can't help be=
ing
itself."
"Oh yes--that's just what it has to
learn--self-mastery."
"I repeat--if either were to blame it was=
not
you but I."
"No--it was I. Your wickedness was only the natural ma=
n's
desire to possess the woman. Mine =
was
not the reciprocal wish till envy stimulated me to oust Arabella. I had thought I ought in charity to let=
you
approach me--that it was damnably selfish to torture you as I did my other
friend. But I shouldn't have given=
way
if you hadn't broken me down by making me fear you would go back to her...<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But don't let us say any more about it!=
Jude, will you leave me to myself now?&=
quot;
"Yes...
But Sue--my wife, as you are!" he burst out; "my old repro=
ach
to you was, after all, a true one. You
have never loved me as I love you--never--never! Yours is not a passionate heart--your h=
eart
does not burn in a flame! You are,=
upon
the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite--not a woman!"
"At first I did not love you, Jude; that I
own. When I first knew you I merely
wanted you to love me. I did not e=
xactly
flirt with you; but that inborn craving which undermines some women's moral=
s almost
more than unbridled passion--the craving to attract and captivate, regardle=
ss
of the injury it may do the man--was in me; and when I found I had caught y=
ou,
I was frightened. And then--I don'=
t know
how it was--I couldn't bear to let you go--possibly to Arabella again--and =
so I
got to love you, Jude. But you see,
however fondly it ended, it began in the selfish and cruel wish to make your
heart ache for me without letting mine ache for you."
"And now you add to your cruelty by leavi=
ng
me!"
"Ah--yes!
The further I flounder, the more harm I do!"
"O Sue!" said he with a sudden sense=
of
his own danger. "Do not do an
immoral thing for moral reasons! Y=
ou
have been my social salvation. Sta=
y with
me for humanity's sake! You know w=
hat a
weak fellow I am. My two arch-enem=
ies
you know--my weakness for womankind and my impulse to strong liquor. Don't abandon me to them, Sue, to save =
your
own soul only! They have been kept
entirely at a distance since you became my guardian-angel! Since I have had you I have been able t=
o go
into any temptations of the sort, without risk.
Isn't my safety worth a little sacrifice of dogmatic principle? I am in terror lest, if you leave me, i=
t will
be with me another case of the pig that was washed turning back to his
wallowing in the mire!"
Sue burst out weeping. "Oh, but you must not, Jude! You won't! I'll pray for you night and
day!"
"Well--never mind; don't grieve," sa=
id
Jude generously. "I did suffe=
r, God
knows, about you at that time; and now I suffer again. But perhaps not so m=
uch
as you. The woman mostly gets the =
worst
of it in the long run!"
"She does."
"Unless she is absolutely worthless and
contemptible. And this one is not =
that,
anyhow!"
Sue drew a nervous breath or two. "She is--I fear! ... Now Jude--good-night,--please!"
"I mustn't stay?--Not just once more? As it has been so many times--O Sue, my=
wife,
why not!"
"No--no--not wife! ... I am in your hands, Jude--don't tempt m=
e back
now I have advanced so far!"
"Very well.
I do your bidding. I owe th=
at to
you, darling, in penance for how I overruled it at the first time. My God, how selfish I was! Perhaps--perhaps I spoilt one of the hi=
ghest
and purest loves that ever existed between man and woman! ... Then let the veil of our temple be rent=
in
two from this hour!"
He went to the bed, removed one of the pair of
pillows thereon, and flung it to the floor.
Sue looked at him, and bending over the bed-ra=
il
wept silently. "You don't see that it is a matter of conscience with m=
e,
and not of dislike to you!" she brokenly murmured. "Dislike to you! But I can't say any more--it breaks my
heart--it will be undoing all I have begun!
Jude--good-night!"
"Good-night," he said, and turned to=
go.
"Oh but you shall kiss me!" said she,
starting up. "I can't--bear--=
!"
He clasped her, and kissed her weeping face as=
he
had scarcely ever done before, and they remained in silence till she said,
"Good-bye, good-bye!" And then gently pressing him away she got f=
ree,
trying to mitigate the sadness by saying: "We'll be dear friends just =
the
same, Jude, won't we? And we'll se=
e each
other sometimes--yes!--and forget all this, and try to be as we were long
ago?"
Jude did not permit himself to speak, but turn=
ed
and descended the stairs.
IV
The m=
an
whom Sue, in her mental volte-face, was now regarding as her inseparable
husband, lived still at Marygreen.
On the day before the tragedy of the children,
Phillotson had seen both her and Jude as they stood in the rain at
Christminster watching the procession to the theatre. But he had said nothing of it at the mo=
ment
to his companion Gillingham, who, being an old friend, was staying with him=
at
the village aforesaid, and had, indeed, suggested the day's trip to
Christminster.
"What are you thinking of?" said
Gillingham, as they went home. &qu=
ot;The
university degree you never obtained?"
"No, no," said Phillotson gruffly. "Of somebody I saw to-day." In a moment he added, "Susanna.&qu=
ot;
"I saw her, too."
"You said nothing."
"I didn't wish to draw your attention to
her. But, as you did see her, you =
should
have said: 'How d'ye do, my dear-that-was?'"
"Ah, well.
I might have. But what do y=
ou
think of this: I have good reason for supposing that she was innocent when I
divorced her--that I was all wrong. Yes,
indeed! Awkward, isn't it?"
"She has taken care to set you right sinc=
e,
anyhow, apparently."
"H'm. That's a cheap sneer. I ought to have waited, unquestionably.=
"
At the end of the week, when Gillingham had go=
ne
back to his school near Shaston, Phillotson, as was his custom, went to
Alfredston market; ruminating again on Arabella's intelligence as he walked
down the long hill which he had known before Jude knew it, though his histo=
ry
had not beaten so intensely upon its incline.
Arrived in the town he bought his usual weekly local paper; and when=
he
had sat down in an inn to refresh himself for the five miles' walk back, he=
pulled
the paper from his pocket and read awhile.
The account of the "strange suicide of a stone-mason's
children" met his eye.
Unimpassioned as he was, it impressed him
painfully, and puzzled him not a little, for he could not understand the ag=
e of
the elder child being what it was stated to be.
However, there was no doubt that the newspaper report was in some way
true.
"Their cup of sorrow is now full!" he
said: and thought and thought of Sue, and what she had gained by leaving hi=
m.
Arabella having made her home at Alfredston, a=
nd
the schoolmaster coming to market there every Saturday, it was not wonderful
that in a few weeks they met again--the precise time being just after her r=
eturn
from Christminster, where she had stayed much longer than she had at first
intended, keeping an interested eye on Jude, though Jude had seen no more of
her. Phillotson was on his way hom=
eward
when he encountered Arabella, and she was approaching the town.
"You like walking out this way, Mrs.
Cartlett?" he said.
"I've just begun to again," she
replied. "It is where I lived=
as
maid and wife, and all the past things of my life that are interesting to my
feelings are mixed up with this road.
And they have been stirred up in me too, lately; for I've been visit=
ing
at Christminster. Yes; I've seen
Jude."
"Ah!
How do they bear their terrible affliction?"
"In a ve-ry strange way--ve-ry strange! She don't live with him any longer. I only heard of it as a certainty just =
before
I left; though I had thought things were drifting that way from their manner
when I called on them."
"Not live with her husband? Why, I should have thought 'twould have=
united
them more."
"He's not her husband, after all. She has never really married him althou=
gh
they have passed as man and wife so long.
And now, instead of this sad event making 'em hurry up, and get the
thing done legally, she's took in a queer religious way, just as I was in m=
y affliction
at losing Cartlett, only hers is of a more 'sterical sort than mine. And she says, so I was told, that she's=
your
wife in the eye of Heaven and the Church--yours only; and can't be anybody
else's by any act of man."
"Ah--indeed? ... Separated, have they!"
"You see, the eldest boy was mine--"=
"Oh--yours!"
"Yes, poor little fellow--born in lawful
wedlock, thank God. And perhaps she
feels, over and above other things, that I ought to have been in her
place. I can't say. However, as for me, I am soon off from
here. I've got Father to look afte=
r now,
and we can't live in such a hum-drum place as this. I hope soon to be in a bar again at Chr=
istminster,
or some other big town."
They parted.
When Phillotson had ascended the hill a few steps he stopped, hasten=
ed
back, and called her.
"What is, or was, their address?"
Arabella gave it.
"Thank you.
Good afternoon."
Arabella smiled grimly as she resumed her way,=
and
practised dimple-making all along the road from where the pollard willows b=
egin
to the old almshouses in the first street of the town.
Meanwhile Phillotson ascended to Marygreen, and
for the first time during a lengthened period he lived with a forward eye.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> On crossing under the large trees of the
green to the humble schoolhouse to which he had been reduced he stood a mom=
ent,
and pictured Sue coming out of the door to meet him. No man had ever suffered more inconveni=
ence from
his own charity, Christian or heathen, than Phillotson had done in letting =
Sue
go. He had been knocked about from
pillar to post at the hands of the virtuous almost beyond endurance; he had
been nearly starved, and was now dependent entirely upon the very small sti=
pend
from the school of this village (where the parson had got ill-spoken of for
befriending him). He had often thought of Arabella's remarks that he should
have been more severe with Sue, that her recalcitrant spirit would soon have
been broken. Yet such was his obst=
inate
and illogical disregard of opinion, and of the principles in which he had b=
een
trained, that his convictions on the rightness of his course with his wife =
had
not been disturbed.
Principles which could be subverted by feeling=
in
one direction were liable to the same catastrophe in another. The instincts which had allowed him to =
give
Sue her liberty now enabled him to regard her as none the worse for her life
with Jude. He wished for her still=
, in
his curious way, if he did not love her, and, apart from policy, soon felt =
that
he would be gratified to have her again as his, always provided that she ca=
me
willingly.
But artifice was necessary, he had found, for
stemming the cold and inhumane blast of the world's contempt. And here were the materials ready made.=
By getting Sue back and remarrying her =
on the
respectable plea of having entertained erroneous views of her, and gained h=
is
divorce wrongfully, he might acquire some comfort, resume his old courses,
perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to the Church as a
licentiate.
He thought he would write to Gillingham to inq=
uire
his views, and what he thought of his, Phillotson's, sending a letter to he=
r. Gillingham
replied, naturally, that now she was gone it were best to let her be, and
considered that if she were anybody's wife she was the wife of the man to w=
hom
she had borne three children and owed such tragical adventures. Probably, as his attachment to her seem=
ed unusually
strong, the singular pair would make their union legal in course of time, a=
nd
all would be well, and decent, and in order.
"But they won't--Sue won't!" exclaim=
ed
Phillotson to himself. "Gillingham is so matter of fact. She's affected by Christminster sentime=
nt and
teaching. I can see her views on t=
he
indissolubility of marriage well enough, and I know where she got them. They are not mine; but I shall make use=
of
them to further mine."
He wrote a brief reply to Gillingham. "I know I am entirely wrong, but I=
don't
agree with you. As to her having l=
ived
with and had three children by him, my feeling is (though I can advance no
logical or moral defence of it, on the old lines) that it has done little m=
ore
than finish her education. I shall=
write
to her, and learn whether what that woman said is true or no."
As he had made up his mind to do this before he
had written to his friend, there had not been much reason for writing to the
latter at all. However, it was
Phillotson's way to act thus.
He accordingly addressed a carefully considered
epistle to Sue, and, knowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthi=
ne
strictness into the lines here and there, carefully hiding his heterodox fe=
elings,
not to frighten her. He stated tha=
t, it
having come to his knowledge that her views had considerably changed, he fe=
lt
compelled to say that his own, too, were largely modified by events subsequ=
ent to
their parting. He would not concea=
l from
her that passionate love had little to do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their live=
s, if
not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they threatened to
become, through his acting on what he had considered at the time a principl=
e of
justice, charity, and reason.
To indulge one's instinctive and uncontrolled
sense of justice and right, was not, he had found, permitted with impunity =
in
an old civilization like ours. It =
was
necessary to act under an acquired and cultivated sense of the same, if you
wished to enjoy an average share of comfort and honour; and to let crude lo=
ving
kindness take care of itself.
He suggested that she should come to him there=
at
Marygreen.
On second thoughts he took out the last paragr=
aph
but one; and having rewritten the letter he dispatched it immediately, and =
in
some excitement awaited the issue.
A few days after a figure moved through the wh=
ite
fog which enveloped the Beersheba suburb of Christminster, towards the quar=
ter
in which Jude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A timid knock sounded upon the door of =
his
abode.
It was evening--so he was at home; and by a
species of divination he jumped up and rushed to the door himself.
"Will you come out with me? I would rather not come in. I want to--to talk with you--and to go =
with
you to the cemetery."
It had been in the trembling accents of Sue th=
at
these words came. Jude put on his hat.
"It is dreary for you to be out," he said. "But if you
prefer not to come in, I don't mind."
"Yes--I do.
I shall not keep you long."
Jude was too much affected to go on talking at
first; she, too, was now such a mere cluster of nerves that all initiatory
power seemed to have left her, and they proceeded through the fog like Ache=
rontic
shades for a long while, without sound or gesture.
"I want to tell you," she presently
said, her voice now quick, now slow, "so that you may not hear of it by
chance. I am going back to Richard=
. He has--so magnanimously--agreed to for=
give
all."
"Going back?
How can you go--"
"He is going to marry me again. That is for form's sake, and to satisfy=
the
world, which does not see things as they are.
But of course I AM his wife already.
Nothing has changed that."
He turned upon her with an anguish that was
well-nigh fierce.
"But you are MY wife! Yes, you are.
You know it. I have always =
regretted
that feint of ours in going away and pretending to come back legally marrie=
d,
to save appearances. I loved you, =
and
you loved me; and we closed with each other; and that made the marriage. We
still love--you as well as I--KNOW it, Sue!
Therefore our marriage is not cancelled."
"Yes; I know how you see it," she
answered with despairing self-suppression.
"But I am going to marry him again, as it would be called by
you. Strictly speaking you, too--d=
on't
mind my saying it, Jude!--you should take back--Arabella."
"I should?
Good God--what next! But ho=
w if
you and I had married legally, as we were on the point of doing?"
"I should have felt just the same--that o=
urs
was not a marriage. And I would go back to Richard without repeating the
sacrament, if he asked me. But 'the
world and its ways have a certain worth' (I suppose): therefore I concede a
repetition of the ceremony... Don'=
t crush
all the life out of me by satire and argument, I implore you! I was stronge=
st
once, I know, and perhaps I treated you cruelly. But Jude, return good for
evil! I am the weaker now. Don't retaliate upon me, but be kind. Oh be kind to me--a poor wicked woman w=
ho is
trying to mend!"
He shook his head hopelessly, his eyes wet.
"I don't love him--I must, must, own it, =
in
deepest remorse! But I shall try to
learn to love him by obeying him."
Jude argued, urged, implored; but her convicti=
on
was proof against all. It seemed t=
o be
the one thing on earth on which she was firm, and that her firmness in this=
had
left her tottering in every other impulse and wish she possessed.
"I have been considerate enough to let you
know the whole truth, and to tell it you myself," she said in cut tone=
s;
"that you might not consider yourself slighted by hearing of it at sec=
ond
hand. I have even owned the extrem=
e fact
that I do not love him. I did not =
think
you would be so rough with me for doing so!
I was going to ask you..."
"To give you away?"
"No.
To send--my boxes to me--if you would.
But I suppose you won't."
"Why, of course I will. What--isn't he coming to fetch you--to =
marry you
from here? He won't condescend to =
do
that?"
"No--I won't let him. I go to him voluntarily, just as I went=
away from
him. We are to be married at his l=
ittle
church at Marygreen."
She was so sadly sweet in what he called her
wrong-headedness that Jude could not help being moved to tears more than on=
ce
for pity of her. "I never kne=
w such
a woman for doing impulsive penances, as you, Sue! No sooner does one expect you to go str=
aight
on, as the one rational proceeding, than you double round the corner!"=
"Ah, well; let that go! ... Jude, I must say good-bye! But I wanted you to go to the cemetery =
with
me. Let our farewell be there--bes=
ide the
graves of those who died to bring home to me the error of my views."
They turned in the direction of the place, and=
the
gate was opened to them on application.
Sue had been there often, and she knew the way to the spot in the
dark. They reached it, and stood s=
till.
"It is here--I should like to part,"
said she.
"So be it!"
"Don't think me hard because I have acted=
on conviction. Your generous devotion to me is unparal=
leled,
Jude! Your worldly failure, if you=
have
failed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the best=
and
greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a =
selfish
man. The devoted fail... 'Charity seeketh not her own.'"
"In that chapter we are at one, ever belo=
ved
darling, and on it we'll part friends.
Its verses will stand fast when all the rest that you call religion =
has
passed away!"
"Well--don't discuss it. Good-bye, Jude; my fellow-sinner, and k=
indest
friend!"
"Good-bye, my mistaken wife. Good-bye!"
The n=
ext
afternoon the familiar Christminster fog still hung over all things. Sue's slim shape was only just discerni=
ble
going towards the station.
Jude had no heart to go to his work that day.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Neither could he go anywhere in the dir=
ection
by which she would be likely to pass. He went in an opposite one, to a drea=
ry,
strange, flat scene, where boughs dripped, and coughs and consumption lurke=
d,
and where he had never been before.
"Sue's gone from me--gone!" he murmu=
red
miserably.
She in the meantime had left by the train, and
reached Alfredston Road, where she entered the steam-tram and was conveyed =
into
the town. It had been her request =
to
Phillotson that he should not meet her.
She wished, she said, to come to him voluntarily, to his very house =
and
hearthstone.
It was Friday evening, which had been chosen
because the schoolmaster was disengaged at four o'clock that day till the
Monday morning following. The litt=
le car
she hired at the Bear to drive her to Marygreen set her down at the end of =
the
lane, half a mile from the village, by her desire, and preceded her to the
schoolhouse with such portion of her luggage as she had brought. On its return she encountered it, and a=
sked
the driver if he had found the master's house open. The man informed her that he had, and t=
hat
her things had been taken in by the schoolmaster himself.
She could now enter Marygreen without exciting
much observation. She crossed by the well and under the trees to the pretty=
new
school on the other side, and lifted the latch of the dwelling without knoc=
king. Phillotson stood in the middle of the r=
oom,
awaiting her, as requested.
"I've come, Richard," said she, look=
ing
pale and shaken, and sinking into a chair.
"I cannot believe--you forgive your--wife!"
"Everything, darling Susanna," said
Phillotson.
She started at the endearment, though it had b=
een
spoken advisedly without fervour. =
Then
she nerved herself again.
"My children--are dead--and it is right t=
hat
they should be! I am glad--almost.=
They were sin-begotten. They were sacrificed to teach me how to
live! Their death was the first st=
age of
my purification. That's why they have not died in vain! ... You will take me back?"
He was so stirred by her pitiful words and tone
that he did more than he had meant to do.
He bent and kissed her cheek.
Sue imperceptibly shrank away, her flesh quive=
ring
under the touch of his lips.
Phillotson's heart sank, for desire was renasc=
ent
in him. "You still have an av=
ersion
to me!"
"Oh no, dear--I have been driving through=
the
damp, and I was chilly!" she said, with a hurried smile of
apprehension. "When are we go=
ing to
have the marriage? Soon?"
"To-morrow morning, early, I thought--if =
you
really wish. I am sending round to=
the
vicar to let him know you are come. I
have told him all, and he highly approves--he says it will bring our lives =
to a
triumphant and satisfactory issue. But--are
you sure of yourself? It is not too late to refuse now if--you think you ca=
n't
bring yourself to it, you know?"
"Yes, yes, I can! I want it done quick. Tell him, tell him at once! My strength=
is
tried by the undertaking--I can't wait long!"
"Have something to eat and drink then, an=
d go
over to your room at Mrs. Edlin's. I'll
tell the vicar half-past eight to-morrow, before anybody is about--if that's
not too soon for you? My friend Gi=
llingham
is here to help us in the ceremony. He's
been good enough to come all the way from Shaston at great inconvenience to
himself."
Unlike a woman in ordinary, whose eye is so ke=
en
for material things, Sue seemed to see nothing of the room they were in, or=
any
detail of her environment. But on =
moving
across the parlour to put down her muff she uttered a little "Oh!"
and grew paler than before. Her lo=
ok was
that of the condemned criminal who catches sight of his coffin.
"What?" said Phillotson.
The flap of the bureau chanced to be open, and=
in
placing her muff upon it her eye had caught a document which lay there. "Oh--only a--funny surprise!"=
she
said, trying to laugh away her cry as she came back to the table.
"Ah!
Yes," said Phillotson.
"The licence.... It has just come."
Gillingham now joined them from his room above,
and Sue nervously made herself agreeable to him by talking on whatever she
thought likely to interest him, except herself, though that interested him =
most
of all. She obediently ate some su=
pper,
and prepared to leave for her lodging hard by.
Phillotson crossed the green with her, bidding her good-night at Mrs.
Edlin's door.
The old woman accompanied Sue to her temporary
quarters, and helped her to unpack.
Among other things she laid out a night-gown tastefully embroidered.=
"Oh--I didn't know THAT was put in!"
said Sue quickly. "I didn't m=
ean it
to be. Here is a different
one." She handed a new and ab=
solutely
plain garment, of coarse and unbleached calico.
"But this is the prettiest," said Mr=
s.
Edlin. "That one is no better=
than
very sackcloth o' Scripture!"
"Yes--I meant it to be. Give me the other."
She took it, and began rending it with all her
might, the tears resounding through the house like a screech-owl.
"But my dear, dear!--whatever..."
"It is adulterous! It signifies what I don't feel--I bough=
t it
long ago--to please Jude. It must =
be
destroyed!"
Mrs. Edlin lifted her hands, and Sue excitedly
continued to tear the linen into strips, laying the pieces in the fire.
"You med ha' give it to me!" said the
widow. "It do make my heart a=
che to
see such pretty open-work as that a-burned by the flames--not that ornament=
al
night-rails can be much use to a' ould 'ooman like I. My days for such be a=
ll
past and gone!"
"It is an accursed thing--it reminds me of
what I want to forget!" Sue repeated.
"It is only fit for the fire."
"Lord, you be too strict! What do ye use such words for, and cond=
emn to
hell your dear little innocent children that's lost to 'ee! Upon my life I don't call that
religion!"
Sue flung her face upon the bed, sobbing. "Oh, don't, don't! That kills me!" She remained shaken with her grief, and
slipped down upon her knees.
"I'll tell 'ee what--you ought not to mar=
ry
this man again!" said Mrs. Edlin indignantly. "You are in love wi' t' other
still!"
"Yes I must--I am his already!"
"Pshoo!
You be t' other man's. If y=
ou
didn't like to commit yourselves to the binding vow again, just at first, '=
twas
all the more credit to your consciences, considering your reasons, and you =
med
ha' lived on, and made it all right at last.
After all, it concerned nobody but your own two selves."
"Richard says he'll have me back, and I'm
bound to go! If he had refused, it=
might
not have been so much my duty to--give up Jude. But--" She remained with her face in the bed-c=
lothes,
and Mrs. Edlin left the room.
Phillotson in the interval had gone back to his
friend Gillingham, who still sat over the supper-table. They soon rose, and walked out on the g=
reen
to smoke awhile. A light was burni=
ng in
Sue's room, a shadow moving now and then across the blind.
Gillingham had evidently been impressed with t=
he
indefinable charm of Sue, and after a silence he said, "Well: you've a=
ll
but got her again at last. She can=
't
very well go a second time. The pe=
ar has
dropped into your hand."
"Yes! ...
I suppose I am right in taking her at her word. I confess there seems a touch of selfis=
hness
in it. Apart from her being what s=
he is,
of course, a luxury for a fogy like me, it will set me right in the eyes of=
the
clergy and orthodox laity, who have never forgiven me for letting her go. So I may get back in some degree into m=
y old track."
"Well--if you've got any sound reason for
marrying her again, do it now in God's name!
I was always against your opening the cage-door and letting the bird=
go
in such an obviously suicidal way. You
might have been a school inspector by this time, or a reverend, if you hadn=
't
been so weak about her."
"I did myself irreparable damage--I know
it."
"Once you've got her housed again, stick =
to
her."
Phillotson was more evasive to-night. He did not care to admit clearly that h=
is
taking Sue to him again had at bottom nothing to do with repentance of lett=
ing
her go, but was, primarily, a human instinct flying in the face of custom a=
nd
profession. He said, "Yes--I =
shall
do that. I know woman better now.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Whatever justice there was in releasing=
her,
there was little logic, for one holding my views on other subjects."
Gillingham looked at him, and wondered whether=
it
would ever happen that the reactionary spirit induced by the world's sneers=
and
his own physical wishes would make Phillotson more orthodoxly cruel to her =
than
he had erstwhile been informally and perversely kind.
"I perceive it won't do to give way to
impulse," Phillotson resumed, feeling more and more every minute the
necessity of acting up to his position.
"I flew in the face of the Church's teaching; but I did it with=
out
malice prepense. Women are so stra=
nge in
their influence that they tempt you to misplaced kindness. However, I know myself better now. A little judicious severity, perhaps...=
"
"Yes; but you must tighten the reins by
degrees only. Don't be too strenuo=
us at
first. She'll come to any terms in
time."
The caution was unnecessary, though Phillotson=
did
not say so. "I remember what =
my
vicar at Shaston said, when I left after the row that was made about my
agreeing to her elopement. 'The on=
ly
thing you can do to retrieve your position and hers is to admit your error =
in
not restraining her with a wise and strong hand, and to get her back again =
if
she'll come, and be firm in the future.'
But I was so headstrong at that time that I paid no heed. And that after the divorce she should h=
ave
thought of doing so I did not dream."
The gate of Mrs. Edlin's cottage clicked, and
somebody began crossing in the direction of the school. Phillotson said "Good-night."=
"Oh, is that Mr. Phillotson," said M=
rs.
Edlin. "I was going over to s=
ee
'ee. I've been upstairs with her,
helping her to unpack her things; and upon my word, sir, I don't think this
ought to be!"
"What--the wedding?"
"Yes.
She's forcing herself to it, poor dear little thing; and you've no
notion what she's suffering. I was=
never
much for religion nor against it, but it can't be right to let her do this,=
and
you ought to persuade her out of it. Of
course everybody will say it was very good and forgiving of 'ee to take her=
to
'ee again. But for my part I
don't."
"It's her wish, and I am willing," s=
aid
Phillotson with grave reserve, opposition making him illogically tenacious
now. "A great piece of laxity=
will
be rectified."
"I don't believe it. She's his wife if anybody's. She's had three children by him, and he=
loves
her dearly; and it's a wicked shame to egg her on to this, poor little
quivering thing! She's got nobody =
on her
side. The one man who'd be her fri=
end
the obstinate creature won't allow to come near her. What first put her into this mood o' mi=
nd, I
wonder!"
"I can't tell. Not I certainly. It is all voluntary on her part. Now th=
at's
all I have to say." Phillotson
spoke stiffly. "You've turned
round, Mrs. Edlin. It is unseemly =
of
you!"
"Well.
I knowed you'd be affronted at what I had to say; but I don't mind
that. The truth's the truth."=
"I'm not affronted, Mrs. Edlin. You've been too kind a neighbour for
that. But I must be allowed to know
what's best for myself and Susanna. I
suppose you won't go to church with us, then?"
"No.
Be hanged if I can... I don=
't
know what the times be coming to!
Matrimony have growed to be that serious in these days that one real=
ly
do feel afeard to move in it at all. In
my time we took it more careless; and I don't know that we was any the worse
for it! When I and my poor man were jined in it we kept up the junketing al=
l the
week, and drunk the parish dry, and had to borrow half a crown to begin
housekeeping!"
When Mrs. Edlin had gone back to her cottage
Phillotson spoke moodily. "I =
don't
know whether I ought to do it--at any rate quite so rapidly."
"Why?"
"If she is really compelling herself to t=
his
against her instincts--merely from this new sense of duty or religion--I ou=
ght perhaps
to let her wait a bit."
"Now you've got so far you ought not to b=
ack
out of it. That's my opinion."=
;
"I can't very well put it off now; that's
true. But I had a qualm when she g=
ave
that little cry at sight of the licence."
"Now, never you have qualms, old boy. I mean to give her away to-morrow morni=
ng,
and you mean to take her. It has a=
lways
been on my conscience that I didn't urge more objections to your letting he=
r go,
and now we've got to this stage I shan't be content if I don't help you to =
set
the matter right."
Phillotson nodded, and seeing how staunch his
friend was, became more frank. &qu=
ot;No
doubt when it gets known what I've done I shall be thought a soft fool by m=
any. But they don't know Sue as I do. Though=
so
elusive, hers is such an honest nature at bottom that I don't think she has
ever done anything against her conscience.
The fact of her having lived with Fawley goes for nothing. At the time she left me for him she tho=
ught
she was quite within her right. No=
w she
thinks otherwise."
The next morning came, and the self-sacrifice =
of
the woman on the altar of what she was pleased to call her principles was
acquiesced in by these two friends, each from his own point of view. Phillotson went across to the Widow Edl=
in's
to fetch Sue a few minutes after eight o'clock.
The fog of the previous day or two on the low-lands had travelled up
here by now, and the trees on the green caught armfuls, and turned them into
showers of big drops. The bride wa=
s waiting,
ready; bonnet and all on. She had =
never
in her life looked so much like the lily her name connoted as she did in th=
at
pallid morning light. Chastened,
world-weary, remorseful, the strain on her nerves had preyed upon her flesh=
and
bones, and she appeared smaller in outline than she had formerly done, thou=
gh
Sue had not been a large woman in her days of rudest health.
"Prompt," said the schoolmaster,
magnanimously taking her hand. But he checked his impulse to kiss her,
remembering her start of yesterday, which unpleasantly lingered in his mind=
.
Gillingham joined them, and they left the hous= e, Widow Edlin continuing steadfast in her refusal to assist in the ceremony.<= o:p>
"Where is the church?" said Sue. She had not lived there for any length =
of
time since the old church was pulled down, and in her preoccupation forgot =
the
new one.
"Up here," said Phillotson; and
presently the tower loomed large and solemn in the fog. The vicar had already crossed to the
building, and when they entered he said pleasantly: "We almost want
candles."
"You do--wish me to be yours, Richard?&qu=
ot;
gasped Sue in a whisper.
"Certainly, dear: above all things in the
world."
Sue said no more; and for the second or third =
time
he felt he was not quite following out the humane instinct which had induced
him to let her go.
There they stood, five altogether: the parson,=
the
clerk, the couple, and Gillingham; and the holy ordinance was resolemnized
forthwith. In the nave of the edifice were two or three villagers, and when=
the
clergyman came to the words, "What God hath joined," a woman's vo=
ice from
among these was heard to utter audibly:
"God hath jined indeed!"
It was like a re-enactment by the ghosts of th=
eir
former selves of the similar scene which had taken place at Melchester years
before. When the books were signed the vicar congratulated the husband and =
wife
on having performed a noble, and righteous, and mutually forgiving act. "All's well that ends well," =
he
said smiling. "May you long be happy together, after thus having been
'saved as by fire.'"
They came down the nearly empty building, and
crossed to the schoolhouse. Gillin=
gham
wanted to get home that night, and left early.
He, too, congratulated the couple.
"Now," he said in parting from Phillotson, who walked out a
little way, "I shall be able to tell the people in your native place a
good round tale; and they'll all say 'Well done,' depend on it."
When the schoolmaster got back Sue was making a
pretence of doing some housewifery as if she lived there. But she seemed timid at his approach, a=
nd
compunction wrought on him at sight of it.
"Of course, my dear, I shan't expect to
intrude upon your personal privacy any more than I did before," he said
gravely. "It is for our good =
socially
to do this, and that's its justification, if it was not my reason."
The p=
lace
was the door of Jude's lodging in the out-skirts of Christminster--far from=
the
precincts of St. Silas' where he had formerly lived, which saddened him to
sickness. The rain was coming down=
. A woman in shabby black stood on the do=
orstep
talking to Jude, who held the door in his hand.
"I am lonely, destitute, and
houseless--that's what I am! Fathe=
r has turned
me out of doors after borrowing every penny I'd got, to put it into his
business, and then accusing me of laziness when I was only waiting for a
situation. I am at the mercy of the
world! If you can't take me and he=
lp me,
Jude, I must go to the workhouse, or to something worse. Only just now two undergraduates winked=
at me
as I came along. 'Tis hard for a w=
oman
to keep virtuous where there's so many young men!"
The woman in the rain who spoke thus was Arabe=
lla,
the evening being that of the day after Sue's remarriage with Phillotson.
"I am sorry for you, but I am only in
lodgings," said Jude coldly.
"Then you turn me away?"
"I'll give you enough to get food and lod=
ging
for a few days."
"Oh, but can't you have the kindness to t=
ake
me in? I cannot endure going to a =
public
house to lodge; and I am so lonely.
Please, Jude, for old times' sake!"
"No, no," said Jude hastily. "I don't want to be reminded of th=
ose things;
and if you talk about them I shall not help you."
"Then I suppose I must go!" said
Arabella. She bent her head agains=
t the
doorpost and began sobbing.
"The house is full," said Jude. "And I have only a little extra ro=
om to
my own--not much more than a closet--where I keep my tools, and templates, =
and
the few books I have left!"
"That would be a palace for me!"
"There is no bedstead in it."
"A bit of a bed could be made on the
floor. It would be good enough for
me."
Unable to be harsh with her, and not knowing w=
hat
to do, Jude called the man who let the lodgings, and said this was an
acquaintance of his in great distress for want of temporary shelter.
"You may remember me as barmaid at the La=
mb
and Flag formerly?" spoke up Arabella.
"My father has insulted me this afternoon, and I've left him,
though without a penny!"
The householder said he could not recall her
features. "But still, if you =
are a
friend of Mr. Fawley's we'll do what we can for a day or two--if he'll make
himself answerable?"
"Yes, yes," said Jude. "She has really taken me quite una=
wares;
but I should wish to help her out of her difficulty." And an arrangement was ultimately come =
to
under which a bed was to be thrown down in Jude's lumber-room, to make it
comfortable for Arabella till she could get out of the strait she was in--n=
ot
by her own fault, as she declared--and return to her father's again.
While they were waiting for this to be done
Arabella said: "You know the news, I suppose?"
"I guess what you mean; but I know
nothing."
"I had a letter from Anny at Alfredston
to-day. She had just heard that the wedding was to be yesterday: but she di=
dn't
know if it had come off."
"I don't wish to talk of it."
"No, no: of course you don't. Only it shows what kind of woman--"=
;
"Don't speak of her I say! She's a fool!
And she's an angel, too, poor dear!"
"If it's done, he'll have a chance of get=
ting
back to his old position, by everybody's account, so Anny says. All his well-wishers will be pleased,
including the bishop himself."
"Do spare me, Arabella."
Arabella was duly installed in the little atti= c, and at first she did not come near Jude at all. She went to and fro about her own business, which, when they met for= a moment on the stairs or in the passage, she informed him was that of obtain= ing another place in the occupation she understood best. When Jude suggested London as affording= the most likely opening in the liquor trade, she shook her head. "No--the temptations are too many,= " she said. "Any humble tavern in the country before that for me."<= o:p>
On the Sunday morning following, when he
breakfasted later than on other days, she meekly asked him if she might com=
e in
to breakfast with him, as she had broken her teapot, and could not replace =
it immediately,
the shops being shut.
"Yes, if you like," he said
indifferently.
While they sat without speaking she suddenly
observed: "You seem all in a brood, old man. I'm sorry for you."
"I am all in a brood."
"It is about her, I know. It's no business of mine, but I could f=
ind out
all about the wedding--if it really did take place--if you wanted to
know."
"How could you?"
"I wanted to go to Alfredston to get a few
things I left there. And I could s=
ee
Anny, who'll be sure to have heard all about it, as she has friends at
Marygreen."
Jude could not bear to acquiesce in this propo=
sal;
but his suspense pitted itself against his discretion, and won in the
struggle. "You can ask about =
it if
you like," he said. "I'v=
e not
heard a sound from there. It must =
have
been very private, if--they have married."
"I am afraid I haven't enough cash to tak=
e me
there and back, or I should have gone before.
I must wait till I have earned some."
"Oh--I can pay the journey for you,"=
he
said impatiently. And thus his sus=
pense
as to Sue's welfare, and the possible marriage, moved him to dispatch for
intelligence the last emissary he would have thought of choosing deliberate=
ly.
Arabella went, Jude requesting her to be home =
not
later than by the seven o'clock train.
When she had gone he said: "Why should I have charged her to be
back by a particular time! She's n=
othing
to me--nor the other neither!"
But having finished work he could not help goi=
ng
to the station to meet Arabella, dragged thither by feverish haste to get t=
he
news she might bring, and know the worst.
Arabella had made dimples most successfully all the way home, and wh=
en
she stepped out of the railway carriage she smiled. He merely said "Well?" with t=
he
very reverse of a smile.
"They are married."
"Yes--of course they are!" he
returned. She observed, however, t=
he hard
strain upon his lip as he spoke.
"Anny says she has heard from Belinda, her
relation out at Marygreen, that it was very sad, and curious!"
"How do you mean sad? She wanted to marry him again, didn't s=
he? And
he her!"
"Yes--that was it. She wanted to in one sense, but not in =
the other. Mrs. Edlin was much upset by it all, and
spoke out her mind at Phillotson. =
But
Sue was that excited about it that she burnt her best embroidery that she'd
worn with you, to blot you out entirely. Well--if a woman feels like it, she
ought to do it. I commend her for =
it,
though others don't." Arabella
sighed. "She felt he was her =
only
husband, and that she belonged to nobody else in the sight of God A'mighty
while he lived. Perhaps another wo=
man
feels the same about herself, too!"
Arabella sighed again.
"I don't want any cant!" exclaimed J=
ude.
"It isn't cant," said Arabella. "I feel exactly the same as she!&q=
uot;
He closed that issue by remarking abruptly:
"Well--now I know all I wanted to know.
Many thanks for your information.
I am not going back to my lodgings just yet." And he left her straightway.
In his misery and depression Jude walked to
well-nigh every spot in the city that he had visited with Sue; thence he did
not know whither, and then thought of going home to his usual evening meal.=
But
having all the vices of his virtues, and some to spare, he turned into a pu=
blic
house, for the first time during many months.
Among the possible consequences of her marriage Sue had not dwelt on
this.
Arabella, meanwhile, had gone back. The evening passed, and Jude did not
return. At half-past nine Arabella
herself went out, first proceeding to an outlying district near the river w=
here
her father lived, and had opened a small and precarious pork-shop lately.
"Well," she said to him, "for a=
ll
your rowing me that night, I've called in, for I have something to tell
you. I think I shall get married a=
nd
settled again. Only you must help =
me:
and you can do no less, after what I've stood 'ee."
"I'll do anything to get thee off my
hands!"
"Very well.
I am now going to look for my young man.
He's on the loose I'm afraid, and I must get him home. All I want you to do to-night is not to
fasten the door, in case I should want to sleep here, and should be late.&q=
uot;
"I thought you'd soon get tired of giving
yourself airs and keeping away!"
"Well--don't do the door. That's all I say."
She then sallied out again, and first hastening
back to Jude's to make sure that he had not returned, began her search for
him. A shrewd guess as to his prob=
able
course took her straight to the tavern which Jude had formerly frequented, =
and
where she had been barmaid for a brief term.
She had no sooner opened the door of the "Private Bar" than
her eyes fell upon him--sitting in the shade at the back of the compartment,
with his eyes fixed on the floor in a blank stare. He was drinking nothing stronger than a=
le
just then. He did not observe her, and she entered and sat beside him.
Jude looked up, and said without surprise:
"You've come to have something, Arabella? ... I'm trying to forget her: that's all! But I can't; and I am going home."=
She saw that he was a little way on in
liquor, but only a little as yet.
"I've come entirely to look for you, dear
boy. You are not well. Now you mus=
t have
something better than that."
Arabella held up her finger to the barmaid. "You shall have a liqueur--that's =
better
fit for a man of education than beer.
You shall have maraschino, or curaçao dry or sweet, or cherry
brandy. I'll treat you, poor chap!=
"
"I don't care which! Say cherry brandy... Sue has served me badly, very badly.
How Arabella had obtained money did not appear,
but she ordered a liqueur each, and paid for them. When they had drunk these Arabella sugg=
ested
another; and Jude had the pleasure of being, as it were, personally conduct=
ed
through the varieties of spirituous delectation by one who knew the landmar=
ks
well. Arabella kept very considera=
bly in
the rear of Jude; but though she only sipped where he drank, she took as mu=
ch
as she could safely take without losing her head--which was not a little, as
the crimson upon her countenance showed.
Her tone towards him to-night was uniformly
soothing and cajoling; and whenever he said "I don't care what happens=
to
me," a thing he did continually, she replied, "But I do very
much!" The closing hour came,=
and
they were compelled to turn out; whereupon Arabella put her arm round his
waist, and guided his unsteady footsteps.
When they were in the streets she said: "I
don't know what our landlord will say to my bringing you home in this
state. I expect we are fastened ou=
t, so
that he'll have to come down and let us in."
"I don't know--I don't know."
"That's the worst of not having a home of
your own. I tell you, Jude, what w=
e had
best do. Come round to my father's=
--I
made it up with him a bit to-day. =
I can
let you in, and nobody will see you at all; and by to-morrow morning you'll=
be
all right."
"Anything--anywhere," replied Jude.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "What the devil does it matter to
me?"
They went along together, like any other fuddl=
ing
couple, her arm still round his waist, and his, at last, round hers; though
with no amatory intent; but merely because he was weary, unstable, and in n=
eed
of support.
"This--is th' Martyrs'--burning-place,&qu=
ot;
he stammered as they dragged across a broad street. "I remember--in old Fuller's Holy =
State--and
I am reminded of it--by our passing by here--old Fuller in his Holy State s=
ays,
that at the burning of Ridley, Doctor Smith--preached sermon, and took as h=
is
text 'Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profitet=
h me
nothing.'--Often think of it as I pass here.
Ridley was a--"
"Yes.
Exactly. Very thoughtful of=
you,
deary, even though it hasn't much to do with our present business."
"Why, yes it has! I'm giving my body to be burned! But--ah you don't understand!--it wants=
Sue
to understand such things! And I w=
as her
seducer--poor little girl! And she=
's
gone--and I don't care about myself! Do
what you like with me! ... And yet=
she
did it for conscience' sake, poor little Sue!"
"Hang her!--I mean, I think she was
right," hiccuped Arabella.
"I've my feelings too, like her; and I feel I belong to you in
Heaven's eye, and to nobody else, till death us do part! It is--hic--never too late--hic to
mend!"
They had reached her father's house, and she
softly unfastened the door, groping about for a light within.
The circumstances were not altogether unlike t=
hose
of their entry into the cottage at Cresscombe, such a long time before. Nor were perhaps Arabella's motives.
"I can't find the matches, dear," she
said when she had fastened up the door.
"But never mind--this way.
As quiet as you can, please."
"It is as dark as pitch," said Jude.=
"Give me your hand, and I'll lead you.
"Who?"
"Father.
He'd make a row, perhaps."
She pulled off his boots. "Now," she whispered, "t=
ake
hold of me--never mind your weight.
Now--first stair, second stair--"
"But--are we out in our old house by
Marygreen?" asked the stupefied Jude.
"I haven't been inside it for years till now! Hey?
And where are my books? Tha=
t's
what I want to know?"
"We are at my house, dear, where there's
nobody to spy out how ill you are.
Now--third stair, fourth stair--that's it. Now we shall get on."
Arabe= lla was preparing breakfast in the downstairs back room of this small, recently hired tenement of her father's. Sh= e put her head into the little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready= . Donn, endeavouring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue blouse, a= nd with a strap round his waist from which a steel dangled, came in promptly.<= o:p>
"You must mind the shop this morning,&quo=
t;
he said casually. "I've to go=
and
get some inwards and half a pig from Lumsdon, and to call elsewhere. If you live here you must put your shou=
lder
to the wheel, at least till I get the business started!"
"Well, for to-day I can't say." She looked deedily into his face. "=
;I've
got a prize upstairs."
"Oh?
What's that?"
"A husband--almost."
"No!"
"Yes.
It's Jude. He's come back to
me."
"Your old original one? Well, I'm damned!"
"Well, I always did like him, that I will
say."
"But how does he come to be up there?&quo=
t;
said Donn, humour-struck, and nodding to the ceiling.
"Don't ask inconvenient questions,
Father. What we've to do is to kee=
p him
here till he and I are--as we were."
"How was that?"
"Married."
"Ah...
Well it is the rummest thing I ever heard of--marrying an old husband
again, and so much new blood in the world!
He's no catch, to my thinking.
I'd have had a new one while I was about it."
"It isn't rum for a woman to want her old
husband back for respectability, though for a man to want his old wife
back--well, perhaps it is funny, rather!"
And Arabella was suddenly seized with a fit of loud laughter, in whi=
ch
her father joined more moderately.
"Be civil to him, and I'll do the rest,&q=
uot;
she said when she had recovered seriousness.
"He told me this morning that his head ached fit to burst, and =
he
hardly seemed to know where he was. And
no wonder, considering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly and cheerful her=
e for
a day or two, and not let him go back to his lodging. Whatever you advance I'll pay back to y=
ou
again. But I must go up and see how he is now, poor deary."
Arabella ascended the stairs, softly opened the
door of the first bedroom, and peeped in.
Finding that her shorn Samson was asleep she entered to the bedside =
and
stood regarding him. The fevered f=
lush
on his face from the debauch of the previous evening lessened the fragility=
of
his ordinary appearance, and his long lashes, dark brows, and curly back ha=
ir
and beard against the white pillow completed the physiognomy of one whom
Arabella, as a woman of rank passions, still felt it worth while to recaptu=
re,
highly important to recapture as a woman straitened both in means and in
reputation. Her ardent gaze seemed to affect him; his quick breathing becam=
e suspended,
and he opened his eyes.
"How are you now, dear?" said she. "It is I--Arabella."
"Ah!--where--oh yes, I remember! You gave me shelter... I am stranded--ill--demoralized--damn
bad! That's what I am!"
"Then do stay here. There's nobody in the house but father =
and
me, and you can rest till you are thoroughly well. I'll tell them at the stoneworks that y=
ou are
knocked up."
"I wonder what they are thinking at the
lodgings!"
"I'll go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, o=
r they'll
think we've run away?"
"Yes.
You'll find enough money in my pocket there."
Quite indifferent, and shutting his eyes becau= se he could not bear the daylight in his throbbing eye-balls, Jude seemed to d= oze again. Arabella took his purse, softly left the room, and putting on her ou= tdoor things went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the evening before.<= o:p>
Scarcely half an hour had elapsed ere she
reappeared round the corner, walking beside a lad wheeling a truck on which
were piled all Jude's household possessions, and also the few of Arabella's=
things
which she had taken to the lodging for her short sojourn there. Jude was in
such physical pain from his unfortunate break-down of the previous night, a=
nd
in such mental pain from the loss of Sue and from having yielded in his
half-somnolent state to Arabella, that when he saw his few chattels unpacked
and standing before his eyes in this strange bedroom, intermixed with woman=
's
apparel, he scarcely considered how they had come there, or what their comi=
ng
signalized.
"Now," said Arabella to her father
downstairs, "we must keep plenty of good liquor going in the house the=
se
next few days. I know his nature, =
and if
he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into sometimes,
he'll never do the honourable thing by me in this world, and I shall be lef=
t in
the lurch. He must be kept cheerfu=
l. He has a little money in the savings ba=
nk,
and he has given me his purse to pay for anything necessary. Well, that will be the licence; for I m=
ust
have that ready at hand, to catch him the moment he's in the humour. You must pay for the liquor. A few friends, and a quiet convivial pa=
rty
would be the thing, if we could get it up.
It would advertise the shop, and help me too."
"That can be got up easy enough by anybody
who'll afford victuals and drink... Well
yes--it would advertise the shop--that's true."
Three days later, when Jude had recovered some=
what
from the fearful throbbing of his eyes and brain, but was still considerably
confused in his mind by what had been supplied to him by Arabella during the
interval--to keep him, jolly, as she expressed it--the quiet convivial
gathering, suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking point, took pl=
ace.
Donn had only just opened his miserable little
pork and sausage shop, which had as yet scarce any customers; nevertheless =
that
party advertised it well, and the Donns acquired a real notoriety among a c=
ertain
class in Christminster who knew not the colleges, nor their works, nor their
ways. Jude was asked if he could s=
uggest
any guest in addition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a s=
aturnine
humour of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the deca=
yed
auctioneer, and others whom he remembered as having been frequenters of the
well-known tavern during his bout therein years before. He also suggested Freckles and Bower o'
Bliss. Arabella took him at his word so far as the men went, but drew the l=
ine
at the ladies.
Another man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he
lived in the same street, was not invited; but as he went homeward from a l=
ate
job on the evening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for tr=
otters. There were none in, but he was promised=
some
the next morning. While making his
inquiry Taylor glanced into the back room, and saw the guests sitting round,
card-playing, and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves at Donn's
expense. He went home to bed, and =
on his
way out next morning wondered how the party went off. He thought it hardly worth while to cal=
l at
the shop for his provisions at that hour, Donn and his daughter being proba=
bly
not up, if they caroused late the night before.
However, he found in passing that the door was open, and he could he=
ar
voices within, though the shutters of the meat-stall were not down. He went and tapped at the sitting-room =
door,
and opened it.
"Well--to be sure!" he said, astonis=
hed.
Hosts and guests were sitting card-playing,
smoking, and talking, precisely as he had left them eleven hours earlier; t=
he
gas was burning and the curtains drawn, though it had been broad daylight f=
or
two hours out of doors.
"Yes!" cried Arabella, laughing. "Here we are, just the same. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, ou=
ghtn't
we! But it is a sort of housewarmi=
ng,
you see; and our friends are in no hurry.
Come in, Mr. Taylor, and sit down."
The tinker, or rather reduced ironmonger, was
nothing loath, and entered and took a seat.
"I shall lose a quarter, but never mind," he said. "Well, really, I could hardly beli=
eve my
eyes when I looked in! It seemed a=
s if I
was flung back again into last night, all of a sudden."
"So you are.
Pour out for Mr. Taylor."
He now perceived that she was sitting beside J=
ude,
her arm being round his waist. Jud=
e,
like the rest of the company, bore on his face the signs of how deeply he h=
ad
been indulging.
"Well, we've been waiting for certain leg=
al
hours to arrive, to tell the truth," she continued bashfully, and maki=
ng
her spirituous crimson look as much like a maiden blush as possible. "Jude and I have decided to make up
matters between us by tying the knot again, as we find we can't do without =
one
another after all. So, as a bright
notion, we agreed to sit on till it was late enough, and go and do it
off-hand."
Jude seemed to pay no great heed to what she w=
as
announcing, or indeed to anything whatever.
The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into the company, and th=
ey
remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her father: "Now we may as
well go."
"But the parson don't know?"
"Yes, I told him last night that we might
come between eight and nine, as there were reasons of decency for doing it =
as
early and quiet as possible; on account of it being our second marriage, wh=
ich might
make people curious to look on if they knew.
He highly approved."
"Oh very well: I'm ready," said her
father, getting up and shaking himself.
"Now, old darling," she said to
Jude. "Come along, as you
promised."
"When did I promise anything?" asked=
he,
whom she had made so tipsy by her special knowledge of that line of busines=
s as
almost to have made him sober again--or to seem so to those who did not know
him.
"Why!" said Arabella, affecting
dismay. "You've promised to m=
arry
me several times as we've sat here to-night. These gentlemen have heard you=
."
"I don't remember it," said Jude
doggedly. "There's only one w=
oman--but
I won't mention her in this Capharnaum!"
Arabella looked towards her father. "Now, Mr. Fawley be honourable,&qu=
ot; said
Donn. "You and my daughter ha=
ve
been living here together these three or four days, quite on the understand=
ing
that you were going to marry her. =
Of
course I shouldn't have had such goings on in my house if I hadn't understo=
od
that. As a point of honour you mus=
t do
it now."
"Don't say anything against my honour!&qu=
ot;
enjoined Jude hotly, standing up.
"I'd marry the W---- of Babylon rather than do anything
dishonourable! No reflection on yo=
u, my
dear. It is a mere rhetorical
figure--what they call in the books, hyperbole."
"Keep your figures for your debts to frie=
nds
who shelter you," said Donn.
"If I am bound in honour to marry her--as=
I
suppose I am--though how I came to be here with her I know no more than a d=
ead
man--marry her I will, so help me God! =
span>I
have never behaved dishonourably to a woman or to any living thing. I am not a man who wants to save himsel=
f at
the expense of the weaker among us!"
"There--never mind him, deary," said
she, putting her cheek against Jude's.
"Come up and wash your face, and just put yourself tidy, and off
we'll go. Make it up with Father.&=
quot;
They shook hands.
Jude went upstairs with her, and soon came down looking tidy and
calm. Arabella, too, had hastily
arranged herself, and accompanied by Donn away they went.
"Don't go," she said to the guests at
parting. "I've told the littl=
e maid
to get the breakfast while we are gone; and when we come back we'll all have
some. A good strong cup of tea wil=
l set
everybody right for going home."
When Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared =
on
their matrimonial errand the assembled guests yawned themselves wider awake,
and discussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the most sober, re=
asoned
the most lucidly.
"I don't wish to speak against friends,&q=
uot;
he said. "But it do seem a ra=
re
curiosity for a couple to marry over again!
If they couldn't get on the first time when their minds were limp, t=
hey
won't the second, by my reckoning."
"Do you think he'll do it?"
"He's been put upon his honour by the wom=
an,
so he med."
"He'd hardly do it straight off like
this. He's got no licence nor anyt=
hing."
"She's got that, bless you. Didn't you hear her say so to her fathe=
r?"
"Well," said Tinker Taylor, relighti=
ng
his pipe at the gas-jet. "Take her all together, limb by limb, she's n=
ot
such a bad-looking piece--particular by candlelight. To be sure, halfpence that have been in
circulation can't be expected to look like new ones from the mint. But for a woman that's been knocking ab=
out
the four hemispheres for some time, she's passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch perhap=
s: but
I like a woman that a puff o' wind won't blow down."
Their eyes followed the movements of the little
girl as she spread the breakfast-cloth on the table they had been using,
without wiping up the slops of the liquor.
The curtains were undrawn, and the expression of the house made to l=
ook
like morning. Some of the guests,
however, fell asleep in their chairs.
One or two went to the door, and gazed along the street more than
once. Tinker Taylor was the chief =
of
these, and after a time he came in with a leer on his face.
"By Gad, they are coming! I think the deed's done!"
"No," said Uncle Joe, following him
in. "Take my word, he turned =
rusty
at the last minute. They are walki=
ng in
a very unusual way; and that's the meaning of it!"
They waited in silence till the wedding-party
could be heard entering the house. First
into the room came Arabella boisterously; and her face was enough to show t=
hat
her strategy had succeeded.
"Mrs. Fawley, I presume?" said Tinker
Taylor with mock courtesy.
"Certainly.
Mrs. Fawley again," replied Arabella blandly, pulling off her g=
love
and holding out her left hand.
"There's the padlock, see...
Well, he was a very nice, gentlemanly man indeed. I mean the clergyman. He said to me as gentle as a babe when =
all
was done: 'Mrs. Fawley, I congratulate you heartily,' he says. 'For having heard your history, and tha=
t of
your husband, I think you have both done the right and proper thing. And for your past errors as a wife, and=
his
as a husband, I think you ought now to be forgiven by the world, as you hav=
e forgiven
each other,' says he. Yes: he was =
a very
nice, gentlemanly man. 'The Church=
don't
recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking,' he says: 'and bear in m=
ind
the words of the service in your goings out and your comings in: What God h=
ath joined
together let no man put asunder.' =
Yes:
he was a very nice, gentlemanly man...
But, Jude, my dear, you were enough to make a cat laugh! You walked that straight, and held your=
self
that steady, that one would have thought you were going 'prentice to a judg=
e;
though I knew you were seeing double all the time, from the way you fumbled=
with
my finger."
"I said I'd do anything to--save a woman's
honour," muttered Jude. "And I've done it!"
"Well now, old deary, come along and have
some breakfast."
"I want--some--more whisky," said Ju=
de
stolidly.
"Nonsense, dear. Not now!
There's no more left. The t=
ea
will take the muddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks.&q=
uot;
"All right.
I've--married you. She said=
I
ought to marry you again, and I have straightway. It is true religion! Ha--ha--ha!"
Micha=
elmas
came and passed, and Jude and his wife, who had lived but a short time in h=
er
father's house after their remarriage, were in lodgings on the top floor of=
a
dwelling nearer to the centre of the city.
He had done a few days' work during the two or
three months since the event, but his health had been indifferent, and it w=
as
now precarious. He was sitting in =
an
arm-chair 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, deceiv=
ing
one like this? You were well enoug=
h when
the wedding was!"
"Ah, yes!" said he, laughing
acridly. "I have been thinkin=
g 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 la=
ndlord
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 t=
he
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 f=
or
him. She asked him indifferently w=
hat it
was.
"To write to Sue."
"What in the name--do you want me to writ=
e 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 th=
at 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
above-board with you, and with her husband.
A message through you asking her to come is at least free from any o=
dour
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 a=
nybody
in the world who comes to see me for half an hour--here with one foot in the
grave! ... Come, please write, Ara=
bella!"
he pleaded. "Repay my candour=
by a
little generosity!"
"I should think NOT!"
"Not just once?--Oh 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.
"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 d=
eath
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 scornful=
ly
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 pass=
ion. Taunt
away!"
He then began coughing very much, and she
estimated his life with an appraiser's eye as he sank back ghastly pale.
The softer side of his nature, the desire to s=
ee
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 to-morrow or the day
after. I haven't posted it yet.&qu=
ot;
The next day Jude wondered if she really did p=
ost
it, but would not ask her; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a cru=
mb,
made him restless with expectation. He
knew the times of the possible trains, and listened on each occasion for so=
unds
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 foun=
ded. 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 wi=
sh
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 ro=
om,
she beheld the chair empty.
Down she flopped on the bed, and sitting,
meditated. "Now where the dev=
il is
my man gone to!" she said.
A driving rain from the north-east had been
falling with more or less intermission all the morning, and looking from the
window at the dripping spouts it seemed impossible to believe that any sick=
man
would have ventured out to almost certain death. Yet a conviction possessed Arabella tha=
t he
had gone out, and it became a certainty when she had searched the house.
Jude was at that moment in a railway train that
was drawing near to Alfredston, oddly swathed, pale as a monumental figure =
in
alabaster, and much stared at by other passengers. An hour later his thin form, in the long
great-coat and blanket he had come with, but without an umbrella, could have
been seen walking along the five-mile road to Marygreen. On his face showed the determined purpo=
se
that alone sustained him, but to which has weakness afforded a sorry
foundation. By the up-hill walk he was quite blown, but he pressed on; and =
at half-past
three o'clock stood by the familiar well at Marygreen. The rain was keeping
everybody indoors; Jude crossed the green to the church without observation,
and found the building open. Here =
he stood,
looking forth at the school, whence he could hear the usual sing-song tones=
of
the little voices that had not learnt Creation's groan.
He waited till a small boy came from the
school--one evidently allowed out before hours for some reason or other.
"Please call at the schoolhouse and ask M=
rs.
Phillotson if she will be kind enough to come to the church for a few
minutes."
The child departed, and Jude heard him knock at
the door of the dwelling. He himse=
lf
went further into the church. Ever=
ything
was new, except a few pieces of carving preserved from the wrecked old fabr=
ic,
now fixed against the new walls. He
stood by these: they seemed akin to the perished people of that place who w=
ere
his ancestors and Sue's.
A light footstep, which might have been accoun=
ted
no more than an added drip to the rainfall, sounded in the porch, and he lo=
oked
round.
"Oh--I didn't think it was you! I didn't--Oh, Jude!" A hysterical catch in her breath ended =
in a
succession of them. He advanced, b=
ut she
quickly recovered and went back.
"Don't go--don't go!" he implored. "This is my last time! I thought it would be less intrusive th=
an to
enter your house. And I shall neve=
r come
again. Don't then be unmerciful. Sue, Sue!
We are acting by the letter; and 'the letter killeth'!"
"I'll stay--I won't be unkind!" she
said, her mouth quivering and her tears flowing as she allowed him to come
closer. "But why did you come=
, and
do this wrong thing, after doing such a right thing as you have done?"=
"What right thing?"
"Marrying Arabella again. It was in the Alfredston paper. She has never been other than yours, Ju=
de--in
a proper sense. And therefore you =
did so
well--Oh so well!--in recognizing it--and taking her to you again."
"God above--and is that all I've come to
hear? If there is anything more
degrading, immoral, unnatural, than another in my life, it is this meretric=
ious
contract with Arabella which has been called doing the right thing! And you too--you call yourself Phillots=
on's
wife! HIS wife! You are mine."=
;
"Don't make me rush away from you--I can't
bear much! But on this point I am
decided."
"I cannot understand how you did it--how =
you
think it--I cannot!"
"Never mind that. He is a kind husband to me--And I--I've
wrestled and struggled, and fasted, and prayed.
I have nearly brought my body into complete subjection. And you mustn't--will you--wake--"=
"Oh you darling little fool; where is your
reason? You seem to have suffered =
the
loss of your faculties! I would ar=
gue
with you if I didn't know that a woman in your state of feeling is quite be=
yond
all appeals to her brains. Or is i=
t that
you are humbugging yourself, as so many women do about these things; and do=
n't
actually believe what you pretend to, and only are indulging in the luxury =
of
the emotion raised by an affected belief?"
"Luxury!
How can you be so cruel!"
"You dear, sad, soft, most melancholy wre=
ck
of a promising human intellect that it has ever been my lot to behold! Where is your scorn of convention gone?=
I WOULD have died game!"
"You crush, almost insult me, Jude! Go away from me!" She turned off quickly.
"I will.
I would never come to see you again, even if I had the strength to c=
ome,
which I shall not have any more. S=
ue,
Sue, you are not worth a man's love!"
Her bosom began to go up and down. "I can't endure you to say that!&q=
uot; she
burst out, and her eye resting on him a moment, she turned back impulsively=
. "Don't, don't scorn me! Kiss me, oh kiss me lots of times, and =
say I
am not a coward and a contemptible humbug--I can't bear it!" She rushed up to him and, with her mout=
h on
his, continued: "I must tell you--oh I must--my darling Love! It has been--only a church marriage--an
apparent marriage I mean! He sugge=
sted
it at the very first!"
"How?"
"I mean it is a nominal marriage only.
"Sue!" he said. Pressing her to him in his arms he brui=
sed
her lips with kisses: "If misery can know happiness, I have a moment's=
happiness
now! Now, in the name of all you h=
old
holy, tell me the truth, and no lie. You
do love me still?"
"I do!
You know it too well! ... B=
ut I
MUSTN'T do this! I mustn't kiss yo=
u back
as I would!"
"But do!"
"And yet you are so dear!--and you look so
ill--"
"And so do you! There's one more, in memory of our dead
little children--yours and mine!"
The words struck her like a blow, and she bent=
her
head. "I MUSTN'T--I CAN'T go =
on
with this!" she gasped presently.
"But there, there, darling; I give you back your kisses; I do, I
do! ... And now I'll HATE myself f=
or
ever for my sin!"
"No--let me make my last appeal. Listen to this! We've both remarried out of our senses.=
I was made drunk to do it. You were the same. I was gin-drunk; you were creed-drunk.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Either form of intoxication takes away =
the
nobler vision... Let us then shake=
off our
mistakes, and run away together!"
"No; again no! ... Why do you tempt me so far, Jude! It is too merciless! ... But I've got over myself now. Don't follow me--don't look at me. Leave me, for pity's sake!"
She ran up the church to the east end, and Jud=
e did
as she requested. He did not turn his head, but took up his blanket, which =
she
had not seen, and went straight out. As
he passed the end of the church she heard his coughs mingling with the rain=
on
the windows, and in a last instinct of human affection, even now unsubdued =
by
her fetters, she sprang up as if to go and succour him. But she knelt down again, and stopped h=
er
ears with her hands till all possible sound of him had passed away.
He was by this time at the corner of the green,
from which the path ran across the fields in which he had scared rooks as a
boy. He turned and looked back, on=
ce, at
the building which still contained Sue; and then went on, knowing that his =
eyes
would light on that scene no more.
There are cold spots up and down Wessex in aut=
umn
and winter weather; but the coldest of all when a north or east wind is blo=
wing
is the crest of the down by the Brown House, where the road to Alfredston c=
rosses
the old Ridgeway. Here the first w=
inter
sleets and snows fall and lie, and here the spring frost lingers last
unthawed. Here in the teeth of the
north-east wind and rain Jude now pursued his way, wet through, the necessa=
ry
slowness of his walk from lack of his former strength being insufficent to
maintain his heat. He came to the =
milestone,
and, raining as it was, spread his blanket and lay down there to rest. Before moving on he went and felt at th=
e back
of the stone for his own carving. =
It was
still there; but nearly obliterated by moss.
He passed the spot where the gibbet of his ancestor and Sue's had st=
ood,
and descended the hill.
It was dark when he reached Alfredston, where =
he
had a cup of tea, the deadly chill that began to creep into his bones being=
too
much for him to endure fasting. To=
get
home he had to travel by a steam tram-car, and two branches of railway, with
much waiting at a junction. He did=
not
reach Christminster till ten o'clock.
On the
platform stood Arabella. She looke=
d him
up and down.
"You've been to see her?" she asked.=
"I have," said Jude, literally totte=
ring
with cold and lassitude.
"Well, now you'd best march along home.&q=
uot;
The water ran out of him as he went, and he was
compelled to lean against the wall to support himself while coughing.
"You've done for yourself by this, young
man," said she. "I don't=
know
whether you know it."
"Of course I do. I meant to do for myself."
"What--to commit suicide?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I'm blest! Kill yourself for a woman."
"Listen to me, Arabella. You think you are the stronger; and so =
you
are, in a physical sense, now. You=
could
push me over like a nine-pin. You =
did
not send that letter the other day, and I could not resent your conduct.
"Lord--you do talk lofty! Won't you have something warm to drink?=
"
"No thank you. Let's get home."
They went along by the silent colleges, and Ju=
de
kept stopping.
"What are you looking at?"
"Stupid fancies. I see, in a way, those spirits of the d=
ead
again, on this my last walk, that I saw when I first walked here!"
"What a curious chap you are!"
"I seem to see them, and almost hear them
rustling. But I don't revere all o=
f them
as I did then. I don't believe in =
half
of them. The theologians, the apologists, and their kin the metaphysicians,=
the
high-handed statesmen, and others, no longer interest me. All that has been spoilt for me by the =
grind
of stern reality!"
The expression of Jude's corpselike face in the
watery lamplight was indeed as if he saw people where there was nobody. At moments he stood still by an archway=
, like
one watching a figure walk out; then he would look at a window like one
discerning a familiar face behind it. He
seemed to hear voices, whose words he repeated as if to gather their meanin=
g.
"They seem laughing at me!"
"Who?"
"Oh--I was talking to myself! The phantoms all about here, in the col=
lege
archways, and windows. They used t=
o look
friendly in the old days, particularly Addison, and Gibbon, and Johnson, and
Dr. Browne, and Bishop Ken--"
"Come along do! Phantoms! There's neither living nor dead hereabouts except a damn policeman!<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I never saw the streets emptier."<= o:p>
"Fancy!
The Poet of Liberty used to walk here, and the great Dissector of
Melancholy there!"
"I don't want to hear about 'em! They bore me."
"Walter Raleigh is beckoning to me from t=
hat
lane--Wycliffe--Harvey-- Hooker--Arnold--and a whole crowd of Tractarian
Shades--"
"I DON'T WANT to know their names, I tell
you! What do I care about folk dea=
d and
gone? Upon my soul you are more so=
ber
when you've been drinking than when you have not!"
"I must rest a moment," he said; and=
as
he paused, holding to the railings, he measured with his eye the height of a
college front. "This is old Rubric.
And that Sarcophagus; and Up that lane Crozier and Tudor: and all do=
wn
there is Cardinal with its long front, and its windows with lifted eyebrows,
representing the polite surprise of the university at the efforts of such as
I."
"Come along, and I'll treat you!"
"Very well.
It will help me home, for I feel the chilly fog from the meadows of
Cardinal as if death-claws were grabbing me through and through. As Antigone said, I am neither a dweller
among men nor ghosts. But, Arabell=
a,
when I am dead, you'll see my spirit flitting up and down here among
these!"
"Pooh!
You mayn't die after all. Y=
ou are
tough enough yet, old man."
It was night at Marygreen, and the rain of the
afternoon showed no sign of abatement.
About the time at which Jude and Arabella were walking the streets of
Christminster homeward, the Widow Edlin crossed the green, and opened the b=
ack
door of the schoolmaster's dwelling, which she often did now before bedtime=
, to
assist Sue in putting things away.
Sue was muddling helplessly in the kitchen, for
she was not a good housewife, though she tried to be, and grew impatient of
domestic details.
"Lord love 'ee, what do ye do that yourse=
lf
for, when I've come o' purpose! Yo=
u knew
I should come."
"Oh--I don't know--I forgot! No, I didn't forget. I did it to discipline myself. I have scrubbed the stairs since eight
o'clock. I MUST practise myself in my household duties. I've shamefully neglected them!"
"Why should ye? He'll get a better school, perhaps be a
parson, in time, and you'll keep two servants.
'Tis a pity to spoil them pretty hands."
"Don't talk of my pretty hands, Mrs.
Edlin. This pretty body of mine ha=
s been
the ruin of me already!"
"Pshoo--you've got no body to speak of! You put me more in mind of a sperrit. But there seems something wrong to-nigh=
t, my
dear. Husband cross?"
"No. He never is. He's gone to bed early."
"Then what is it?"
"I cannot tell you. I have done wrong to-day. And I want to=
eradicate
it... Well--I will tell you this--=
Jude
has been here this afternoon, and I find I still love him--oh, grossly! I cannot tell you more."
"Ah!" said the widow. "I told 'ee how 'twould be!"<= o:p>
"But it shan't be! I have not told my husband of his visit=
; it
is not necessary to trouble him about it, as I never mean to see Jude any
more. But I am going to make my
conscience right on my duty to Richard--by doing a penance--the ultimate th=
ing.
I must!"
"I wouldn't--since he agrees to it being
otherwise, and it has gone on three months very well as it is."
"Yes--he agrees to my living as I choose;=
but
I feel it is an indulgence I ought not to exact from him. It ought not to have been accepted by
me. To reverse it will be terrible=
--but
I must be more just to him. O why =
was I
so unheroic!"
"What is it you don't like in him?"
asked Mrs. Edlin curiously.
"I cannot tell you. It is something... I cannot say.
The mournful thing is, that nobody would admit it as a reason for fe=
eling
as I do; so that no excuse is left me."
"Did you ever tell Jude what it was?"=
;
"Never."
"I've heard strange tales o' husbands in =
my
time," observed the widow in a lowered voice. "They say that when the saints wer=
e upon
the earth devils used to take husbands' forms o' nights, and get poor women
into all sorts of trouble. But I d=
on't
know why that should come into my head, for it is only a tale... What a wind and rain it is to-night!
"No, no!
I've screwed my weak soul up to treating him more courteously--and it
must be now--at once--before I break down!"
"I don't think you ought to force your
nature. No woman ought to be expec=
ted
to."
"It is my duty. I will drink my cup to the dregs!"=
Half an hour later when Mrs. Edlin put on her
bonnet and shawl to leave, Sue seemed to be seized with vague terror.
"No--no--don't go, Mrs. Edlin," she
implored, her eyes enlarged, and with a quick nervous look over her shoulde=
r.
"But it is bedtime, child."
"Yes, but--there's the little spare room-=
-my
room that was. It is quite ready.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Please stay, Mrs. Edlin!--I shall want =
you in
the morning."
"Oh well--I don't mind, if you wish. Nothing will happen to my four old wall=
s,
whether I be there or no."
She then fastened up the doors, and they ascen=
ded
the stairs together.
"Wait here, Mrs. Edlin," said Sue. "I'll go into my old room a moment=
by
myself."
Leaving the widow on the landing Sue turned to=
the
chamber which had been hers exclusively since her arrival at Marygreen, and
pushing to the door knelt down by the bed for a minute or two. She then arose, and taking her night-go=
wn
from the pillow undressed and came out to Mrs. Edlin. A man could be heard snoring in the room
opposite. She wished Mrs. Edlin
good-night, and the widow entered the room that Sue had just vacated.
Sue unlatched the other chamber door, and, as =
if
seized with faintness, sank down outside it.
Getting up again she half opened the door, and said
"Richard." As the word c=
ame
out of her mouth she visibly shuddered.
The snoring had quite ceased for some time, bu=
t he
did not reply. Sue seemed relieved, and hurried back to Mrs. Edlin's
chamber. "Are you in bed, Mrs.
Edlin?" she asked.
"No, dear," said the widow, opening =
the
door. "I be old and slow, and=
it
takes me a long while to un-ray. I=
han't
unlaced my jumps yet."
"I--don't hear him! And perhaps--perhaps--"
"What, child?"
"Perhaps he's dead!" she gasped. "And then--I should be FREE, and I=
could
go to Jude! ... Ah--no--I forgot
HER--and God!"
"Let's go and hearken. No--he's snoring again. But the rain and the wind is so loud th=
at you
can hardly hear anything but between whiles."
Sue had dragged herself back. "Mrs. Edlin, good-night again! I am sorry I called you out." The widow retreated a second time.
The strained, resigned look returned to Sue's =
face
when she was alone. "I must do
it--I must! I must drink to the
dregs!" she whispered. "Richard!" she said again.
"Hey--what?
Is that you, Susanna?"
"Yes."
"What do you want? Anything the matter? Wait a moment." He pulled on some articles of clothing,=
and
came to the door. "Yes?"=
"When we were at Shaston I jumped out of =
the
window rather than that you should come near me. I have never reversed that treatment ti=
ll now--when
I have come to beg your pardon for it, and ask you to let me in."
"Perhaps you only think you ought to do
this? I don't wish you to come aga=
inst
your impulses, as I have said."
"But I beg to be admitted." She waited a moment, and repeated, &quo=
t;I
beg to be admitted! I have been in
error--even to-day. I have exceeded my rights.
I did not mean to tell you, but perhaps I ought. I sinned against you
this afternoon."
"How?"
"I met Jude!
I didn't know he was coming.
And--"
"Well?"
"I kissed him, and let him kiss me."=
"Oh--the old story!"
"Richard, I didn't know we were going to =
kiss
each other till we did!"
"How many times?"
"A good many.
I don't know. I am horrifie=
d to
look back on it, and the least I can do after it is to come to you like
this."
"Come--this is pretty bad, after what I've
done! Anything else to confess?&qu=
ot;
"No."
She had been intending to say: "I called him my darling love.&q=
uot;
But, as a contrite woman always keeps back a little, that portion of the sc=
ene
remained untold. She went on: &quo=
t;I am
never going to see him any more. He
spoke of some things of the past: and it overcame me. He spoke of--the
children. But, as I have said, I am
glad--almost glad I mean--that they are dead, Richard. It blots out all that life of mine!&quo=
t;
"Well--about not seeing him again any
more. Come--you really mean this?&=
quot; There was something in Phillotson's ton=
e now
which seemed to show that his three months of remarriage with Sue had someh=
ow
not been so satisfactory as his magnanimity or amative patience had anticip=
ated.
"Yes, yes!"
"Perhaps you'll swear it on the New
Testament?"
"I will."
He went back to the room and brought out a lit=
tle
brown Testament. "Now then: So help you God!"
She swore.
"Very good!"
"Now I supplicate you, Richard, to whom I
belong, and whom I wish to honour and obey, as I vowed, to let me in."=
"Think it over well. You know what it means. Having you back in the house was one
thing--this another. So think
again."
"I have thought--I wish this!"
"That's a complaisant spirit--and perhaps=
you
are right. With a lover hanging ab=
out, a
half-marriage should be completed. But I
repeat my reminder this third and last time."
"It is my wish! ... O God!"
"What did you say 'O God' for?"
"I don't know!"
"Yes you do!
But ..." He gloomily
considered her thin and fragile form a moment longer as she crouched before=
him
in her night-clothes. "Well, I thought it might end like this," he
said presently. "I owe you no=
thing,
after these signs; but I'll take you in at your word, and forgive you."=
;
He put his arm round her to lift her up. Sue started back.
"What's the matter?" he asked, speak=
ing
for the first time sternly. "You shrink from me again?--just as
formerly!"
"No, Richard--I--I--was not thinking--&qu=
ot;
"You wish to come in here?"
"Yes."
"You still bear in mind what it means?&qu=
ot;
"Yes.
It is my duty!"
Placing the candlestick on the chest of drawer=
s he
led her through the doorway, and lifting her bodily, kissed her. A quick look of aversion passed over her
face, but clenching her teeth she uttered no cry.
Mrs. Edlin had by this time undressed, and was
about to get into bed when she said to herself: "Ah--perhaps I'd bette=
r go
and see if the little thing is all right.
How it do blow and rain!"
The widow went out on the landing, and saw that
Sue had disappeared. "Ah! Poor
soul! Weddings be funerals 'a b'li=
eve
nowadays. Fifty-five years ago, co=
me
Fall, since my man and I married! =
Times
have changed since then!"
Despi=
te
himself Jude recovered somewhat, and worked at his trade for several
weeks. After Christmas, however, he
broke down again.
With the money he had earned he shifted his
lodgings to a yet more central part of the town. But Arabella saw that he was not likely=
to do
much work for a long while, and was cross enough at the turn affairs had ta=
ken
since her remarriage to him. "=
;I'm
hanged if you haven't been clever in this last stroke!" she would say,
"to get a nurse for nothing by marrying me!"
Jude was absolutely indifferent to what she sa=
id,
and indeed, often regarded her abuse in a humorous light. Sometimes his mood was more earnest, an=
d as
he lay he often rambled on upon the defeat of his early aims.
"Every man has some little power in some =
one
direction," he would say. &qu=
ot;I
was never really stout enough for the stone trade, particularly the
fixing. Moving the blocks always u=
sed to
strain me, and standing the trying draughts in buildings before the windows=
are
in always gave me colds, and I think that began the mischief inside. But I felt I could do one thing if I ha=
d the
opportunity. I could accumulate ideas, and impart them to others. I wonder if the founders had such as I =
in
their minds--a fellow good for nothing else but that particular thing? ...<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I hear that soon there is going to be a
better chance for such helpless students as I was. There are schemes afoot for making the
university less exclusive, and extending its influence. I don't know much about it. And it is too late, too late for me!
"How you keep a-mumbling!" said
Arabella. "I should have thou=
ght you'd
have got over all that craze about books by this time. And so you would, if you'd had any sens=
e to
begin with. You are as bad now as =
when
we were first married."
On one occasion while soliloquizing thus he ca=
lled
her "Sue" unconsciously.
"I wish you'd mind who you are talking
to!" said Arabella indignantly.
"Calling a respectable married woman by the name of that--"=
; She remembered herself and he did not c=
atch
the word.
But in the course of time, when she saw how th=
ings
were going, and how very little she had to fear from Sue's rivalry, she had=
a
fit of generosity. "I suppose=
you
want to see your--Sue?" she said.
"Well, I don't mind her coming.
You can have her here if you like."
"I don't wish to see her again."
"Oh--that's a change!"
"And don't tell her anything about me--th=
at
I'm ill, or anything. She has chosen her course. Let her go!"
One day he received a surprise. Mrs. Edlin came to see him, quite on he=
r own
account. Jude's wife, whose feelin=
gs as
to where his affections were centred had reached absolute indifference by t=
his
time, went out, leaving the old woman alone with Jude. He impulsively asked how Sue was, and t=
hen
said bluntly, remembering what Sue had told him: "I suppose they are s=
till
only husband and wife in name?"
Mrs. Edlin hesitated. "Well, no--it's different now. She's begun it quite lately--all of her=
own
free will."
"When did she begin?" he asked quick=
ly.
"The night after you came. But as a punishment to her poor self. He
didn't wish it, but she insisted."
"Sue, my Sue--you darling fool--this is
almost more than I can endure! ... Mrs.
Edlin--don't be frightened at my rambling--I've got to talk to myself lying
here so many hours alone--she was once a woman whose intellect was to mine =
like
a star to a benzoline lamp: who saw all MY superstitions as cobwebs that she
could brush away with a word. Then
bitter affliction came to us, and her intellect broke, and she veered round=
to
darkness. Strange difference of se=
x, that
time and circumstance, which enlarge the views of most men, narrow the view=
s of
women almost invariably. And now t=
he
ultimate horror has come--her giving herself like this to what she loathes,=
in her
enslavement to forms! She, so sens=
itive,
so shrinking, that the very wind seemed to blow on her with a touch of
deference... As for Sue and me whe=
n we
were at our own best, long ago--when our minds were clear, and our love of
truth fearless--the time was not ripe for us!
Our ideas were fifty years too soon to be any good to us. And so the
resistance they met with brought reaction in her, and recklessness and ruin=
on
me! ... There--this, Mrs. Edlin, i=
s how I
go on to myself continually, as I lie here.
I must be boring you awfully."
"Not at all, my dear boy. I could hearken to 'ee all day."
As Jude reflected more and more on her news, a=
nd
grew more restless, he began in his mental agony to use terribly profane
language about social conventions, which started a fit of coughing. Presently there came a knock at the door
downstairs. As nobody answered it =
Mrs. Edlin
herself went down.
The visitor said blandly: "The
doctor." The lanky form was t=
hat of
Physician Vilbert, who had been called in by Arabella.
"How is my patient at present?" asked
the physician.
"Oh bad--very bad! Poor chap, he got excited, and do blasp=
eam terribly,
since I let out some gossip by accident--the more to my blame. But there--you must excuse a man in suf=
fering
for what he says, and I hope God will forgive him."
"Ah.
I'll go up and see him. Mrs.
Fawley at home?"
"She's not in at present, but she'll be h=
ere
soon."
Vilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto tak=
en
the medicines of that skilful practitioner with the greatest indifference
whenever poured down his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay b=
y events
that he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician's face, and so forci=
bly,
and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried downstairs
again. At the door he met Arabella=
, Mrs.
Edlin having left. Arabella inquir=
ed how
he thought her husband was now, and seeing that the doctor looked ruffled,
asked him to take something. He
assented.
"I'll bring it to you here in the
passage," she said. "The=
re's nobody
but me about the house to-day."
She brought him a bottle and a glass, and he
drank.
Arabella began shaking with suppressed
laughter. "What is this, my d=
ear?"
he asked, smacking his lips.
"Oh--a drop of wine--and something in
it." Laughing again she said:=
"I
poured your own love-philtre into it, that you sold me at the agricultural
show, don't you re-member?"
"I do, I do!
Clever woman! But you must =
be
prepared for the consequences."
Putting his arm round her shoulders he kissed her there and then.
"Don't don't," she whispered, laughi=
ng
good-humouredly. "My man will hear."
She let him out of the house, and as she went =
back
she said to herself: "Well! W=
eak
women must provide for a rainy day. And
if my poor fellow upstairs do go off--as I suppose he will soon--it's well =
to
keep chances open. And I can't pic=
k and
choose now as I could when I was younger.
And one must take the old if one can't get the young."
The l=
ast
pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader's attenti=
on
are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude's bedroom when leafy summer
came round again.
His face was now so thin that his old friends
would hardly have known him. It was
afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling her hair, which
operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in the flame of a candle
she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing lock. When she had finished this, practised a
dimple, and put on her things, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping, though his po=
sition
was an elevated one, his malady preventing him lying down.
Arabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down =
and
waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse.
Certain sounds from without revealed that the =
town
was in festivity, though little of the festival, whatever it might have bee=
n,
could be seen here. Bells began to=
ring,
and the notes came into the room through the open window, and travelled rou=
nd
Jude's head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herse=
lf:
"Why ever doesn't Father come!"
She looked again at Jude, critically gauged his
ebbing life, as she had done so many times during the late months, and glan=
cing
at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Stil=
l he
slept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the door
noiselessly, and descended the stairs.
The house was empty. The
attraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away the o=
ther
inmates long before.
It was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and hastened r=
ound
into Chief Street, and when near the theatre could hear the notes of the or=
gan,
a rehearsal for a coming concert being in progress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate
College, where men were putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball =
in
the hall that evening. People who =
had
come up from the country for the day were picnicking on the grass, and Arab=
ella
walked along the gravel paths and under the aged limes. But finding this place rather dull she
returned to the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the conce=
rt,
numerous dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female companion=
s,
crowding up likewise. When the doo=
rs were
closed, and the concert began, she moved on.
The powerful notes of that concert rolled forth
through the swinging yellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops,=
and
into the still air of the lanes. T=
hey
reached so far as to the room in which Jude lay; and it was about this time
that his cough began again and awakened him.
As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes
still closed: "A little water, please."
Nothing but the deserted room received his app=
eal,
and he coughed to exhaustion again--saying still more feebly: "Water--=
some
water--Sue--Arabella!"
The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again: "Throat=
--water--Sue--darling--drop
of water--please--oh please!"
No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a
bee's hum, rolled in as before.
While he remained, his face changing, shouts a=
nd
hurrahs came from somewhere in the direction of the river.
"Ah--yes!
The Remembrance games," he murmured. "And I here. And Sue defiled!"
The hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint
organ notes. Jude's face changed m=
ore:
he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving:
"Let the day perish wherein I was born, a=
nd
the night in which it was said, There is a man-child conceived."
("Hurrah!")
"Let that day be darkness; let not God re=
gard
it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no =
joyful
voice come therein."
("Hurrah!")
"Why died I not from the womb? Why did i not give up the ghost when I =
came
out of the belly? ... For now shou=
ld I
have lain still and been quiet. I =
should
have slept: then had I been at rest!"
("Hurrah!")
"There the prisoners rest together; they =
hear
not the voice of the oppressor... =
The
small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is=
in misery,
and life unto the bitter in soul?"
Meanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover
what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obs=
cure
nook into the quad of Cardinal. It=
was
full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight with flowers and other
preparations for a ball here also. A
carpenter nodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of
Jude's. A corridor was in course of
erection from the entrance to the hall staircase, of gay red and buff bunti=
ng. Waggon-loads
of boxes containing bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and
the great staircase was covered with red cloth.
She nodded to one workman and another, and ascended to the hall on t=
he
strength of their acquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and
decorating for the dance.
The cathedral bell close at hand was sounding =
for
five o'clock service.
"I should not mind having a spin there wi=
th a
fellow's arm round my waist," she said to one of the men. "But Lord, I must be getting home
again--there's a lot to do. No dan=
cing
for me!"
When she reached home she was met at the door =
by
Stagg, and one or two other of Jude's fellow stoneworkers. "We are just going down to the
river," said the former, "to see the boat-bumping. But we've called round on our way to as=
k how
your husband is."
"He's sleeping nicely, thank you," s=
aid
Arabella.
"That's right. Well now, can't you give yourself half =
an
hour's relaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us? 'Twould do you good."
"I should like to go," said she. "I've never seen the boat-racing, =
and I
hear it is good fun."
"Come along!"
"How I WISH I could!" She looked longingly down the street. "Wait a minute, then. I'll just run up and see how he is now.=
Father is with him, I believe; so I can=
most
likely come."
They waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as b=
efore,
having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the procession of boats =
was
to pass. When she reached the bedr=
oom
she found that her father had not even now come.
"Why couldn't he have been here!" she
said impatiently. "He wants t=
o see
the boats himself--that's what it is!"
However, on looking round to the bed she
brightened, for she saw that Jude was apparently sleeping, though he was no=
t in
the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, an=
d she went
to the bed. His face was quite whi=
te,
and gradually becoming rigid. She
touched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm. She listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near thirty years had ce=
ased.
After her first appalled sense of what had
happened the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the river
reached her ears; and in a provoked tone she exclaimed, "To think he
should die just now! Why did he di=
e just
now!" Then meditating another
moment or two she went to the door, softly closed it as before, and again d=
escended
the stairs.
"Here she is!" said one of the
workmen. "We wondered if you =
were coming
after all. Come along; we must be =
quick
to get a good place... Well, how is
he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don't want to drag 'ee aw=
ay
if--"
"Oh yes--sleeping quite sound. He won't wake yet," she said hurri=
edly.
They went with the crowd down Cardinal Street,
where they presently reached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their
view. Thence they passed by a narr=
ow
slit down to the riverside path--now dusty, hot, and thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the =
grand procession
of boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the strea=
m,
as they were lowered from the perpendicular.
"Oh, I say--how jolly! I'm glad I've come," said Arabella=
. "And--it can't hurt my husband--my=
being
away."
On the opposite side of the river, on the crow=
ded
barges, were gorgeous nosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in
green, pink, blue, and white. The =
blue
flag of the boat club denoted the centre of interest, beneath which a band =
in
red uniform gave out the notes she had already heard in the death-chamber.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with
ladies, watching keenly for "our" boat, darted up and down. While she regarded the lively scene som=
ebody
touched Arabella in the ribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert.
"That philtre is operating, you know!&quo=
t;
he said with a leer. "Shame o=
n 'ee
to wreck a heart so!"
"I shan't talk of love to-day."
"Why not?
It is a general holiday."
She did not reply.
Vilbert's arm stole round her waist, which act could be performed
unobserved in the crowd. An arch
expression overspread Arabella's face at the feel of the arm, but she kept =
her eyes
on the river as if she did not know of the embrace.
The crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her fri=
ends
sometimes nearly into the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the
horse-play that succeeded, if the imprint on her mind's eye of a pale, stat=
uesque
countenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little.
The fun on the water reached the acme of
excitement; there were immersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and
won, the pink and blue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the
people who had watched began to move.
"Well--it's been awfully good," crie=
d Arabella. "But I think I must get back to my=
poor
man. Father is there, so far as I =
know;
but I had better get back."
"What's your hurry?"
"Well, I must go... Dear, dear, this is awkward!"
At the narrow gangway where the people ascended
from the riverside path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into o=
ne
hot mass--Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motion=
less,
Arabella exclaiming, "Dear, dear!" more and more impatiently; for=
it
had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alo=
ne
an inquest might be deemed necessary.
"What a fidget you are, my love," sa=
id
the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no n=
eed
of personal effort for contact.
"Just as well have patience: there's no getting away yet!"=
It was nearly ten minutes before the wedged
multitude moved sufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the street
Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her further that
day. She did not go straight to he=
r house;
but to the abode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the
poorer dead; where she knocked.
"My husband has just gone, poor soul,&quo=
t;
she said. "Can you come and l=
ay him
out?"
Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two wom=
en
went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pou=
ring
out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages.
"I must call at the sexton's about the be=
ll,
too," said Arabella. "It is just round here, isn't it? I'll meet you at my door."
By ten o'clock that night Jude was lying on the
bedstead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the jo=
yous
throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at Cardinal.
Two days later, when the sky was equally
cloudless, and the air equally still, two persons stood beside Jude's open
coffin in the same little bedroom. On
one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They were both looking at Jude's face, =
the
worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin being red.
"How beautiful he is!" said she.
"Yes.
He's a 'andsome corpse," said Arabella.
The window was still open to ventilate the roo=
m,
and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without.=
From a distance came voices; and an app=
arent
noise of persons stamping.
"What's that?" murmured the old woma=
n.
"Oh, that's the doctors in the theatre,
conferring honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more
illustrious gents of that sort. It=
's
Remembrance Week, you know. The ch=
eers
come from the young men."
"Aye; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here."
An occasional word, as from some one making a
speech, floated from the open windows of the theatre across to this quiet
corner, at which there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble
features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and=
Horace,
and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few ot=
her
volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust
where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between
his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously; and thei=
r reverberations
travelled round the bed-room.
Arabella's eyes removed from Jude to Mrs.
Edlin. "D'ye think she will
come?" she asked.
"I could not say. She swore not to see him again."
"How is she looking?"
"Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you saw=
her
last. Quite a staid, worn woman
now. 'Tis the man--she can't stoma=
ch un,
even now!"
"If Jude had been alive to see her, he wo=
uld
hardly have cared for her any more, perhaps."
"That's what we don't know... Didn't he ever ask you to send for her,=
since
he came to see her in that strange way?"
"No.
Quite the contrary. I offer=
ed to
send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was."
"Did he forgive her?"
"Not as I know."
"Well--poor little thing, 'tis to be beli=
eved
she's found forgiveness somewhere! She
said she had found peace!
"She may swear that on her knees to the h=
oly
cross upon her necklace till she's hoarse, but it won't be true!" said
Arabella. "She's never found =
peace
since she left his arms, and never will again till she's as he is now!"=
;