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Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy

Part 4 out of 9

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in a voice of such extraordinary tenderness that it hardly seemed
to come from the same woman who had just told her story so lightly.
"I would rather offend anybody in the world than you, I think!"

"I don't know whether I am vexed or not. 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 cruelly, 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 know.
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 suppose you wouldn't like----"

"Oh no, no," she answered, "I would 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?"


"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," said 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 wine in old bottles.
The mediaevalism of Christminster must go, be sloughed off,
or Christminster itself will have to go. To be sure, at times
one couldn't help having a sneaking liking for the traditions
of the old faith, as preserved by a section of the thinkers there
in touching and simple sincerity; but when I was in my saddest,
rightest mind I always felt,

'O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs 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 that is glorious;
though I was resentful because I couldn't get there."
He spoke gently, and resisted his impulse to pique her on
to tears.

"It is an ignorant place, except as to the townspeople, artizans, drunkards,
and paupers," she said, perverse still at his differing from her.
"THEY 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 Christminster
was intended for when the colleges were founded; a man with a passion
for learning, but no money, or opportunities, or friends. But you were
elbowed off the pavement by the millionaires' sons."

"Well, I can do without what it confers. I care for something higher."

"And I for something broader, truer," she insisted.
"At present intellect in Christminster is pushing one way,
and religion the other; and so they stand 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 PROTEGEE
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 you 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 sure 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, and I won't vex you, Jude,"
she replied, in the tone of a child who was going 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 had 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 the 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. Then I had the volume rebound.
My university friend Mr. ---- --but never mind his name, poor boy--
said it was an excellent idea. I know that reading it afterwards made it
twice as interesting as before, and twice as understandable."

"H'm!" said Jude, with a sense of sacrilege.

"And what a literary enormity this is," she said, as she glanced
into the pages of Solomon's Song. "I mean the synopsis at the head
of 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 thing to think of the four-and-twenty elders,
or bishops, or whatever number they were, 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 falsify 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 almost petulant at his rebuke,
and her eyes moist. "I WISH I had a friend here to support me;
but nobody is ever on my side!"

"But my dear Sue, my very dear Sue, I am not against you!"
he said, taking her hand, and surprised at her introducing
personal feeling into mere argument.

"Yes you are, yes you are!" she cried, 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 such verses as this:
'Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women?'
is supremely ridiculous!"

"Well then, let it be! You make such a personal matter of everything!
I am--only too inclined just now to apply 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 their 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 silliness of crying about what was written in an old
book like the Bible.

"I won't disturb your convictions--I really 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 be 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 enough 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 to be VERY nice with each other,
aren't we, and never, never, vex each other any more?" She looked
up trustfully, 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 forgiving
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! ...
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 would make;
for their difference of opinion on conjectural subjects only drew
them closer together on matters of daily human experience.
She was nearer to him than any other woman he had ever met, and he could
scarcely believe that time, creed, or absence, would ever divide him
from her.

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 fire anew. About six o'clock he awoke completely,
and lighting a candle, found that her clothes were dry.
Her chair being 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 touching
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 seeing me?" she asked.
"The town 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 from that school!
Things seem so different in 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, who 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 use on rising to go
to his work every day before the household was astir.

"Now a dew-bit to eat with it," he said; "and off we go.
You can have a regular breakfast when you get there."

They went quietly out of the house, Jude accompanying her to the station.
As they departed 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 say 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 cold one!"

"Jude," she said. "I know one of them. And you mustn't!"


"You mustn't love me. You are to like me--that's all!"

Jude's face became so full of complicated glooms that hers was agitated
in sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carriage 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 morning 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 comfortable 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 me that when you were out of sight I
felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman 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. You do forgive your thoughtless friend
for her cruelty? and won't make her miserable by saying you don't?--Ever, SUE.

It would be superfluous to say what his answer was; and how he thought
what he would have 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 meaning 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 solicitude he sent another note,
suggesting that he should pay her a visit some Sunday, the 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 state 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 and 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 him 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 beside her and taking her hand.
"How is this! You couldn't write?"

"No--it wasn't that!" she answered. "I did catch a bad cold--
but I could have written. Only I wouldn't!"

"Why not?--frightening me like this!"

"Yes--that was what I was afraid of! But I had decided not to write
to you any more. They won't have me back at the school--that's why I
couldn't write. Not the fact, but the reason!"


"They not only won't have me, but they gave me a parting piece of advice----"


She did not answer directly. "I vowed I never would tell you, Jude--it is
so vulgar and distressing!"

"Is it about us?"


"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! It did just OCCUR to me
to regard you in the way they think I do, but I hadn't begun to.
I HAVE recognized that the cousinship was merely nominal,
since we met as total strangers. But my marrying you,
dear Jude--why, of course, if I had reckoned upon marrying you l
shouldn't have come to you so often! And I never supposed you
thought of such a thing as marrying me till the other evening;
when I began to fancy you did love me a little. Perhaps I ought
not to have been so intimate with you. It is all my fault.
Everything is my fault always!"

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 felt at all. Oh, you have been unkind to me--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 was quite aware that you did not suspect till within
the last meeting or two what I was feeling about you. I admit
that our meeting as strangers prevented a sense of relationship,
and that it was a sort of subterfuge to avail myself of it.
But don't you think l deserve a little consideration for concealing
my wrong, very 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 Sue's undemonstrative
regard of him might not inconceivably have changed its temperature.
Some men would have cast 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 his 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 recognized 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 feelings of love were deprecated by her.
He went on to something else.

"This will blow over, dear Sue," he said. "The training-school authorities
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, and there was
no more intimate conversation. Jude left in the afternoon,
hopelessly unhappy. But he had seen her, and sat with her.
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 rather 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! 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 repentant SUE.

Jude forgave her straightway, and asked her to call for him
at the cathedral works when she came.


MEANWHILE a middle-aged man was dreaming a dream of great beauty
concerning the writer of the above letter. He was Richard Phillotson,
who had recently removed from the mixed village school at Lumsdon
near Christminster, to undertake a large boys' school in his native
town of Shaston, 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 Church 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, might conduct one of the girls'
schools adjoining his own; for which purpose he had 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 some 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 interested him as being a comparatively unworked mine;
practicable to those who, like himself, had lived in lonely spots
where these remains were abundant, and were seen to compel inferences
in startling contrast to accepted views on the civilization of
that time.

A resumption of this investigation was the outward 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, instead 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 grown quite late--
to near midnight, indeed--and the light of his lamp, shining from 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 study, 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 the 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 enough till latterly, was not true now.
What he was regarding was not history. They 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 tied 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 historic 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. They 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 received 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 engagement 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 see 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.
There was another of her as a young woman, her dark eyes
and hair making a very distinct and attractive picture of her,
which just disclosed, too, the thoughtfulness that lay behind her
lighter moods. It was a duplicate of the one she had given Jude,
and would have given to any man. Phillotson brought it half-way
to his lips, but withdrew it in doubt at her perplexing phrases:
ultimately kissing the dead pasteboard with all the passionateness,
and more than all the devotion, of a young man of eighteen.

The schoolmaster's was an unhealthy-looking, old-fashioned face,
rendered more old-fashioned by his style of shaving.
A certain gentlemanliness had been imparted to it by nature,
suggesting an inherent wish to do rightly by all.
His speech was a little slow, but his tones were sincere enough
to make his hesitation no defect. His greying hair was curly,
and radiated from a point in the middle of his crown.
There were four lines across his forehead, and he only wore
spectacles when reading at night. It was almost certainly
a renunciation forced upon him by his academic purpose,
rather than a distaste for women, which had hitherto kept him
from closing with one of the sex in matrimony.

Such silent proceedings as those of this evening 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 intolerable to the self-conscious master in his present
anxious care for Sue, making him, in the grey hours of morning,
dread to meet anew the gimlet glances, lest they 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 length,
his patience being sorely tried, he set out one Saturday afternoon
to pay her an unexpected call. There the news of her departure--
expulsion as it might almost have been considered--was flashed 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
proved nothing, a natural delicacy being as ample a reason for silence
as any degree 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 aware 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 Sue 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 since 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 school
master in the nave of the building, saw, moreover, that he was
coming to speak to him, he felt no little embarrassment;
which Phillotson's own embarrassment prevented his observing.

Jude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the spot
where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of sackcloth
for 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 speak 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 training school, and her coming to me?"


"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 other 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 respond
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."


"And I wish with all my soul I could!"

Phillotson trembled, and his naturally pale face 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 marry her, or someone,
and settle down, instead of living in lodgings here and there,
I should be glad!"

What he had really meant was simply that he loved 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 questions must be put to make false
assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal."

Jude explained readily; giving the whole series of adventures,
including the night at the shepherd's, her wet arrival at his lodging,
her indisposition from her immersion, their vigil of discussion,
and his seeing her off next morning.

"Well now," said Phillotson at the conclusion, "I take it as your final word,
and I know I can believe you, 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 interview 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
him 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 leading up
from the North Gate, walking as if no way looking for him.
Speedily overtaking her he remarked that 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. Finding 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.


"That you are often not so nice in your real 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 seem 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. l 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 happens,
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, and 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!"

"No, dear darling!" cried Jude passionately. He tried to take
her hand, but she withdrew it. Their old relations 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 writing, 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!" 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 Sue did not choose to answer.

"I suppose she--your wife--is--a very pretty 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....
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 like 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 before 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--"
For once Sue was as miserable as he, in her attempts to keep herself free
from emotion, and her less than half-success.

"Don't cry, dear!" he implored.

"I am--not crying--because I meant to--love 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 her rallying. "No, no!"
she said, drawing back stringently, and wiping her eyes.
"Of course not! It would 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 distracting 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 telling me before. But, after all, it doesn'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, and 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 is bad for cousins
to marry. And--I am engaged to somebody else. As to our going
on together as we were going, in a sort of friendly way,
the people round us would have made it unable to continue.
Their 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 where 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 she was mistress
of herself again; and before they parted she had almost regained
her vivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner,
and her second-thought attitude of critical largeness towards
others of her age and sex.

He could speak more freely now. "There were several reasons
against 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 marriage."

"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!"

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 bitters in one dish.

"Oh, but there can't be anything in it!" 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
when they met, even if they met less frequently than before.
Their parting was in good friendship, and 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.


TIDINGS 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 first note:

MY DEAR JUDE,--I have something to tell 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. We had intended, as you know, to wait
till I had gone through my course of training and obtained
my certificate, so as to assist him, if necessary, in the teaching.
But he generously says he does not see any object in waiting,
now I am not at the training school. It is so good of him,
because the awkwardness of my situation has really come about by my
fault in getting expelled.

Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn't refuse!--
Your affectionate cousin,


Jude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast;
and kept on drinking tea because his mouth was so dry.
Then presently he went back to his work and laughed the usual bitter
laugh of a man so confronted. Everything seemed turning to satire.
And yet, what could the poor girl do? he asked himself:
and felt worse than shedding tears.

"O Susanna Florence Mary!" he said as 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
him off-hand, as in fulfilment of an ordinary engagement.
Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awkward 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 wishes 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 the only married relation I have here
on the spot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing,
which he isn't. I hope you won't think it a trouble? I have been
looking at the marriage service in the prayer-book, and it seems
to me very humiliating that a giver-away should be required at all.
According to the ceremony as there printed, my bridegroom 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,


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 no house of your own,
you do not marry from your school friend's, but from mine. It would be
more proper, I think, since I am, as you say, the person nearest related
to you in this part of the world.

I don'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, JUDE.

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 him seem as her lover! If Sue had written
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 warm 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 the wedding; and Jude decided,
after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the following Saturday,
which would allow of a ten days' stay in the city prior to the ceremony,
sufficiently representing a nominal residence of fifteen.

She arrived by the ten o'clock train on the day aforesaid,
Jude not going to meet her at the station, by her special request,
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
emotional crises might, he thought, have weighed with her in this.
When he came home to dinner she had taken 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 know;
their conversation was mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill.
Phillotson came frequently, but mostly when Jude was absent.
On the morning of the wedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday,
Sue and her cousin had breakfast together for the first and last
time during this curious interval; in his room--the parlour--
which he had hired for the period of Sue's residence. Seeing, as
women do, how helpless he was in making the place comfortable,
she bustled about.

"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.


"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 wished they had not put such
confidence in their new view of things, and had taken breakfast apart.
What oppressed Jude was the thought that, having done a wrong thing of this
sort himself, he was aiding and abetting the woman he loved in doing
a like wrong thing, instead of imploring 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
would have of indulging in unceremonious companionship.
By the irony of fate, and the curious trick 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?"


"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."

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 had 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 of 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 that 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 oughtn'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 arrived
sooner than Sue expected. There was nothing really to demur
to in her leaning on Jude's arm; but she withdrew her hand,
and Jude thought that Phillotson had looked surprised.

"We have been doing such a funny thing!" 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 she accordingly did,
telling him how they had marched up to the altar.

Seeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude said 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 collar appeared stiffer than it had been for the previous
twenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and thoughtful,
and altogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict that he would
make a kind and considerate husband. That he adored Sue was obvious;
and she could almost be seen to feel that she was undeserving his adoration.

Although the distance was so short he had hired a fly from the Red Lion,
and six or seven women and children had gathered by the door when they
came out. The schoolmaster 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, nobody 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 off."

"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 business 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 perverse 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 tender pity for him at having made him practise it?
He could perceive that her face was nervously set, and when they
reached 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 cousin must feel, whom she
need not have had there at all, than from self-consideration.
Possibly she would 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 surrounded 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 affair, 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 that 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 their natures which wore out women's
hearts and lives.

When her foot was on the carriage-step she turned 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 in her hand.
She looked into his eyes with her own tearful ones, and her lips suddenly
parted as if she were going to avow something. But she went on; and whatever
she had meant 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 they were gone,
and fearing that he might be tempted to drown his misery in
alcohol 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 feeling grew and stirred. The moment that the clock
struck the last of his working hours he threw down his
tools and rushed homeward. "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 clock
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 going to the front door, and softly setting it open, he returned
to the room and sat as watchers sit on Old-Mid-summer 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;
their 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 faint nebulae only. It was a new beginning of Sue's history.
He projected his mind 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 all 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 Sue 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 his old aunt was dangerously
ill at Marygreen, which intelligence almost coincided
with a letter from his former employer at Christminster,
who offered him permanent work of a good class if he would
come back. The letters were almost a relief to him.
He started to visit Aunt Drusilla, 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
lingering on for weeks or months, though little likelihood.
He wrote to Sue informing her of the state of her aunt,
and suggesting that she might like to see her aged relative alive.
He would meet her at Alfredston 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.
Next morning, according, he went on to Christminster, intending to
return to Alfredston soon enough to keep the suggested appointment
with Sue.

The city of learning wore an estranged look, and he had lost all feeling
for its associations. Yet as the sun made vivid lights and shades
of the mullioned architecture of the facades, 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 artistic pursuit. Hers was now the city phantom,
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 the ritualistic church of St. Silas.
The 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 inquire his address.

Jude went on to the stone-yard where he had worked.
But the old sheds and bankers 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 homeward 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 care
of either by himself or others; and during this half-hour he met
Tinker Taylor, the bankrupt ecclesiastical ironmonger, at Fourways,
who proposed that they should adjourn to a bar and drink together.
They walked along the street till they stood before one of the great
palpitating centres of Christminster life, 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. The bar had been
gutted and newly arranged throughout, mahogany fixtures having
taken the place of the old painted ones, while at the back
of the standing-space there were stuffed sofa-benches. The
room was divided into compartments in the approved manner,
between which were 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 till 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 precious liquids that Jude did not know the name of,
in bottles of topaz, sapphire, ruby and amethyst. The moment was
enlivened by the entrance of some customers into the next compartment,
and the starting of the mechanical tell-tale of monies received,
which emitted a ting-ting every 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 glass 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 the other side.
Abby was in a black gown, with white linen cuffs and a broad white collar,
and her figure, more developed 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 being visible to him
only in the mirror behind her; which also reflected the faces of the men
she was attending to--one of them a handsome, dissipated young fellow,
possibly an undergraduate, who had been relating to her an experience of some
humorous sort.

"Oh, Mr. Cockman, now! How can you tell such a tale to me in my 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 retort provoked a laugh
at his expense.

"Come!" said he, "I'll have a curacao; 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 archness 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 he's there still."

Jude's eyes grew rounder.

"What made you part from him?"

"Don't you ask questions, and you won't hear 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 taking 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 case, 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; till a humorous impudence
sparkled in her eyes, and she spoke.

"Well, I'm blest! I thought you were underground years ago!"


"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 afford,
for old acquaintance' sake!"

"Thanks, Arabella," said Jude without a smile. "But I don't want anything
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?"


"Not even a reverend?"


"Nor so much as a rather reverend dissenting 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
the 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 young 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 like a lady's eyebrow,
came and asked for a curiously compounded drink, and Arabella
was obliged to go and attend to him. "We can't talk here,"
she said, stepping back a moment. "Can't you wait till nine?
Say yes, and don't be a fool. I can get off duty two hours
sooner than usual, if I ask. I am not living in the house
at present."

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.
Here 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 implication that she had not wished to disturb him,
and had really supposed him dead. However, there was only one thing now to
be done, and that was to play a straightforward part, the law being the law,
and 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 impossible 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 intervention 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 could
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 they expressed their
sentiments and desires less euphemistically, laughing in a lackadaisical 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 in 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 and a hat with a black feather.
"l live quite near," she said, taking his arm, "and can let myself in by a
latch-key at any time. What arrangement do you want to come to?"

"Oh--none in particular," he answered, 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. "l 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
agreement 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 we are going towards the station,
suppose we take the nine-forty train to Aldbrickham? We shall
be there in little more than half an hour, and nobody will know
us for one night, and we shall be quite free to act as we choose
till we have made up our minds whether we'll make anything public
or not."

"As you like."

"Then wait till I get two or three things. This is my lodging.
Sometimes 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 entered
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 Christminster, the only two occupants of a compartment
in a third-class railway-carriage. 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 night before.
When they came out of the station she found that she still
had half an hour to spare before she was due 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 into Christminster years
ago full of plans!"

"Well, whatever the road is I think my time 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 perhaps we had better part here. I'd sooner not walk up
Chief Street with you, since we've come to no conclusion
at all."

"Very well. But you said when we were getting up this morning that you
had something you wished to tell me before I left?"

"So I had--two things--one in particular. But you wouldn't
promise to keep it a secret. I'll tell you now if you promise?
As an honest woman I wish you to know it.... It was what I began
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 used to say that he was
much taken with my looks, and he kept pressing me to marry him.
I never thought of coming back to England again; and being out there
in Australia, with no home of my own after leaving my father, I at
last agreed, and did."

"What--marry him?"


"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?"

"So in talking of 'your husband' to the bar 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! 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!
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.
Finding 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 morning 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 lay 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 started 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 thought 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 last 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 thought 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 train and try to find you--in case--
in case----"

"I did think of my promise to you, dear, continually! I shall never break
out again as I did, I am sure. I may have 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--
too 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 that her spirit could be seen trembling
through her limbs, he felt heartily ashamed 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 who, 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 such, how she
lived as such, passed his comprehension as he regarded her

"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 account all this way! At what an early time 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 carriage he had lately got out of with another--
where they sat down side by side, Sue between him and the window.
He regarded the delicate lines of her profile, and the small,
tight, applelike convexities of her bodice, so different from
Arabella's amplitudes. Though she knew he was looking at her she
did not turn to him, but kept her eyes forward, as if afraid that by
meeting his 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 innocence, 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 final 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 her 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
light which temporarily banished the shady associations of the
earlier time.

Sue talked; but Jude noticed that she still kept 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 eccentric; and his being
almost a stranger to her now would have made it irksome to both.
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 something 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 speeches 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 nothing;
for Sue naturally did such things as those.

"Well, you have my good wishes now as always, 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 head sadly.

When they reached the lone cottage under the firs, 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 whole of the time we
lived together. I brought her home to that house."

She looked at it. "That to you was what the school-house at Shaston
is to me."

"Yes; but I was not very happy there as you 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, even 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--
which elderly husbands don't do in general.... If you think I am not happy
because he's too old for me, you are wrong."

"I don't think anything against him--to you 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 cause or other,
in taking Phillotson as a husband, Sue felt that she had done
what she ought not to have done.

They plunged into the concave field on the other side of which rose
the village--the field wherein Jude had received a thrashing
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.
"She's downstairs, if you'll believe me!" cried the widow. "Out 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 that 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 longer,
to please nobody! 'Tis more than flesh and blood can bear,
to be ordered to do this and that by a feller that don't know half
as well as you do your-self! ... 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 have 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 Lord!--
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,
but is very crusty and queer now, you know."

"Oh no--it isn't that!" said Sue, trying to dry her eyes.
"I don't mind her roughness one bit."

"What is it, then?"

"It is that what she says is--is true!"

"God--what--you don't like him?" asked Jude.

"I don't mean that!" she said hastily. "That I ought--
perhaps 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 aunt took
rather kindly to Sue, telling her that not many young women newly
married would have come so far to see a sick old crone like her.
In the afternoon Sue 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 Jude helped her into it, perhaps with unnecessary attention,
for she looked at him prohibitively.

"I suppose--I may come to see you some day, 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 was 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 himself in attempts
to extinguish by fasting his passionate tendency to love her.
He read sermons on discipline, and hunted up passages in Church
history that treated of the Ascetics of the second century.
Before he had returned from Marygreen to Melchester there arrived
a letter from Arabella. The sight of it revived a stronger feeling
of self-condemnation for his brief return to her society than for his
attachment to Sue.

The letter, he perceived, bore a London postmark instead
of the Christminster one. Arabella informed him that a few
days after their parting in the morning 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 find her; and had taken
a free, fully-licensed public, in Lambeth, where he wished
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 pounds a month, which could be
easily doubled.

As he had said that he loved her very much still, 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, and 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 place to bear,
while the proximity of Shaston to Melchester might afford him the glory
of worsting the Enemy in a close engagement, such as was deliberately sought
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 circumstances.

He now returned with feverish desperation to his study for the priesthood--
in the recognition that the single-mindedness of his aims, and his

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