ey 4 pe "Sa 4 mie PR eS Marrero ery papa pra ere ar ert natal g al il oe ee ha ie a University of Virginia Library F PR4746 .A1 1923A 0 Aie eeens wor Ce ‘ Ttast ee Do — pear ed | : | f | LON BE Se Oe ee eeere e P | i a : : ' ; : | : : on i { Fi |eae er ee lgwnma rg oe pane x Fe ae ee ee “Tove — ; ae at eee in ore Pe ee ee Og ee et eS Seal anesSe i : aan ! i i : , ‘ : i f } | “if } | : : i : : ' | 4 | a a atsPpa ee come bl : rece ee re ns ae ee EI ee cheat oe ee ets pe H : i 5 c DI bd i ij iY ay ' L. iv ' hs : H x ; PA Me ¢ x 0 . f Ni / i A ; | ; | 5 ' , ’ ox ag A a penn ie myeee MaOebeE RN’ LT BON A RY OFLTHE WORLD'S BEST BOGIES JUDE THE OBSCURE The publishe rs will be pleased to send, upon request, an illustrated folder setting forth the pu rpose and Scope of THE MODERN LIBRARY, and /isting each volume in the series. Every reader of books will find titles he has been looking for, handsomely printed, in definitive editions, and at an unusually low price. « : s i i i | : | : = 5 . a a_ , . . So c 2 eT = ans we te Spee Pe Se ee ~ a aS Laer ola at ot 0 ee ee een ae veg eee ee DN pote hs pg ON a elt ay ee i i | , ; ’ ie ; if ) Me A ah obedJUDE THE OBSCURE by ft THOMAS HARDY THE ’ MODERN, LIBRARY Yr NEW YORK L Vet J ; | | : % ‘| i A ‘opOO et ee ee ee tela Pee si rn ae ao es PT LN at cet ene TOE Tee i ee epee cet ee ae COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY HARPER & BROTHERS COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THOMAS HARDY ' f PAL Uy) cae a-v i... eeepe yt lo a ei en a ee eel Random House IS THE PUBLISHER OF imo MODERN LI BRAweay BENNETT A. CERF - DONALDS. KLOPFER -: ROBERT K. HAAS Manufactured in the United States of America By H. WolffSeen ELT LOL LO LOLOLOLE LOL ere Preface e Par history of this novel (whose birth in its present shape has been much retarded by the necessities of periodical publication) is briefly as follows. The scheme was jotted down in 1890, from notes made in 1887 and on- ward, some of the circumstances being suggested by the death of a woman in the former year. The scenes were revisited in October, 1892; the narrative was written in outline in 1892 and the spring of 1893, and at full length, ,as it now appears, from August, 1893, onward into the | next year; the whole, with the exception of a few chapters, being in the hands of the publisher by the end of 1894. It was begun as a serial story in HaArPEr’s MAGAZINE at the end of November, 1894, and was continued in monthly parts. But, as in the case of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, the magazine version was, for various reasons, abridged and modified in some degree, the present edition being the first in which the whole appears as originally written. And in the difficulty of coming to an early decision in the mat- ter of a title, the tale was issued under a provisional name—two such titles having, in fact, been successively ) & ‘ i i { ! } : | ; | 1 a et Pa °° ET ng ee UES SR mi I LS nny a Bh LE At ee eeo enandinee te ae Doe ho ci eee ene mere a a A fa a Re SN EE hw Rt eg ee ee re oe De ea a "4 4 1 a a eet alae a ere IE eae Meee Tonia toe UD Ee. THEE 0 RS CURSE adopted. The present and final title, deemed on the whole | the best, was one of the earliest thought of. For a novel addressed by a man to men and women of full age, which attempts to deal unaffectedly with the fret and fever, derision and disaster, that may press in the wake of the strongest passion known to humanity, and to! point, without a mincing of words, the” tragedy of un- fulfilled aims,“I am not aware that there is anything in the handling to which exception can be taken. Like former productions of this pen, Jude the Obscure is simply an endeavor to give shape and coherence to a. series of seemings, or personal impressions, the question of their consistency or their discordance, of their per- manence or their transitoriness, being regarded as not of the first moment. August, 1895. & 4 ELSEWHERE NT PART vil At CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN ES ee ee eS a aan te! Secs “os ss a ee = er = * i . NS ne rae aie a me ee ene Soe Oe (3af . +) PS297 fer ept donernipliin o7 Xe ( a a ae ti El lhe : | ) i : 5 LOL LOE AA A AE Ge ELE EO OE ALLE AE A LE, << a Ra lhey sy a M Part One % FU A Aan. At Marygreen Rn se ne i ae eae, “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 ?” PO a a a el = EaDRAS ee HE school-master was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry. The miller at Cresscombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his goods 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 school-house had been partly furnished by the managers, and the only cum- bersome article possessed by the master, in addition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had bought at an auction during the year in which he thought 2 ov - f ty | it i i Y L ; ; t i | " a , bon + 4 y a p i ra i MS | f 5 Ny : RiPe dd Se n a CATT BEATE oe te ates ae ne De ent ee a JUBE THE OBSCURE of learning instrumental music. But the enthusiasm having waned, he had never acquired any skill in playing, and the © purchased article had been 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 school-master himself were standing in perplexed attitudes in the parlor before the instrument. The master had remarked that even if he got it into the cart he should not know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the city he was bound for, since he was only going into temporary lodg- ings just at first. A little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assist- ing 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 hey 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 wasedecided that a deputation should wait on the boys 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 the practicability of the suggested shelter, and the boy and the school-master were left standing alone. “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 school-master’s life, but one who had attended the night : : ;AT MARYGREEN school only during the present teacher’s term of office. The regular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood at the pres- ent moment afar off, like certain historic disciples, indis- posed to any enthusiastic volunteering of aid. The boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr. Phillotson had bestowed on him as a part- ing gift, and admitted that he was sorry. “So am J,” said Mr. Phillotson. “Why do you go, sir?” asked the boy. “Ah—that would be a long story. You wouldn’t under- stand my reasons, Jude. You will, perhaps, when you are older.” “T think I should now, sir.” “Well—don’t speak of this everywhere. You know what a university is, and a university degree? It is the necessary hall-mark of a man who wants to do anything in teaching. My scheme, or dream, is to be a university graduate, and. then to be ordained. By going to live at Christminster, or near it, I shall be at headquarters, so to speak, and if my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that being on the spot will afford me a better chance of carrying it out than I should have elsewhere.” The smith and his companion returned. Old Miss Faw: ley’s fuel-house was dry, and eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the instrument standing-room there. It was accordingly left in the school till the evening, when more hands would be available for removing it, and the school-master gave a final glance around. 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. “T sha’n’t forget you, Jude,” he said, smiling, as the cart 5 Pe ee ee ne en aera OP ne pe Pe iain ee ee ee cee. errr: ae al uw \ eS M tas ar =™, €}*. eI ere ek Ta wae a Se ee LC a te tt len ae ons Te) Shee eae ne eee a ee ee Lk keel De oo ie be Foie J UDE “Tr Het OBS CUR & moved off. “Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to ani- mals and birds, and read all you can. And if ever you come to Christminster, remember you hunt me out for old ac- quaintance’ sake.” The cart creaked across the green, and disappeared 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 fe well-cover to begin lowering the bucket, he paused and leaned with his fas ehead and arms against the frame-work, 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 itself, and from his present posi- tion appeared as a long circular perspective ending in a - shining disk of quivering water at a distance of a hundred feet. There 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 school-master 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 foggy, and the boy’s breathing | unfurled itself as a thicker fog upon the still and heay y air. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden outcry: “Bring on that water, will ye, you idle young harlican!” It came from an old woman who had emerged from her 6AT MARY GREEN door towards the garden-gate of a green-thatched cottage not far off. The boy quickly waved a signal of assent, 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 moment 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. 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 re“ mained absolutely unchanged. Many of the thatched and dormered dwelling-houses had been pulled down of late years, and many trees felled on the green. Above all, the original church, hump-backed, wood-turreted, and quaintly hipped, had been 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 neighborhood. In place of it a tall new building of German-Gothic design, un- familiar to English eyes, had been erected on a new piece of ground by a certain obliterator of, historic 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 reccirded on the green and level grass-plot that had immengorially been the churchyard, the obliterated graves being commemorated by ninepenny cast-iron crosses warranted to last five years. | fiw . ; ie remain” e ere i a : « e a ttl a > A Je id “ wegen) eae Te ee de i os SC CDA al a a8 ak | ane ROD a ee, OO TN (aaa an te arial fi - y‘ ~ ‘ . Ps * Cie Dearing We ce ee rd pre — = ee ee a I | << ele te aa - Ya - < = OO eee eee ee Pen Saati a ee ee Me he Ca eit Ua an on as ae J U DE LEE O,B 'S € UaAR E 2 SmenDER 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 blu board, on which was painted in yellow letters, “Dru- ae Baker.” Within the little lead panes of the winddw—this being one of the few old houses left—were five bottles of sweets, and three buns on a plate of the willow \attern. While emptying the buckets at the back of the house he could hear an animated conversation in progress within- doors between his great-aunt, the Drusilla of the signboard. and some other, villagers. Having seen the school-master depart, they were summing up particulars of the event. and indulging in predictions of his future. “And who’s he?” asked one, comparatively a stranger, when the boy entered. “Well ye med ask it, Mrs. Williams. He’s my great- nephew—come since you was last this way.” The old inhabitant who ansywered was a tall, gaunt woman, who spoke tragically on; the most trivial subject, and gave a phrase of her conversation to each auditer in turn. “He come from Mellstiock, down in South ‘Vessex, about a year ago—worse/ luck for ‘n, Belin«a” (turning to the right), “where hi/s father was living, and was took wi’ the shakings for death, and died in two days, as you know, Caroline” (turning to the left). “It would ha’ been a blessing if Goddy-mighty had took thee too, wi’ thy mother ‘ and father, poor useless boy! But I’ve got him here to stay 8AT MARYGREEN with me till I can see what's to be done with un, though I be obliged to let him earn any penny he can. Just now he’s a-scaring of birds for Farmer Troutham. It keeps un out of mischty. Why do ye turn away, Jude?” she con- tinued, as the boy, feeling the impact of their glances like slaps upon his face, moved aside. The local washer-woman replied that it was perhaps a very good plan of Miss or Mrs. Fawley’s (as they called her indifferently ) to have him with her—‘to kip ‘ee com- pany in your loneliness, fetch water, shet the winder-shet- ters o' nights, and help in the bit o” baking.” Miss Fawley doubted it. . . . “Why didn’t ye get the school-master to take ’ee to Christminster wi un, and make a scholar of ’ee,” she continued, in frowning pleas- antry. “I’m sure he couldn’t ha’ took a better one. The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather. His cousin Sue is just the same—so I’ve heard; but I have not seen the chile for years, though she was born in this place, within these four walls, as it happened. My niece and her husband, after they were 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 chile, don’t you ever marry. "Tisn’t for the Fawleys to take that step any more. She, their only one, was like a chile oO my own, Belinda, till the split come! Ah, that a little maid should know such changes!” Jude, finding *he general attention again centring on™ himself, went out 49 the bakehouse, where he ate the cake provided for his breakfast. The end of his spare time had now arrived, and emerging from the garden by getting | over the hedge 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 cornfield. This a . < 6 Be Oe Cn te i a A am Yoel : EG Naat RIN PR et ee eee a he ee PR aA a odin dei ieee maaan TL y a a fe De ete et te ee ae eee Re alam Son kee ee eet eee? in cam nase gern ey cf AF al" at Fee ee ee vet Pd ee eee ~ to 5 \ Se ee at a ep EEE EE DLO A aA et Lh terial ae oe n - So Rete aes hn ae es ee De eee eT ee eee Lee ee Sethe a a at hs JUDE THE OBSCURE J vast concave was the scene of his labors 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 shut out the actual verge and accentuated the soli- tude. 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 he had come, trodden now by he hardly knew whom, though once by many of his own dead family. “How ugly it is here!” he murmured. The fresh harrow-lines seemed to stretch like the chan- nellings in a piece of new corduroy, lending a meanly util- itarian air to the expanse, taking away its gradations, and depriving it of all history beyond that of the few recent months, though in every clod and stone there really lin- gered 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, gayety, horse-play, bickerings, weariness. Groups of gleaners had squatted in the sun on every square yard. Love-matches that had populated the ad- joining hamlet had been made up there between reaping and carrying. Under the hedge which divided the field from a distant plantation girls had given themselves to lovers who would not turn their heads to look at them 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-time after fulfill- ing 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 10AT MARYGREEN 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 pecking, and rose and went away on their leisurely wings, burnished like tassets of mail, afterwards w heeling back and regarding him warily, and descending to feed at a more re spectful distanent He sounded "he clacker till his arm ached, and at length his heart grew sympathetic with the birds’ thwarted Aes sires. They seemed, like himself, to be living in a world ech did_not want them. Why ‘should he frighten them away? They toc ok upon them more and more the aspect of gentle friends and pensioners—the eas 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 enough for us all, Farmer Troutham can afford to let you have some. Eat, then, my dear little birdies, and make a good meal!” They stayed and ate, inky spots on the nut-brown soil, and Jude enjoyed their appetite. A magic thread of fellow- feeling united his own life with theirs. Puny and sorry as those lives were, they much resembled his own. His clacker he had by this time thrown away from him, as being a mean and sordid instrument, offensive both to the Bards and to himself as their friend. All at once he became conscious of a smart blow upon his buttocks, followed by a loud clack, w hich announced to his sur- prised senses that the clacker had been the instrument of offence used. The birds and Jude started up simulta- neously, and the dazed eyes of the latter beheld the farmer hak § tI ws ay a= i , Py Cenc id br Soe ™ ee ° EN ERA Larne a IOUT ER LS Ick ll Sant, ge conmenmen es a : : “ entre i ati ant a a EP PL ee ee eee fine ee —s tee re od 5 fi a ira “ 5 2 SOT ie Te EE eat ene nf eee Betee en ce ac a ee NE te - = . gl « OE ee ee et FUDE THE OBSCURE 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, young man? ‘Eat, dear birdies, indeed! Ill tickle your breeches, and see if you say, ‘Eat, dear birdies, again in a hurry! And you've been idling at the school-master’s too, instead of coming here, ha’n’'t ye, hey? That's how you earn your sixpence a © day for keeping the rooks off my corn!” Whilst saluting Jude’s ears with this impassioned rhet- oric, 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 with the flat side of Jude’s own rattle, till the field echoed with the blows, which 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; and he still smacked the whirling urchin, : the clacks of the instrument continuing to resound all | seross the field, and as far as the ears of distant workers—‘ who gathered thereupon that Jude was pursuing his busi-; ness of clacking with great assiduity—and echoing from: the brand-new church tower just behind the mist, towards’ 12AT MARYGREEN 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 along the trackway weeping—not from the pain, though that was keen enough; not from 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 hence 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 round- about track behind a high hedge and across a pasture. Here 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 was a boy who could not himself bear to hurt anything. He had never brought home a nest of young birds without lying awake in misery half the night after, and often reinstating them and the nest in their original place the next morn- ing. He could scarcely bear to see trees cut down or lopped, from a fancy that it hurt them; and late pruning, when the sap was up and the tree bled profusely, had been a positive grief to him in his infancy. This weakness of oS . ‘" ed we a ala ee Re te Se eerie eee See ean we eek Se ce te es Ls) Tee —_— as ey | Oh ee A ay _» roa ~ Dn ae ee er abn Ps wet ar Sh EE mt ag, among oh i ae - ee eA PL le ee Soe Peed Deitel eae ee eee TA B va" q ey Te aan ma IE al lati ST a hn a id te nr — “ is + aL Ok RA ee TE 4 JUDE THE O'BS CURE character, as it may be called, suggested that he was the sort of man who was born to ache a good deal before the « fall of the curtain upon his unnecessary life should signify | that all was well with him again. He carefully picked his way on tiptoe among the earthworms without killing a single one. On entering the cottage he found his aunt selling 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 like 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 look so deedy! Farmer Troutham is not so much better than myself, come to that. But ’tis as Job said, ‘Now they that are younger than I have me in derision, whose 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 coming 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 eat what F armer 14 ' 7A aa o AT MARYGREEN Troutham planted. Of course you was wrong in that. Jude, Jude, why didstn’t go off with that school-master of thine to Christminster or somewhere? But, oh no—poor ornary 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 meditating in silence. “Lord! you ought to know where the city of Christ- minster is. Neara-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?” “Couldn't I go to see him?” “Lord, no! You didnt grow up hereabout, or you wouldn’t ask such as that. We've never had anything to do with folk in Christminster, nor folk in Christminster with we.” Jude went out, and feeling more than ever his exist- ence to be an undemanded one, he lay down upon his back on a heap of litter near the pig-sty. The fog had by this time become more translucent, and the position of the sun could be seen through it. He pulled his straw hat over his face, and peered through the interstices of the plaiting at the white brightness, vaguely reflecting. Growing up brought responsibilities, he found. Events did not rhyme quite as he had thought. Nature’s logic was too horrid for him to care for. That mercy towards one set of creatures was cruelty towards another sickened_his_sense_of har- mony. As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with 165 Oe ee ET ee ed ak aceaeimreimiameiinimne ey aL tea ee Te Sn Ao eR na oat te a fd ; Serta, hele ao ee re ee cote Senin fet kr it ee io i ete UM Wel LB Io a ee ene ieee a a Lee far ee fe oe eet en een aed i 9 » Le age SJUD Ei ,O;B*S Crugn S ,a sort of shuddering, he perceived. All around you there |seemed to be something glaring, garish, rattling, and the ‘noises and glares hit upon the little cell ealleds your life, ‘and shook t and scorched it. , If he could only prevent himself growing up! He did not Be 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 his 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 northeastward, in the very direction where lay that field in which Jude had so disgraced him- self. There was something unpleasant about | the coinci- dence for the moment, but the fearsomeness of this fact rather increased 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 which had witnessed his punishment in the morn- ing, never swerving an inch from the path, and climbing up the long and fediolis 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. ee a ee a hee tN IIE a ls art EL pee HE Nf ne ET SS ee et eee) ond een Se mes , i : 1AT MARY GREEN 3 Nor 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 “ridgew ay —the Icknield Street and original Roman ead through the district. This ancient track ran east and west for many miles, and down almost to within living memory 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 east and west, to a distance of.forty or Hifty 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 old barn of reddish-gray brick and tile. It was known as the Brown House by the people of the locality, He was about to pass it, when he perceived 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 into the ridgeway and drew towards the barn. When he had wistfully watched the workmen for some Le RS “a rr ‘ Ye t aac ee en ne ee ale oi ama nT ee TT +f i 7 x ie Mek in“g er Se rc Ee s wears - hited ea ada calc a eat ne i Oe ee ee Re OR eae ie i at ga a eeoil — a “a eT tr a ee one ee a a mz ee Cts oS a laa —e ! oe TS er ed eee = oe sos = a4 Ee es wee eae OE oS en ee ee ee iad ph On ba ee et JUDE THE OBSCURE time he took courage, and ascended the ladder till he stood beside them. “Well, my lad, and what may you want up here?” “I wanted to know where the city of Christminster is, if you please.” “Christminster is out across there, by that clump. You can See it—at least you 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 labor, 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 could he see the far-off city. He descended 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 that 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 once this attractive city of which he had been told. But even if he waited here it was 18 ee ae WO or.AT MARYGREEN hardly likely that the air would clear before night. Yet he was loath to leave the spot, for the northern expanse be- came 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 forwarded. People said that if you prayed things sometimes came to you, evert though they sometimes did not. He had read in a tract that a man who had begun to build a church, and had no money to finish it, knelt down and prayed, and the money came in by the next post. Another man tried the same ex- periment, and the money did not come; but he found after- wards that the breeches he knelt 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. He then seated himself again and waited. In the course of ten or fifteen minutes the thinning mist dissolved al- together from the eastern horizon, as it had already done elsewhere, and about a quarter of an hour before the time of sunset the westward clouds parted, the sun’s position be- ing partially uncovered, and the beams streaming out in visible lines between two bars of slaty cloud. The boy im- mediately 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, 19 a “a! , amet = a" 4 a fa pe Oe ee eit in Sah DPR Halle - ee i! is ieee Teal Sf ee ee nl a < - es z eae ee a ee eee AT J ee aa ape eae — ; srs? 2 ‘ 1 ot CT I a ka os fe Nena eT TC Ot os ine ee ee BOE ee Ee aie sae ee ee ed at Po ee= ee a La ee a i I ale rt hs am ee Le ot _ aa a ce ee Se ee Se ee ee en ee eT ae te MMe wares BT S ae rh TUDE THE OBSCURE freestone-work, and varied outlines that were faintly re-) > vealed. It was Christminster, unquestionably; either di- rectly seen, or miraged in the peculiar atmosphere. The speciator gazed on and on till the windows and vanes lost their shine, going out almost suddenly like ex- tinguished candles. The vague city became veiled in mist. Turning to the west, he saw that the sun had disappeared. The foreground of the scene had grown funereally dark, and near objects put on the hues and shapes of chimeeras. He anxiously descended the ladder and started home-. ward at a run, trying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, Apollyon lying in wait for Christian, or of the captain with the bleeding hole in his forehead, and the corpses round him that remutinied every night on board | the bewitched ship. He knew that he had grown out of} belief in these horrors, yet he was glad when he saw the} church tower and the 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 roundabout 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 the 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 tideless time. But his dreams were as gigantic as his surroundings were small.— : Through the solid barrier of cold cretaceous upland to : ; j k 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 imagina- | tion and less of the diamond merchant’s in his dreams | ZOi = ee ee nent et ofa i AT MARYGREEN thereof than in those of the Apocalyptic writer. And the city acquired a tangibility, a permanence, a hold on his life, 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, but living among \ the more thoughtful and mentally shining ones therein. y In sad wet seasons, though he knew it must rain at_T 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 mile or two farther, he would see the night lights of the city. It would be necessary to come back alone, but even that consideration did not deter him, for he could throw a little manliness 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 northeast sky, accompanied by a wind from the same ‘quarter, made the occasion dark enough. He was re- ‘ warded; but what he saw was not the lamps in rows, as he ‘had half expected. No individual light was visible, only a ‘ halo or glow-fog overarching 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 i where the school-master might be—he who never com-~ ’ municated with anybody at Marygreen now; who was as 21 \ x. a a ea a ee ee een DOO ny aR nce te Le ofp a RP - alias Salen eee tre re [ieee ae oes Dok. Orns Se a eerie te te teen Pena ar Ee eee ae aes - TEAM Re ok ol dean oxen: Ts \ can Lee “ee 3a ea IRR a arta Oc te EL nl aria chee bt Fe Ce rin ee cert ein en Dai a ee JUDE Vinh E 0 BS CMR & it dead to them here. In the glow he seemed to see Phillot- son promenading at ease, like one of the forms in Nebu- chadnezzar’s furnace. He had heard that breezes travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour, and the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the northeast, 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, float- ing along the streets, pulling around the weather-cocks. touching Mr. Phillotson’s face, being breathed by him, and now you be 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 are 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 brow 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 bottom of the immense declivity. They had a load of coals behind them—a fuel that could ouly be got into the upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a second 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 9 drink round. They were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude’ 92AT MARYGREEN addressed them, inquiring if they had come from Christ- minster. “Heaven forbid, with this load!” said they. “The place I mean is that one yonder.” He was getting so romantically 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 my- self, and no doubt it med be Christminster.” Here a little book of tales which Jude had tucked up under his arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it grew dark, slipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while he picked it up and straight- ened the leaves. “Ah, young man,” he observed, “you'd have to get your head screwed on tother way before you could read what they read there.” “Why?” asked the boy. “Oh, they never look at anything that folks like we can understand,” the carter continued, by way of passing the time. “On’y foreign tongues used before the Flood, when no two families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-hawk will whir. Tis all learning 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 there’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 with no corrupt 23 =. ow” Yenc °c Sah ee OP heh ara meny SE I OE OR A lone omen es Ply Se Coat Yo Pe - a f a ~ : ee ated ie oe ee fa ee Ree ee eee te De i on md pee eye . Pl ee PPS leet a a ag eee o Cee fae — - os el | * een ee ee ee eee Sele ee dete Wes a Ji 7 . a tn Saeee ee re eee Pre ae ot SSre La a ee emniinie N Po LC a om d > oe ey eT Eee ee ee Oe ee ee eo a) .UDE THE 7-OF8ts CC URE passions, they'll do it, if it ean be done, and polish un off like 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 hess-aside, Bobby; here’s sorrat j } coming. . . -~Yeu-must-mind that I be a-talking of the » } college life. Em lives on a lofty level; there’s no gainsaying A \it, though I myself med not think m ich of “em. As we be , here in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their SN : ; ; — } minds—noble-minded men enough, no doubt—some on no Y ’em—able to earn hundreds by thinking out loud. Andsome » 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—a main street—that ha’n’t another like it in the world. I should think I did know a little about Christminster!” By this time the horses had recovered breath and 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 tell him as they moved on more yet of the city—its towers and halls and churches. The wagon turned into a cross-road, where- upon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said he only wished he could talk half as well about Christminster as he. “Well, ’tis oonly what has come in my way, said the warter, unboastfully. “ve never been there, no more than cB ee ee | : | } ' \ we = — a ee OR Tt LS PTO a Pi — —o af Yancy AUT) (MS AUR Y G R EEN you; but I’ve picked up the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-getting about the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one can't help hear- ing of things. A friend o’ mine, that used to clane the boots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was in his prime, why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years.” Jude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply that he forgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the yearning of his heart to find some- thing to anchor on, to cling t colleen _some place which he couleteall admirable, Should he find that place in this city if he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, with- out fear of farmers, or hinderance, or ridicule, he could watch and wait, and set himself to some mighty under- taking like the men of old of whom he had heard? As the halo Hed 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 farther on. “It_is a place that teachers of men spring from and go to.” j “It is what you may call a castle, manned by scholar- ‘ship and religion.” After this figure he was silent a long while, till he added, “It would just suit me.” ° oy p a ee seary . lo. = . ee es an Se te Vy ete fe BD ee re Senco CT LOI Wee a ON Ue oe Ee fa ee et a ee) severe eet oe a i EID Be po ee Ce eee! ry a } > A “ ¥ Oe pe ie cs - Se ogceed et eo a ae eet a wen ae ere Ae hen ee ees he ee See JUDE THE-OBS CURE “Tll 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 kept him in a dog-trot which was giving him a stitch in the side. “I think you’d better drop behind, my young man. Now Y1l tell you what Ill do. [ll get you the grammars, and» give you a first lesson, if you'll remember, at every house | in the village, to recommend Physician Vilbert’s golden | ointment, life-drops, and female pills.” “Where will you be with the grammars?” “I shall be passing here this day fortnight at precisely | this hour of five-and-twenty minutes past seven. My | movements are as truly timed as those of the planets in their courses.” ; “Here I'll be to meet you,” said Jude. i “With orders for my medicines?” “Yes, Physician.” Jude then dropped behind, waited a few minutes to re- cover 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 w ere] people meeting and nodding to him—smiled with : that} singularly Beautinnl Perdingon 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 na-; tures, 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 thither among the surrounding hamlets as the! physician’s agent in advance. On the evening appointed | 28 an ene oaAT MARYGREEN he stood motionless 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 sur- prise of Jude on striking into his pace, which the pedes- trian did not diminish by a single unit of force, the latter seemed hardly to recognize his young companion, though with the lapse of the fortnight the evenings had grown light. Jude thought it might perhaps be owing to his wear- ing another hat, and he saluted the physician with dignity. “Well, my boy?” said the latter, abstractedly. “Ive 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?” 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 make sure of the truth; and he repeated, in a voice of dry misery, “You haven'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 vouch- safed to children, showed him all at once what shoddy A * rm > ee a ee ee ee ee eT Te eee i A e Se ae Te eee ete a RD ne i ace tne ee Mee SOE ee alle lala aaa ales 7 Tg He - ot en aae ry aN reer a ee a Ne RR eee talent nn neal be ee eee Ee ee ee ea ne eee eee ak, Re ee ee MSs ee I es a JUDE FH wes CURE humanity the quack was made of. There was to be no intellectual light from this source. The leaves dropped from his imaginary crown of laurel; he turned to a gate, leaned against it, and cried bitterly. ey ee ti ony The disappointment was followed by an interval of | blankness. He might, perhaps, have obtained grammars from Alfredston, it to do that required money, and a) knowledge of what books to order; and though physi cally comfor able: 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} school-master, and ask him to be so kind as to get him the } grammars in Christminster? He might slip a letter in- | side the case of the instrument, aid: it would be sure to reach the desired eyes. Why not ask him to send any old second-hand copies, which would have the charm of be- ing 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 in- side the packing-case, directed to his much-admired Ley EE iy 7 friend, being afraid to reveal the operation to his aunt } Drusilla, lest she should discover his motive, and compel } him to abandon his scheme. The piano was despatched, and Jude waited days and weeks, calling every morning at the cottage post-office before his great-aunt was stirring. At last a packet did indeed arrive at the village, and he saw from the ends of it that it contained two thin books. He took it away into a lonely place, and sat down on a felled elm to open it. 30 Sagara POT AgAT MARYGREEN Ever since his first ecstasy or vision of Christminster and its possibilities, Jude had meditated much and curi- ously on the probable sort of process that was involved in turning the expressions of one language into those of an- other. Site concluded that_a_grammar of the required tongue w ould contain ~ primarily, a rule, prescription, or clew 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 tl ieee of the foneiont 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 idea! completeness. Thus he assumed that the words of the required language w vere_alw ays to be found somewhere latent }in the | W onde of the given language by those w ho EE Vthe . art to uncover them, such art being furnished by_ 1e books afor es said. “Witen 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 scarcely believe his eyes The book was an old one—thirty years old, soiled, scale bled wantonly over with a strange name in every variety of enmity to the letter-press, aiid marked at random with dates twenty years earlier than his own day. But this was not the cause of Jude’s amazement. He learned for the first time that there was no law of transmutation, as in his innocence he had supposed (there was, in some de- gree, but the grammarian did not recognize it), but that every word in hath Latin and Greek was to be individually committed to memory at the cost of years of plodding. Jude flung down the books, Jay backward along the broad trunk = the elm, and was an utterly miser able boy 31 < oy a p Fae bs Oe ae, Fem a a Oe te ee a ne eke ON eee ee EE Fe ee ae Fe ee ee ese Th Sata laa bP as ae Bn io Oe a ae oe ‘oe aea Ce as a Ca ae IE al eri OL a a coe bs eee ea ee ee te JUDE THE OBSCURE for the space of a quarter of an hour. As he had often done before, he pulled his hat over his face and watched ; the sun peering insidiously at him through the interstices | of the straw. This was Latin and Greek, ‘then, was it, this | ee a A ; grand delusion! The charm he had supposed in store for} him was really a labor like that of Israel in Egypt. What brains they must have in Ghristmanster and the | great schools, he presently thought, to learn words one by one up to tens 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 wished he had never seen a book, that he might never see an- | other, that he had never been born. Somebody might have come along that way who would | 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 does; and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish himself out of the world. Doane 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 receipt of the books, Jude had grown callous to the shabby trick played him by the dead languages. In fact, his disappointment ~~AT MARYGREEN at the nature of those tongues had, after a while, been the means of still further glorifying the erudition of Christ- minster. To acquire languages, departed or living, in spite of such obstinacies as he now knew them inherently to possess, was a herculean performance which gradually led him on to a greater interest in it than in the presup- posed patent process. The mountain-weight of material under which the ideals lay in those dusty volumes called the classics piqued him into a dogged, mouselike subtlety of attempt to move it piecemeal. He had endeavored to make his presence tolerable 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 been purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a creaking cart with a whity-brown tilt obtained for a few pounds more, and in this turnout it became Jude’s busi- ness thrice a week to carry loaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotters immediately around Marygreen. The singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less in the con- veyance itself than in Jude’s manner of conducting it along its route. Its interior was the scene of most of Jude’s education by “private study.” As soon as the horse had learned the road and the houses at which he was to pause a while, 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 Cesar, Virgil, or Horace, as the case might be, in his purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure of labor that would have made a tender- hearted pedagogue shed tears; yet somehow getting at the meaning of what he read, and divining rather than (. Bs al “ . Von ET rn Fe RC SO REE cate r) , ho en es 7 pitta aa - i aid Pm en it It Cee dn ands Pea nae 4 el I = - es Te Cir ee ee EOE Sal gk a eT TR Pe ee ee nae EO Bie ee Se Si rae A Dee On a ee On a Le ee 2 eo Pena = J > TeCLOT LLL OS LN LER ERA A AT TOR, BEE as ene 91 al NS ‘ -- - . _ et eT, el ose teen TE ee Bh wore a Re ee ee Ae ee ont al meine aed JUDE THE OBSCURE 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 Delphine editions, because they were superseded, and } therefore cheap. But, bad for idle school- boys, it did so happen that they were passably good for him. The ham- pered and lonely itinerant conscientiously covered up the marginal readings, and used them merely on points of } construction, as he would have used a comrade or tutor who should have happened to be passing by. And though Jude may have had little chance of becoming a scholar by these rough-and-ready means, he was in the way of getting into the groove he wished to follow. | 1 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 rerHORES yet so near, the bony old Gre pursued his 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 pedestrians and others without his seeing them, and by degr ees the people of the neighborhood beg yan to talk Blade his method of combining « work and slag (such they considered his read- ing to be), which, though probably convenient enough to himself, was not altogether a safe proceeding for other travellers along the same roads. There were murmurs. Then a private resident of an adjoining place informed | the local policeman that the baker’s boy should not be al- | lowed to read while driving, and insisted that it was the constable’s duty to catch him in the act, and take him to the police court at Alfredston, and get him fined for dan- 3éf 4 AT MARYGREEN gerous practices on the highway. The policeman there- upon lay in wait for Jude, and one day accosted him and cautioned him. 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 laying the sponge; so that if he could not read his classics on the highways, he could hardly study at all. The only thing to be done was, there- fore, 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 move in another direction. On a day when Fawley was getting quite advanced, be- ing now about sixteen, and had been stumbling through thee ‘Carmen Szculare,” on his way home he found him: self to be passing over the high ec dge of the plateau by the Brown House. The light had. changed, and it was the sense of this which feel caused him to look up. The sun was going down, and the full moon was rising simulta- negusly Behi ind the woods in the opposite quarter. His mind had become so impregnated with the poem that, a moment of the same impulsive emotion w hich years be. fore had caused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, alighted, and glancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt jae, on the roads side bank with open book. He: turned first to the shiny goddess, who ease to look so sofily and critically at his doings, then to the disappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began: 39 tS Pa ° ae kes ae ee Oe De nv ae Li, Se ro ade fee ee ae ee ey EF Fe I ee ee Re ee ae SR ees ered Y = —-~ at =. a ig aoe OO ee ee Xune tee en ee ee ernie te aoe ee ae nd Fen ee) a JUDE: THEO BS CER E& “Pheebe, silvarumque potens Diana!” fancy that he would never have thought of humoring in} broad daylight. Reaching home, he mused over his curious supersti- tion, innate or acquired, in doing this, and the strangely forgetfulness which had led to such lapse from common i | \ The horse stood still till he had finished the hymn which Jude repeated under the sway of a polytheistic } t ‘ | | | } : sense and custom in one who wished, next to being a} scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of} reading heathen works exclusiv ely. The more he thought} of it, the more convinced he was of his inconsistency. He | began to wonder whether he could be reading quite the : l right books for his object in life. Certainly there seemed 7 little harmony between this pagan literature and the™ medizeval colleges at Christminster, that ecclesiastical ro- mance 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 Homer, but had never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek, though he possessed 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 read- ing almost entirely to the Gospels and Epistles in Gries- peer text. Moreover, on going into Alfredston one day, he was introduced to patristic literature by finding at the bookseller’s some volumes of the Fathers which Hae been left behind by an insolvent clergyman of the neighbor- hood. As another outcome of this change of groove, he vis- ited on Sundays all the churches within a walk, and 36 : : ; { | . : | —— | |ArT MARY CGR EEN deciphered the Latin inscriptions on fifteenth-century brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met with a hunchbacked 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 resolved as firmly as ever to go. But how live in that city? At present he had no in: come at all. He had no trade or calling of any dignity or stability whatever on which he could subsist while car: rying out an intellectual labor 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 in- clined 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 metal, and somehow medizval art in any material was a trade for which he had rather a fancy. He could not go far wrong in following his uncle's footsteps, and engaging himself a while with the carcasses that contained the scholar souls. As a preliminary he obtained some small blocks of freestone, metal not being available, and suspending his studies a while, occupied his spare half-hours in copying the heads and capitals in his parish church. There was a stone-cutter of a humble kind in Alfredston, and as soon as he had found a substitute for himself in his aunt’s little business, he offered his services to this man for a trifling wage. Here Jude had the opportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone-working. Some time later he went to a church-builder in the same place, and under the architect’s direction became handy 37 to a ae ba eS a oS EO RO OT ON Rel EO a ee SO A a Ne a ee eS au PRS oon tg C2 RTs a: 9 — el a at ie 30 i —— — See ed nr ae GS BNR ia i ge PY EEN arcane Lapeer SIT be a Lh oe A EA 7! — - od LE a OO aE LEE. ane id en . ae a See ee ere eC re acne a nper in nat Sree JUDE THEE OBSCURE at restoring the dilapidated masonries of several village churches roundabout. Not forgetting that he was only following up this han- dicraft as a prop to lean on while he prepared those greater engines which he flattered himself would be better fit- ted for him, he yet was interested in his pursuit on its own account. He now had lodgings during the week in i i the little town; whence he returned to Marygreen village } every Saturday evening. And thus he reached and passed | his nineteenth year. 6 Ar THIS memorable date of his life he was, one Satur- day, returning from Alfredston to Marygreen about three oclock 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 left 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 in that direction to exe- cute a commission for his aunt. He was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living comfortably 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 now, in some capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a little more assurance as to means than he could be said to 38AT MARYGREEN 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; the 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 estimate 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 facility in that language which enabled him with great ease to himself to beguile his lonely walks by imaginary conversation therein. “T have read two books of Homer, besides being pretty familiar with passages such as the speech of Phoenix in the ninth book, the fight of Hector and Ajax in the four- teenth, the appearance of Achilles unarmed and his heav- enly armor in the eighteenth, and the funeral games in the twenty-third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap of Thucydides, and a lot of the Greek Testament. . . . L wish there was only one dialect, all the same. “tT have done some mathematics, including the first six and the eleventh and twelfth books of Euclid; and alge- bra 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 further advance 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 | shall there get, that my present knowledge will appear to me but as childish ig- norance. I must save money, and I will; and one of those 39 ¥ ati © TL ee ee oe een ae a ee Te ED a ee — “> J eT ie en Oe ne ee AF po ee Ee os i asp OF eae —_ Sa an tla OS Ce sacar ote Ln A oe eet eae 7 e ~ > “te ——Pin on ne ee ba * soe — a nine ae tach ne ha I ae ee te teal ne re ne een mee ey beet a A EE EE ee Oe A — na RET EET BTS \ VU sS ] A G- cr 72z c 1 UDE THE -O'B'S C70 = colleges shall open its doors to me—shall welcome whom now it would spurn, if I wait twenty years for the welcome. “Tll 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 w hat an ex parle he w ould: set! If his income were £5000 a year, he would give aw ay £4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for him) on the ‘remainder. Well, on second thought, a bishop was absurd. He would draw the line at an archdeacon. Perhaps a man could be as good and as learned and as useful in the capacity of archdeacon as in that of bishop. Yet he thought 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 here: Livy, Tacitus, Herodotus, A%schylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes Pp ovada, ha, ha! Hoity-toity!” The sounds were expressed in light voices on the other side of the hedge, but he did not 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 gen- erally; a smattering of Hebrew—I only know the letters as yet Hoity-toity!" “—but I can work hard. I have staying power in abundance, thank God! and it is that w hich tells. Yes, Christminster shall be my Alma Mater; and I'll be her beloved son, in whom she shall be well pleased.” In his deep concentration on these transactions of the future, Jude’s walk had slackened, and he was now stand- 40Kt t “i p, ACT: MHAR Y¥ GR EEN ing quite still, looking at the ground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic lantern. On a sudden something smacked him sharply in the ear, and he be- came aware that a soft cold substance had been flung at him, and had fallen at his feet. / A glance told him what it was—a piece of flesh, the = characteristic part of a barrow-pig, which the country-&] \ men used for greasing their boots, as it was useless for YP any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful hereabout being 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 farther side of the stream stood a small homestead. having a garden and pig-sties attached; in front of it, 5 » Py ~ eo Oe | a TOOL EIT* y rs Ss he ee as RE pe erie : - nr td wii ts aa eee a ae Ne pe io OE a meets Ea aaa Fa a a ae ? A beside the brook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and _ platters beside them containing heaps of pigs chitterlings, which they were washing in ihe running water. One or two pairs of eyes slyly glanced up, and per» ceiving that his attention had at last beech attracted, and that he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspection by putting 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 neighbor, as if unconscious of the young man’s presence. “Nor I,” the second answered. “Oh, Anny, how can you!” said the third. “If I had thrown anything at all, it shouldn't have been such an indecent thing as that!” 41 u \ a 3a cel IE ll eerie eS wo poe oy > lad pent Piet ae at Seana ae eet ene ae Sis: i en ee ee eee Oe eee ee een! pa JUDE THE “OBS CURSE “Pooh! I don’t care for him!” And they laughed and) continued their work, without looking up, still ostenta-} tiously accusing each other. | Jude grew sarcastic as he wiped the spot where the) clammy flesh had struck him. “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 girl, not) exactly handsome, but capable of passing a as such i a little had a Sandiaad prominent bosom, full lips, perfect teeth and the rich complexion of a Cochin hen’s egg. She was ) a complete and substantial female human—no more,_ ee and Jude was almost certain that 1 to her was ata e enterprise of throwing the lump of offal at him,) the bladder 1 from which she had obviously just cut it off lying close beside her. “That you'll never be told,” said she, deedily. “Whoever did it was wasteful of other people’s prop-) erty.” “Oh, that’s nothing. The pig is my father’s.” “But you want it back, I suppose?” “Oh yes; if you like to give it me.” “Shall I throw it across, or will you come to the plank, above here for me to hand it to you?” | Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of the brown girl rested in his own when} he had said the words, and there was a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb_announcement.of affinity in posse,, between iHereelt and him, which, so far as Jude Faw ey “was! concerned, 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 y | 42A T MARYGREEN further acquaintance, but in commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously re- ceived by unfortunate men when the last intention of ‘their lives is to be occupied with the feminine. Springing to her feet, she said: “Don't throw it! Give it to me.” Jude was now aware that the intrinsic value of the missile had nothing to do with her request. He set down this basket of tools, raked out with his stick the slip of ‘flesh from the ditch, and got over the hedge. They walked din parallel lines, one on each bank of the stream, towards ithe small plank bridge. As the girl drew nearer to it she gave, without Jude perceiving it, an adroit little suck to the linterior of each of her cheeks in succession, by which curious and original manoeuvre she brought 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 un- ;known operation, which many attempted, but only a few succeeded in accomplishing. They met in the middle of the plank, and Jude held ne out his stick with the fragment of pig—dangling there- from, looking elsewhere te while, and_ faintly coloring. |: She, too, looked am another direction, and took the piece as though ignorant of what her hand was doing. yShe hung it temporarily on the rail of the bridge and ithen, by a species of mutual curiosity, they both turned jand regarded it. “You don’t think I threw it?” “Oh no!” | “It belongs to father, and he med have been in a tak- jing if he had wanted it. He makes it into dubbin.” » “What made either of the others throw it, I wonder?” 43 is cc fe » #24312 en Oe ee Ee Re e 2 re = — ‘a A f « 7 ECO UG AECL. oe Fn Ie a a 7 a eae Id Das, fe ee a eS em Die eeee ae so7% la ocho _—- 1 et Oy ET ah re mest oS J UDEST HE ‘O28 CouaweE Jude asked, politely accepting her assertion, though he had | very 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.” “T must have known it if I had often come this way. But) [ mostly go str aight along the high- road.” “My father is a pig-bree oder, and these girls are helping me wash the innerds for black-puddings and chitterlings.” They talked a little more and a little more, as they stood} regarding the limp object dangling across the hand- rail of the bridge. The unvoiced all of woman to man, which} was nftered very distinctly by Arabella’s personality, held} Jude to the spot against his intention almost against his | | will, and ina way new to his experience. It is searcaly 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 pur-| poses. 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 her magnetism. “Ah, you Should see me Sundays!” she said, piquantly. “I don’t suppose I could?” he answered. “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?” 44 Saltau een NEE ene EEE enpe—een eee — ;AT MARYGREEN “T 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 than a general impression of her appearance. “Next Sunday?” he hazarded. “Tomorrow, that is?” PYes 2 “Shall I calle” “yes.” She brightened with a little glow of triumph, swept him almost tenderly with her eyes in turning, and throwing the offal out of the way upon the grass, rejoined her companions. Jude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and resumed his lonely way, filled with an ardor at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just inhaled a single breath from a new atmosphere, which had evidently been hanging round him everywhere he went, 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, w orking and learning, which he had so precisely fanemtiatod only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a curious collapse into a corner, he knew Rot how. “Well, it’s only a bit of fun,” he said to himself, faintly conscious that to common sense there was something lacking, 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 more sportiveness on his part as his reason in seeking her— _ something in her quite antipathetic to that side of him | which had been occupied with literary study and the magnificent Christminster dream It had been no vestal 45 r a ae Pe : a a ee Ne ee a ne ok ON eT ae I SO ee ae ee te a 4 reo - ge emt ant = NAesi Sr ot ea ct a artes re le Le ote ee eee Be ce eerie cet ae ae et tak Eee ena fi J UDEYLEE 40'BiS C UzR £ 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 light of a falling lamp one might mo-}} mentarily see an inscription on a rel before being en-}} _ shrouded i in darkness. And then this passing discriminative}}/ { power was withdrawn, and Jude was lost to all conditions}; of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of | having found an a new channel for emotional interest hitherto |} unsuspected;-though it _ had Tain close beside himr,—He was |, to meet this enkindling one of the other sex on the follow- i ing Sunday. Meanwhile the girl had joined her companions, and she } silently resumed her flicking and sousing of the chitter-7 lings in the pellucid stream. Fi “Catched un, my dear?” laconically asked the girl called) Anny. “I don’t know. I wish I had thrown something elsey 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 very stuck sp, and always reading. He wants to be i a scholar, they say.” f “Oh, I don’t care what he is, or anything about ’n. Don't) you think it, my child!” 1 i “Oh, don’t ’ee! You needn't try to deceive us! What did} you stay talking to him for, if you didn’t want un? Whether | you do or whether you dont, he’s as simple as a child.) [ could see it as you courted on the bridge, wi that piece 0) the pig hanging between ye—haw hail What_a proper] thing to court-over! Well, he’s to be had by any w oman} phi can get him to care for her a bit if she likes to set) herself to catch him the right way.’ L6z fro i A RS OS ir Latin no pS PCO EMOAE GAT AT MARYGREEN 7 ‘Tue next day Jude Fawley was pausing in his bed-room with the sloping ceiling, looking at the books on the table, and then at the black mark on the plaster above them, 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 by- gone week he had been resolving to set this afternoon - 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 amended by numerous correctors, and with variorum readings in the margin. He was proud of the book, having obtained 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 farinie etly, where he now slept only two nights a week. But a new thing, a Bucs hitch, had happened yeste ‘In the ie gliding ait noiseless current of his life, and he felt ms — cs ri) As x o must feel who_has sloughed off its winter skin, Ly and & Eumderstand the brightness” and sensitiv eness of its new one.}! en ae He would ‘not go out to meet her, after all. He sat down, opened the book, and with his elbows firmly planted on the table and his hands to his temples, began at the beginning. Se ne aS Se ee ee ea a ee pay ee NE ee omnis * ro H KAINH AIAOHKH the We w Testa Mein T 47 ae a i 0 se wat , ed ie os ey ae er caer EL cea FL aa egos bt Sh ae ne laine eet ee te a eT ei ere ty Pe — | Sate PA at ae ¢ JUDE! THE OBSCURE Had he promised to call for her? Surely he had! She would wait in-doors, poor girl, and waste all her after- noon 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 | aly, Sunday s and week- day evenings for reading, he could afford one afternoon, seeing that other young men af- forded so many. After to- day he would never probably see her again. Indeed, it would be impossible, consider- } ing what his plans were. In short, as if materially, a compelling arm of extraor- d o dinary muscular power seized hold of him—something } which had nothing in common with the spirits and influ- ences that had moved him hitherto. This seemed to care little for his reason and his will, nothing for his so- called elevated intentions, and moved him along, as a violent school-master a school-boy he has 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. H KAINH AIA@HKH was suddenly closed, and the pre- | destinate Jude spr ang 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 hol- low of corn-ground which lay between thé 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 48 } eeAT MARYGREEN to the west of the Brown House. 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 the 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 business- like aspect as it evidently wore to the speaker was the last thing he was thinking of. He was going to Ww alk with her, perhaps kiss her; but ‘ ‘courting was too coolly pur- poseful-to—be anyehine but repugnant to his ideas. The door was opened and he entered, just” as Arabella came down-stairs in full walking attire. “Take a chair, Mr. What’s-your-name?” said her fa- ther, an energetic, black- whiskered man, in the same business-like tones Jude had heard from outside. “I'd rather go out at once, w ouldn’t you?” she whis- pered to Jude. “Yes,” said he. “We'll walk up to the Brown House and back: we can do it in half an hour.” Arabella locked so handsome amid her untidy sur- roundings that ne felt glad he had come, and all the mis- givings vanished that had hitherto haunted him. First they clambered to the top of the great down, dur- ing 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-road at the Brown House aforesaid, the spot of _ his former fervid desires to behold Christminster, But he 49 - o Fe e - 2 ee ade “ a sit” Beit sk ee aa eae ee Pa aS a TT Bo Ne re a birt Maer ahead ere eed . a ae nN re ae OTD Sem ee ee ee ne ee ee Ss) Ln mi 7 % >. PA dae a anFe a Sb 2 t= <) —— ae Cen ee I ale, arin bo — ee ad Se ee ree eet ee El — 6 NT AL ne rt FY JUDE THE OBSCURE forgot them now. He talked the commonest local twad- | dle 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 rememberi ing that there were any such people in the mythology, or that the |} san was anything else than a. useful lamp for illuminatitrg Arabetta’s face. TAG indescribable lightness of heel sonal | to ift him along; and Jude, the incipient scholar, prospec- | tive D.D.., professor. Bishop, or what not, felt himself honored and glorified by the condescension of this hand- some country 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 neighborhood of the little town which lay beneath them at7 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 bosom | left him no will to thwart her inclination now—which ~ pleased him in affording 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 botton!, and walking a mile, they found that the spot of the fire was much farther | off than it had seemed. Having begun their journey, however, they pushed on; but it was not till five o'clock that they found themselves on the scene—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 50 a ae eae ae eeAT MARYGREEN 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 mecomnized Jude, and w hie pered her surprise to her mistress in the background, that he, the student, “who kept hisself up so particular,” should have suddenly. de- scended 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 @unning her gaime. ——} } They sat and looked round the room, and at the picture of Stinson yn_and Delilah which hung on the wall, and at the circular beer-stains on the table, anal at the spittoons un- derfoot filled with sawdust. The whole aspect of the scene 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 rest. } —J It began to grow dusk. They could not wait longer, really 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,” said 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.” Tude by this time wished he was out of such an uncongenial atmosphere, but he ordered the beer, _ which was promptly brought. Arabella tasted it. “Ugh!” she said. 51 A PY Fe . Coat a hee Cs a‘e a oo s 2 J . - 2 oe - - tn = a . - - e a ~P - - Pr a one a ta I ae en ETS LS oh 8 a LN LE IOS et a ON ABO Ns Ia" o . a" . “ * De a IR a aa ars tae On en ee Sa bd h Te tetas lame £0 i cod anes meee See ee eee On ee lee Si) ee Cea ee ea eee te Fee TUDE THE VWOBSCURE 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 J malt and Hope. much to Jude’s surprise. “How much you know!” he said, good- humoredly. 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 7 seemed 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 right as dt rested in its place. . “Now we are well together, dear, aren’t we?” served. “Yes,” said she; adding to herself: “Rather mild!” “How f ast I have become!” he was thinking. Thus they walked till they reached the foot of the up- | land, where they could see the white highway ascending before them in the gloom. From this point the only way of getting to Arabe slla’s was by going up the incline, and dipping again into the valley on Her right. Before they had climbed far they were nearly run into by two men who had been walking on the grass unseen. “These lavers—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. he ob- EG 59 | | .AT 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 she had_ desired, clasped—together. TS all, what did it matter since it was dark, said Jude to himself. When they were half-way up the long hill they paused as by arrangement and he kissed her again. They reached the top, and he kissed her once more. “You_can_keep_your-arnethere;-if-you -would-tike-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 three, intending to be sitting down again to the New Testament by half-past five. It was nine o'clock when, with another embrace, he stood to de- MARYGREEN liver 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. Im- mediately that the door was opened he found, in addition to her parents, several neighbors’ 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 exli beiePn gia: He had not meant this: a mere dtemioon of pleasant walking with Arabella, that was all he had meant. He did not stay longer than to speak to her _step-mother, a simple, quiet woman, without features or -Q oO ny ae ae ithe a ee Ty ee bie aoe a ea Ie fe ee ee fe a a ee ee Pe mt—— ee ee Ei a oe de tee ek ae oe nee ance a ne ant ede ee Ee a Pena AC el lf or et Ot et character; and bidding them all good-night, plunged with JUDE THE OBSCURE a sense of relief into the track over the down. ut that sense was only temporary. Ar abella s00n reas-} serted her sway in his soul. He walked as if he felt himself) to be another man from the Jude of yesterday. What were} his books to him? what were his intentions, hitherto ad-) hered to so strictly, as to not wasting a single minute of time day by day? “Wasting!” It depended on your point? of view to define that: he was just living for the first time; not wasting life. It was be tter to love aw oman than to_ be! a gi raduate, or a parson bed, and a general consciousness of his neglect seemed written on the face of all things confronting him. He went} “When he got “Back to the house, his aunt had gone to ay, or a pope! up-stairs without a light, and the dim interior of his room accosted him with sad inquiry. There lay his book open, just as he had left it, and the capital letters on the title-page regarded him with fixed reproach in the gray starlight,) like the unclosed eyes of a . dead man: Jude had to leave early next morning for his usual w ecla of absence at lodgings; and it was w ith a sense of futility H KAINH AIAOHKHA that he threw into his basket upon his tools and other’ 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 friends and acquaintances, Retracing by the light of dawn the road he had followed) a few hours earlier, sweetheart by his side, he reached the bottom of the hill, under cover of darkness, ) with hisAT MARYGREEN where he walked slowly, and stood still. He was on the spot where he had given her the first kiss. As the sun had only just risen, it was possible that nobody had passed there since. Jude looked on the ground and sighed. He looked closely, and could just discern in the damp dust the imprints of their feet as they had stood locked in each other's arms. She was not there now, and “the embroidery of imagination upon the stuff of nature” so depicted her past presence that a void was in his heart which nothing could fill. A pollard willow stood close to the place, and that willow was different from all other willows in the world. Utter annihilation of the six days which must elapse before he could see her again as he had promised would have been his intensest wish if he had had only the week to live. An hour and a half later Arabella came along the 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 the other two. “And what did he tell ’ee next?” “Then he said—” And she related almost word for word some of his tenderest speeches. If Jude had been behind the fence he would have felt not a little surprised at learn- ing 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 ha’n’t!” murmured Anny, judicially. “It’s well to be you!” In a few moments Arabella replied, in a curiously low, fierce tone of latent sensuousness: “I’ve got him to care for me—yes! But I want him to more than care for me; I want him to have me—to marry me! I must have him. J 55 mr re Se ie near ie a is Sm Nn ee ne Teo me i ae ] 2 A aren a re Do oe j vs . i ‘ Ae A 4 A) = ~Oe ae a ee tee ote et ane eee 1 bs So leer ei ck a eee oe eee ba re eer ee nn ee ets ta a Kane aetna a eg ee ee eee oe et i a era, JUDE THE ORS CURE 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 1) 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 him in the right way.” Arabella remained thinking a while. “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, oe by plain courting, and taking care he don't go too far The third girl lested at the eccontit “She on know!” “’Tis clear ele 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 manPJ Take me for a’ innocent, and have done wi it!” “As a husband.” “As a husband.” “A countryman that’s honorable 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, ana although nobody was near, im-] parted some information in a low: tone, the other observing . curiously the effect upon Arabella. | “Ah!” said the last-named, slowly. “I own I didn’t think | of that way! ... But suppose he isn’t honorable? A tyvoman had better not have tried it!” 6oa a eee y AT MARYGREEN “Nothing venture nothing have! Besides, you make sure that he’s honorable before you begin. You'd be safe enough with yours. I wish I had the chance! Lots of girls do it; or do you think they'd get married at alle” Arabella pursued her way in silent thought. “TIl try it!” she whispered, but not to them. ° ee ee Oa nt ee ne oe Se 8 Ar THE week’s end Jude was again walking out to his aunt’s at Marygreen from his lodging in Alfredston, a walk which now had large attractions for him quite other than his desire to see his aged and morose relative. He diverged to the right before ascending the hill, with the single pur- pose of gaining, on his way, a glimpse of Arabella that should not come into the reckoning of regular appoint- ments. Before quite reaching the homestead his alert eye perceived the top of her head moving quickly hither and thither over the garden hedge. Entering the gate, he found that three young unfattened pigs had eseaped from their sty by leaping clean over the top, and that she was en- deavoring 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 languish- ingly 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, stim- ulated to pursue in spite of her lover's presence. “They were drove from Spaddleholt Farm only yesterday, where 57 Ba nn i Oa a) eee DT Der N Ra Oe De eee Oa ae Treks Te ———— Be ae a 2ro, ‘ ey . Re nm a a Care i ee 0 nl eneee b d Skier ieee ne PT oat i bene ened = yee A ee en. a eee ce ¥% b ’ Ny % JUDE THE OBS CURE father bought ’em at a stiff price enough. They are want- | ing to get home again, the stupid toads! Will you shut the garden gate, dear, and help me to get ‘em in? There be no men-folk at home, only mother, 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 ray 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 crea- ture, 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 along- side her, barely contriving to keep the fugitive in sight. Occasionally they would shout to some boy to stop the animal, but he always wriggled past and ran on as before. “Let me take your had darling,” said Jude. “You are getting out of breath.” She gave him her now hot hand with apparent willingness, and they trotted along together. “This comes of driving em home,” she remarked. “They always know the way back if you do that. They ought to have been carted over.” By this time the pig had reached an unfastened gate ad- mitting to the open down, across which he sped with all the agility his little legs afforded. As soon as the 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 wished to get at him. From this summit he could be seen as a minute speck, following an unerring line towards the farm. “It is no good!” cried Arabella. 58 “He'll be there long be-AT MARYGREEN fore we get there. It don’t matter now we know he’s not lost or stolen on the w ay. They'll see it is ours, and send un back. Oh, dear, how 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.onto_his knees at the same_time. “Oh, I ask pardon—I nearly threw you down, didn’ 1? But I am so tired!” She lay supine, and straight as an arrow, on the sloping sod of this hill-top, gazing up into the blue miles of sky, and still retaining Wer warm hold of Jude’s hand. He re- clined 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?” “Ym blown, too. It was all up-hill.” They were in absolute solitude—the most apparent of all solitudes, that of empty surrounding space. Nobody could be nearer than a mile to them w ithout their seeing him. They were, 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 cant see him there—y ou must come here,” said she. He bent nearer and put his head by hers. “No—I can't see it,” he said. “Why, on the limb there where it branches off—close to 59 a Py ee ie a” Si audio a hed meat atti a : . : 2 - ‘ - (i cay Ee oa a ne Se SR Be mn Oe RS eS a eR et ee) tho a a sut eA ee ea ae ele IE a eas TT 4 re ee at oe or eee aS ee a ee JUDE THEZOBS CURE | the moving leaf—there!” She gently pressed his face to- wards the position. “I don't see it,” he repeated, the back of his head against } her cheek. “But I can, perhaps, standing up.” He stood ac- | cordingly, placing himself in the direct line of her gaze. “How stupid you are!” she said, crossly, turning away her face. “I don’t care to see it, dear; why should I?” he replied, looking down upon her. “Get up, Abby.” “Why?” “I want you to let me kiss you. I’ve been waiting to ever so long!” She rolled round her face, remained a moment looking deedily aslant at him; then, with a slight curl of the lip, sprang to her feet, and exclaiming, abruptly, “I must miz- zie!” walked off quickly homeward. Jude followed and re- joined her. “Just one!” he coaxed. “Sha’n’t!” she said. He, surprised: “What’s the matter?” She kept her two lips resentfully together, and Jude fol- lowed her like a pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked beside him, talking calmly on indifferent subjects, and always checking him if he tried to take her hand or clasp her waist. Thus they descended to the precincts of her father’s homestead, and Arabella went in, nodding good-bye to him with a supercilious, affronted air. “I expect I took too much liberty with her, somehow,” Jude said to himself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on to Marygreen. On Sunday morning the interior of Arabella’s home was, as usual, the scene of a grand weekly cooking, the preparation of the special Sunday dinner. Her father was 60AT MARYGREEN shaving before a little glass hung on the mullion of the vindow, and her mother and Araballe herself were shelling beans hard by. A neighbor passed on her way home from morning service at the nearest church, and, seeing Donn engaged at the window with the razor, nodded and came in. She at once spoke playfully to Arabella: “I zeed ’ee run- ning with un—hee-hee! I hope ’tis coming to something?” Arabella merely threw a look of consciousness into her face without raising her eyes. “He’s for Christminster, I hear, as soon as he can get there.” “Have you heard that lately—quite lately?” asked Ara- bella, with a jealous, tigerish indrawing of breath. “Oh no! But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He’s on’y waiting here for an opening. Ah, well; he must walk about with somebody, I s’pose. Young men don't mean much nowadays. ‘Tis a sip here and a sip there with ‘em. "Twas different in my time.” When the gossip had departed Arabella said, suddenly to her mother: “I want you and father to go and inquire how the Edlins be, this evening after tea. Or no—there :; evening service at Fenswor th—y ou can walk to that.” “Oh! What's up to-night, the n?” “Nothing. Only I want the house to myself. He’s shy, and I can't get un to come in w yhen you are here. | shall let him slip through my fingers if I don’t mind, much as [ care for ’n!” “If it is fine we med as well go, since you w rish.” 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, 61 Fo etre eee fame ae am al ee an ee a a ae ee ae ee Mw Ne ~ - ities ~ cate + F as r OE a Nn Re Si) meee Tl ork DOO es eT Des et U \ =? a - - ngrr, me ice, eels Settee as A a” ae - a eet | Sete tele eee eos nt Sar fF ed -4 ks » | Bak ge wee ee ee ee Mi JUDE*RHE OBSCURE which they followed to the circular British earthbank ad- joining, Jude thinking of the great age of the trackway, and of the drovers who had frequented it, probably before the Romans knew the country. Up from the level lands below them floated the chime of church bells. Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened and stopped. “Now we'll go back,” said Arabella, who had attended to the sounds. Jude assented. So long as he was near her he minded lit- tle 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 found it locked. “Ah—they are gone to church,” she added. And, searching behind the scraper, she found the key and unlocked the door. “Now, you'll come in a moment?” she asked lightly. “We shall be all alone.” “Certainly,” said Jude, with alacrity, the case being un- expectedly altered. In-doors 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 together. “Don't touch me, please,” she said softly. “I am part egg- naturally enough close 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 bantam’s egg. I am hatching a very rare sort. I carry it about everywhere with me, and it will get hatched in less than three weeks.” “Where do you carry it?” “Just here.” She put her hand into her bosom and drew out the egg, which was wrapped in wool, outside it being a 62AT MARYGREEN piece of pig’s bladder, in case of accidents. Having ex- hibited 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?” “Just for a fancy. I suppose it is natural for a woman to want to bring live things into the world.” “It is very awkward for me just now, he said, laughing. “It serves you right. There—that’s all you can have of me.” She had turned round her chair, and reaching over the back of it presented her cheek to him gingerly. “That’s very shabby of you!” “You should have catched me a minute ago when I had put the egg down! There!” she said, defiantly, “I am with- out it now!” She had quickly withdrawn 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 strat- egy. 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 rose 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. ( + eae = oe aati a * RELATES BIT e pm NED ELA Og ns mr OS ee nn en ee eee ON Se ee eS A j . a 4+i y Fe ™) EEO LE OLS Lm OO setae ee ene ate eel et ee bd F - ia - pam aC a tue aa a ee ee ae ro ; ne ce eee ee ee ee eee ee Pa eel aww ee ete re) JUDE THE OBSCURE 9 ls WAs some two months later in the year, and the pair had met eons nas during the interval. Arabella seemed ape dissatisfied; 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 they began talking about her experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment w ith Jude, who seemed. sad. “Iam going away, he said to her. “I think I ought to go. I think it wili be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never 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 w ell to say! I haven’t told you yet!” and she looked into his face w ith 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 J should have thought of this before. . But, of course, if that’s the case, we must marry! V What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?” “I thought—I thought, deary, perhaps you would go 64AT MARYGREBEN away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!” “You knew better! Of course I never dreamed 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 scholarships, 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 brain, that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts, among honorable 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 factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically. The banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his reading had only come to this, that ie would have to sell his Heels 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 eS onld 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 other time of their lives they would j assuredly believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had , believed, felt, and desired during the few preceding weeks. 65 ro a’ - 2 ee 5 e - See Le a a a ee eee re, eae eae ee ee ee Tey i ee eae oe re De ee ue “> re By oi ee eis. ve *) . x “ , ™ - Oe lt ee Pee ht Se re acm eet IE ees ial a o eee mere “ er ae eee ea ee ee el aia Pro REDE bt ree sacs or ood aa en ah eee / JUDE THE «OES CURE What was as remarkable 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 his 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 com- panions in the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet, “In remembrance of good advice.” The prospects of the newly-married couple were cer- tainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-cutter’s apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely road-side cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of the vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however, felt that all these makeshifts 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 practical 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 66AT MARYGREEN much of the hard labor at Greek and Latin had been carried on. A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking- class 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 better class.” “Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to be different. Besides, you’ve enough of your own, surely? Why, it's a lot!” “Yes, enough as country notions go. But in towns the men expect more, and w hen I was barmaid at Ald- brickham “Barmaid at Aldbrickham?” “Well, not exactly barmaid—I used to draw the drink just for a little time; that was all. at a public-house there Some people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the better in Aldbrick- ham, which is a finer town than all your Christminsters. Every lady of position wears false hair—the barber's assistant told me so.” (Jude # thought with a feeling of sickness that though dhistnight be be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated g girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. \Others, alas, had an instinet towards artificiality in th their y ery Blood, and became -adepts in counterfeiting at the first olimpse ¢ ‘of it. However, per haps there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair and he resolved to fink no more of it. 67 . Pe . e ae ee mi er ee eae a ee ee nen Tn i a ES ae Cm a DS act ee eToo" €5*. Ps < iad be Pret ee a rots ee a SE a ene mei — a i bh ee na erie a Siac J°O;DE THES 3048'S Crunk = A new-made wife can usually manage to look interest- ing for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy. There is a cer- tain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent a while of the real. Mrs, Jude F awley 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 Rithut saying it. “So it turned out a good plan, you see!” remarked the girl to the wife. “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. Faw ley, quietly, “And. when do you expect Ce ~ §-sh! Not at all.” “What!” “I was mistaken.” “Oh, Arabella, Arabella: you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that’s clever—it’s a rale stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought 0’, wi’ all my experience! I never thought beyond the rale thing —not that one could 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 trick—a Aauble: one, by the Lord!” “TIL own to the first, but not to the second. . Pooh —he won't care! He'll be glad I was wrong in chet I said. He'll shake down, bless ee—men always do. What can ‘em do otherwise? Married is married.” 68AQT MOAR ¥ GRE EAN Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Ara- bella 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. The occasion was one evening at bed-time, and they were in their chamber in the lonely cottage by the way-side, 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 un- dressing before the Tittle looking- glass as he lay. One action of hers, however, ‘brought him to full cogni- tion. Her face being reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive e that she was amusing herself by artifi- cially 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 their acquaint- ance. ‘Don’t do that, Arabella!” he said, suddenly. “There - is no harm in it, but—I don’t like to see you.” She turned and laughed. “Lord, I didn’t know you was awake!” she said. “How countrified you are! That's nothing.” “Where did you learn it?” “Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when I was at the public-house; but now they won't. My face was fatter then.” ‘I don’t care about dimples. I dont think they im- prove a woman—particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you.’ 69... = r a ee re ae a ee TO ee ee - rs ee ne nr he a mo ee ee SOs on ed OR stir) ene DTT iN anne ee sy a ie cae - — Sy la ee eee - a ted oat peo | Te cae ei Th oan a rere san eS et RN TE I te ee ens See] TUDETYHE 05S CUR E “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 ae when we went and had some that Sunday evening. I thought when I married you that you had always liv a in your father’s house.” “You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was alittle more finished than I could have been by staying where I was born. There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I went away for three months.” “Youll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won't you?” “How do you mean?” “Why, of course—little things to make.” “Oh!” “When will it be? Can’t you tell me ex xactly, instead of in such general terms as you have used?” “Tell your “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. “How can that be?” “People 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 70c Soc AT MARYGREEN Ba renee 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 there 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 ques- tion, he was compelled to accept her word; in the circum- stances he could not have acted otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail? There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social ritual which made necessary a cancel- ling of well-formed schemes involving years of thought and labor, of foregoing a man’s one opportunity of show- ing himself superior to the lower animals, and of con- tributing his units 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 ofthe nature of vice, and could be only at the most called weak- / ness. 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 in the fact that the immediate reason of, his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But the marriage remained. e a ee Se 1O ter time arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife had fattened in their sty during the autumn months, : 71 as ee - ~ a> _— ~ ot me el - ae on? * Sn i ar eee Tee DSI eae ee ne ee ne tee Le ee a ee a es SE nek Sie eee DRE Tass OR ee Ee ODM BB ee en EE Pea eee? ae Paid 73 5 i ve eePaaa tt a eter a < —aeee yer ee le I rie ee a se ps ek Mc A ELL i Oe oto Se eet Seeae ete CC teeta eae - JUDE THE OBSCURE “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 with the point. Now whatever you do, don’t stick un too deep.” “Tl stick un 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 to 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 ten minutes dying, at least.” “He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, how- ever the meat may look,” said Jude, determinedly. Scrap- ing the bristles from the pig’s upturned 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 ture!” Eowever unworkmanlike the deed, it had been merci- fully done} The blood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she had desired. The dying ani- mal’s cry assumed its third and final tone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on Arabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recogniz- ing at last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends. | “Make un stop that!” said Arabella. “Such a noise will bring somebody or other up here, and I don’t want people 74AT MARYGREEN to know we are doing it ourselves.” Picking up the knife from the ground whereon Jude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and slit the wind-pipe. The pig was instantly silent, his dying breath coming through the hole “That’s better,” she said. “Leasit 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 table- spoonful of black clot came forth, 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 unexpec edly as to make Jude stagger, and in recov ering himself he kicked over the v Brel in which the blood had been caught. “There!” she cried, thoroughly in a passion. “Now I cant make any blackpot. There's a waste, all through you!” Jude put the pan upright, but only about a third of the whole steaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed over 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 job as a pig- -killing, I should like to know!” she said, scornfully. “Poor Falkes must live.” “‘T 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 car: 19 € es Py Fee ee Tn he ae ee re ee ee 3 aw Sn i ee a eae LE ae ie TS mn re eg eee PN a As+" ye ) aie ad Bs ceca ae EL aa ee oT mein ne heme ae Lane ots al oe oe eee eae eg ea AS et NE Eh J UDESEEE OBSCURE tied it out much better myself, cuss me if I could!” The} voice, which was husky, came from the garden-gate, and) looking up from the scene of slaughter they saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate, critically sur-} veying their performance. “Tis well for ’ee to stand there and glane!” said Ara- bella. “Owing to your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! "Twon't fetch so much by a shilling a score!” Challow expressed his contrition. “You should have waited a bit,” he said, shaking his head, “and not have done this—in the delicate state, too, that you be in at present, ma‘am. "Tis risking yourself too much.” “You needn't be concerned about that,” said Arabella,j laughing. Jude too laughed, but there was a strong flavor} of bitterness in his amusement. Challow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal] in the scalding and rane Jude felt dissatisfied with ‘. himself as a man at what he had done, though aware of his lack of common sense, and that the deed would have amounted to the same thing if carried out by deputy. The white snow, stained with the blood of his fellow- mortal, wore an illogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say a Christian; but he could not see how the matter was to be mended. No doubt he was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool. He did not like the road to Alfredston now. It stared him cynically in the face. The way-side objects reminded him so much of his courtship of his wife that, to keep] them out of his eyes, he read whenever he could as he walked to and from his work. Yet he sometimes felt that | by caring for books he was not escaping commonplace 5 nor gaining rare ideas, every working-man being of that | 76ATT MAR ¥ GRE EN taste now. When passing near the spot by the stream on which he had first made her acquaintance he one day heard voices just_as he-had-done-at-that.earlier time. One of the girls who had been Arabella’s companions was talk- ing to a friend in a shed, himself being the subject of dis- course, possibly because they had seen him in the distance. 7 hey were quite unaware that the shed-walls were so thin hat he could hear their words as he passed. " Howsomeyer, ‘twas I put her up to it! ‘Nothing venture nothing have, I said. If I hadn’t she’d no more have been his mis’ess than [.” ‘Tis my belief she knew before. 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 his mind so much that instead of entering his own cottage when he reached it he flung his basket inside the gar dete gate and passed on, determined to go and see his old aunt and get some supper there. This made his arrival home rather late. Arabella, how- ever, was busy melting down lard from fat of the de- ceased pig, for she Hal been out on a jaunt all day, and so delayed her work. Dreading lest what he had heard should lead hin to say something regrettable to her, he spoke little. But Arabella was very talkative, and said, among other things, that she wanted some money. See- ing the book sticking out of his pocket, she added that he ought to earn more. “An apprentice’s wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on, as a rule, my dear.” “Then you shouldn’t have had one.” “Come, Arabella! That’s too bad, when you know how it came about.” > 77 we, a ! « te . Ss OE ee eet eso, rn a & een ee} I eo ae a Tae a a aaa Oe I Oe ee a eS On oe ws Sena= rh te od -— = — ee - en ee eee Eat enter Leta ta Bem EPL Set harsh eon ar ee ee Le tae Tete ann ea en PAM SSeS Se ve rit te i Pla aaa a LUDE THE ORS CURE “Tll 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 hadnt, or you hadnt 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 ad- vice? I insist upon your telling me.” “Pooh—Id rather not.” “But you shall—you ought to. It is mean of ’ee not to!” “Very well.” And he hinte d gently what had been re- | vealed to him. “But I don’t wish to dwell upon it. Let us say no more about it.” Her defensive manner collapsed. “That was nothing,” she said, laughing coldly. “Every woman has a right to do such as that. The risk is hers.” “I quite deny it, Bella. She might, if no life-long pen- alty attached to it for the man, or, in his default, for her- salt if the weakness of the moment could end with the moment, or even with the year. But when effects stretch so far she should not go and do that which cual a man it he is honest, or herdele if he is otherwise “What ought I to have done?” “Given me time. . . Why do you fuss yourself about melting down that pig’ s fat to- night? Please put it away!” “Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won't keep.” “Very well—do.”AT MARYGREEN al N EXT morning, which was Sunday, she resumed opera tions about ten o'clock; and the renewed work recalled the conversation which had accompanied it the night before, and put her back into the same intractable temper. “That's the story about me in Marygreen, is it—that I entrapped ‘ee? Much of a catch you was, Lord send!” As she warmed she saw some of Jude's dear ancient classics on a table where they ought not to have been laid. “I won't have them books here in the way!” she cried, petulantly; and seizing them one by one she began throwing them on the floor. “Leave my books alone!” he said. “You might have thrown them aside if you had liked, but as to soiling them like that, it is disgusting!” In the operation of making lard Arabella’s hands had become smeared with the hot grease, and her fingers consequently left very perceptible imprints on the book-covers. She continued deliberately to toss the books severally upon the floor, till Jude, incensed beyond bearing, caught her by the arms to make her leave off. Somehow, in doing so, he loosened the fastening of her hair, and it rolled about her ears. “Let me go!” she said. “Promise to leave the books alone.” She hesitated. “Let me go!” she repeated. “Promise!” After a pause: “I do.” Jude relinquished his hold, and she crossed the room to the door, out of which she went with a set face, and into 79 a a ee a ee are eer nt en enrol. ie TT pm eee he A ee a et — = ae sua Ms Od alm ege et TER a ee ee ai * € ~E CL ea ie iF a eae nn es —— om ah a I Oe tr 1 eT GEE - ee Le Tea ns A Fe a tas ali lS oC ted ore ss neat 7 et eo Te t i S a N 5 L We 'K > ae en Care JUDE LTHREVO BS CURE FE the highway. Here she began to saunter up and down, perversely pulling her hair into a worse disorder than | he had caused, 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, dressed in their holiday clothes; they were mainly lovers —such pairs as Jude and Arabella had been when they sported along the same track some months earlier. These pedestrians Furtied to stare at the extraordinary spectacld she now presented, bonnetless, her dishevelled hair blow- ing in the wind, her bodice apart, her sleeves rolled above her elbows for her work, and her hands reeking with melted fat. One of the passers said, in mock 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. Thimineeee 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; ruined | *by the fundamental error of their matrimonial union; that of havi ing based a permanent contract on a temporary feel- ing Shich had no necessary.connection with affinities that “inte render a life- long comradeship tolerable. “Going to ill-use me on principle, as your father ill- used your mother, and your father’s sister ill-used her hus- band?” she asked. “All you be a queer lot as husbands and wives!” Jude fixed an arrested, surprised look on her. But she SOAT MARY GR EEWN said no! more, and continued her saunter till she was tired. He left the spot, and, after wandering vaguely a little while, walked in the direction of Marygreen. Here he called upon his great-aunt, whose infirmities daily in- creased. “Aunt—did my father ill-use my mother, and my aunt her husband?” said Jude, abruptly, sitting down by the fire. She raised her ancient eyes under the rim of the by- gone bonnet that she always wore. “Who's been telling you that?” she said. “T have heard it spoken of, and want to know all.” “You med so well, I spose, though your wife—I reck- on ‘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 another for the last time. Your mother soon afterwards died—she drowned herself, in short, and your father went away with 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 hus- band offended her, and she so disliked living with him afterwards that she went away to London with her little maid. The Eawleys—were pot made for wedlock; it never sesmed 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 have hearkened to me, and not ha’ married.” 81 , fe : u “Nee ae ee ee ee ents NTN Ee er an Ls) a a _! ee i nN aca eae ET os Oe ee I ae a en ie Rr a Pa oF eee a =~~ ‘ ‘3 . rir) a bl ed Rs 7 —— — — ee i ie acl an rac a i ceeded ater Be Fe te oe een te - oe ee a i) = — - — = i - - a a nen be ee eT aa arta a ‘ Ce ote CGT a! a LTT SE CMTS awe T VDE TEE 40S CURE “Where did father and mother part—by the Brown House, did you say?” “A little farther on—where the road to Fenworth branches off, and the hand-post stands. A gibbet once } stood there n the dusk of that evening Jude walked away from his old aunt’s as if to go home. But as soon as he reached the open down he struck out upon it till he came to a 3 large round pond. The frost continued, though it was not particularly sharp, and the larger stars overhead came 2 ~ out slow and flickering. Jude put one foot on the edge 3 of the ice, and then the other; it cracked under his weight, but this did not deter him. He ploughed his way inward to the centre, the ice making sharp noises as he went. » When just about the middle he looked around 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 ec dee. and stepped upon the ground. It was curious, he thought. What was he re cen for? . lite supposed he was not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide. Peaceful death abhorred him as a subject, would not take him. | What could he do of a lower kind than self-extermina- tion; what was there less noble, more in k ae aC ee Te a Ee TE a eT Se Le AT MARYGREEN 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 his wife, as brought home to him by this mute and undesigned evidence of her sale of his portrait and gift, was the con- clusive little stroke required to demolish all sentiment in him. He paid the shilling, took the photograph away with him, and burned it, frame and all, when he reached his lodging. Two or three days later he heard that Arabella and her parents had departed. He had sent a message offering to see her for a formal leave-taking, but she had said that it would be better otherwise, since she was bent on going, which perhaps was true. On the evening following their 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 ardors for Christminster and schol- arship. “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 parted 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 said to have occurred. A little farther on was the summit, whence Christmin: ster, or what he had taken for that city, had seemed to be visible. A milestone, now, as always, stood at the road- 8D ~ \

Sul Ce eR ae OT mee er ee ie nin oe erJUDE THE OBSCURE Her ineffable charm keeps ever calling us to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection.” ) Another voice was that of the Corn Law convert, whose phantom he had just seen in the quadrangle with the great bell. Jude thought his soul might have been shaping 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 which has been the ordinary remedy under all similar circumstances should be resorted to now, namely, that there should be free access to the food of man from whatever quarter it may come. . . . Deprive me of office to-morrow, you can never deprive me of the conscious- ness 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 Chris- tianity: “How shall we excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan and philosophic world, to those evidences [miracles] which were presented by Omnipotence? . The sages of Greece and Rome turned aside from the awful spectacle, and appeared unconscious of any altera- tions in the moral or physical government of the world.” Then the shade of the poet, the last of the optimists: —— —S ss a ee en ee me arta EB TE Lect es >. RET Oh TE EDO - —~ ie te Dae Soak me pea ae Pes “How the world is made for each of us! RT al OT AE Ed RE aye And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan.” ge ee ear Then one of the three enthusiasts he had seen just now, the author of the Apologiat: { “My argument was ... that absolute certitude as to i the truths of natural theology was the result of an assem- i" ; bh a ss |AT CHRISTMINSTER blage 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 quieter ed things: “Why should we faint, and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has will’d, we die?” He likewise heard some phrases spoken by the phantom with the short face, the genial Spectator: “When I look upon the tombs of the great, every no- tion 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 upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the par- ents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow.” And, lastly, a gentle-voiced prelate spoke, during whose meek, familiar rhyme, endeared to him from earliest child- hood, Jude fell asleep: “Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die. a He did 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 school- master, too.” His words about his school-master had, per- haps, less zest in them than his words concerning his cousin. »* ce a e ee tne rt eae RIE ee TN ee eee 6 ee ne ene Se eho oe ae Sa fears eT aoe we eee eS Po ee a Pa ward avsel ’ JUDE Pino OBS C Uh om rte 4 2 Mlpcossany meditations on the actual, including the’ mean bread-and-cheese question, dissipated the phantas+ mal for a while, and compelled Jude to smother high thinkings under immediate needs. He 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 sympa- thetic countenances: some were stern: some had put on the look of family vaults above ground, something barbarie loomed in the masonries of all. The spirits of the great men had disappeared. Sateen TA ali eee pi Fe Leet ts S) See ee ete! Se ee ne hn eee ee ee iw S Seas The numberless architectural pages around him he read, naturally, less as an artist-critic of their forms than as an artisan and comrade of the dead handicraftsmen whose muscles had actually executed those forms. He examined the mouldings, stroked them as one who knew their be- ginning, said they were difficult or easy 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 condi- tion 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. 96 an ee enh tt OO vee eae es ot rect ee ee ee eens LdAT CHR ES TMINS £ EE 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 think that in a place of crumbling stones there must pe plenty for one f his trade to do in the business of renovation. He asked ‘a way to the work-yard of the stone-cutter whose name had been given him’ at Alfredston; and soon heard the familiar sound of the rubbers and chisels. The 1e yard was a little centre of regeneration. Here, with keen edges and smooth curves, were forms in the exact likeness es those he had seen abraded and time-eaten on the walls} These were the ideas in modern prose which the lichened colleges presented in old poetryi Even some of those antiques might have been called prose when they were new. They had done nothing but wait, and had be- come poetical. How easy to the-smallest building; how .- impossible to.most men. “He asked for the foreman, and looked round among 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, ciathematioal straightness, smoothne SS, exactitude: there in the old walls were the broken lines of the original idea, jagged curves, disdain of precision, irregularity, disarray. For a moment there fell on Jude a true illumination; that here in the stone-yard was _a_ centre of eftort as worthy as that dignified by the name of scholarly study | within the \noblest of the coll eges. But he lost it under _ Stress of hij old idea. He would accept any employment * which might be offered him on the strength of his late 97 & 4 | > v. eo a ee ae a a ee Ne ee ne Se an ee tet liad ona tle OCA Sea Sania DREN ast) ww ieee mee tae oe ee = Pa Bs a ad x uM: — _ ee ae eee me eae areata OR FE 2 ee meres Te Lea cee yer ote ens a oe ee et one tenet tece he Sl al a -_~ 7 SL a NSF — Feta vie fn ae JUDE THE OBSCURE employer's recommendation; but he would accept it as aj provisional thing only. This was his form of the modern .. vice of-unrest. | _ Moreover, he perceived that at best only copying, patch- | ing, and imitating went on here, which he fancied to be} owing to some temporary and local cause./He did not at} that time see that medizevalism was as dead as a fern-leat in a lump of coal; that other developments were shaping in the world around him, in which Gothic architecture and its associations had no place. The deadly animosity of contemporary logic and vision towards so much of what he held in reverence was not yet revealed. Having failed to obtain work here as yet, he went away, and thought again of his cousin, whose presence some- where at hand he seemed to feel in wavelets of interest, if not of emotion. How he wished he had that pretty por- trait of her! At last he wrote to his aunt to send it. She did so, with a request, however, that he was not to bring disturbance into the family by going to see the girl or her relations. Jude, a ridiculously affectionate fellow, prom- ised nothing, put the photograph on the mantel-piece, kissed it—he did not know why—and felt more at home. She seemed to look down and preside over his tea. It was cheering—the one thing uniting him to the emotions of the living city. There remained the school-master—probably now a? reverend parson. But he could not possibly hunt up such a respectable man just yet; so raw and unpolished was his condition, so precarious were his fortunes. Thus he still remained in loneliness. Although people moved round | him, he virtually saw none. Not as yet having mingled with ! the active life of the place, it was largely non-existent to him. But the saints and prophets in the winc ow-tracery, — I$ aAUT CHR DST MINS? Soh the paintings in the galleries, the statues, the busts, the gurgoyles, the corbel-heads—these seemed to breathe his atmosphere. Like all new-comers 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 quadran- gles of the colleges at odd minutes in passing them, sur- prised by impish echoes of his own footsteps, smart as the blows of a mallet. The Christminster “sentiment,” as it had been called, ate further and further inte him, till he probably knew more about those buildings materially, ar- tistically, 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 from the object of that enthusiasm he really was. Only a wall divided him from those happy young contem- poraries of his with whom he shared a common men- tal life; men who had nothing to do from morning till night but to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. Only a walli—but what a wall! Every day, every hour, as he went in search of labor, 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 work- man in a white blouse, 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 glass at their familiars beyond. Whatever they c er ree Ne a ee es a ae ee TT Te nee Tne NO one che OO aS eee Ni aoe ee ae € Ls ry i Yoel ed _. md A =ot ratios een cents Oa bt ea alae esc IS rime SS a me Se —_—_ oa eae See e sei tee inte OO a ee me oe ed PUEDE THE GCERSCU RE 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 coming | 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 with 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 included; perhaps some day he would be inside. Those palaces of light and leading; he might some day look down on the 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, since they involved reading most of the night after working all the day. First he bought a shaded lamp for four and sixpence, and obtained a good light. Then he got pens, paper, and such other necessary books as he had been 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 sleep- ing—rigged up a curtain on a rope across the middle, to make a double chamber out of one, hung up a thick blind that nobody should know how he was curtailing the hours of sleep, laid out his books, and sat down, Having been deeply encumbered by marrying, getting 7 sa : x 7 ‘ \ nd 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 disastrous 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 100AT CHE IS TMINS PER 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 win- dows, 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 keh his faith in the future was dim. Like enthusiasts in general, he made no inquiries into details of procedure. Picking up general notions from casual acquaintance, he never dwelt upon them. For the present, he said to himself, the one thing necessary was to get ready by accumulating money Pad knowledge, and await whatever chances were afforded to such a one of becoming a son of the University. “For wisdom is a de- fence, and money is a defence; but the excellency of know ledge is that wisdom giveth life to them that have ’ His desire absorbed him, and left no part of him to w wae its practicability. At this time he received a nervously anxious letter from his poor old aunt, on the subject which had previously distressed her—a fear that Jude would not be strong- minded enough to keep away from his cousin Sue Bede: i head and her relations. Sue's parents, his aunt believed, had gone to London, but the girl remained at Christ- RR Ee: To make her still more objectionable, she was an artist or designer of some sort In w that was called an ec- clesiastical w Fa Ch Oust which was a perfect t seed-bed of idolatry, and she was no doubt abandoned to mummeries on that account—if not quite a Papist. (Miss Drusilla Fawley was of her date, Evangelical. ) 101 Fe eet aoe 75 wn ars e ee ete le eee Oona a7 Lag ng Bt omg oe ne hee em ae rene a el ne eo hm ns ee ed ee ad 6 Pa) PS a es7 a et | ST ae a acti bree Freee Lia oees - LO eh ee ne a Ai Dae end ie aetiee eS Creed See tn eacae TUDE THE OBSCURE As Jude was rather on an intellectual track than a} theological, this news of Sue’s probable opinions did not} much influence him one way or the other, but the clew to her whereabouts was decidedly interesting. With an al- together singular pleasure he walked at his earliest spare minutes past the shops answering to his great-aunt’s de- scription, 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, lingered on the scene. The shop seemed to be kept entirely by women. It contained ’ Anglican books, stationery, texts, and fancy goods; little plaster angels on brackets, 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 girl at the desk; she was so pretty that he could not believe it possible that she should belong to him. Then she spoke to one of the two older women be- hind the counter; and he recognized in the accents cer- tain qualities of his own voice; softened and sweetened, but his own. What was she doing? He stole a glance round. Before her lay a piece of zinc, cut to the shape of a scroll three or four feet long, and coated with a dead- surface paint on one side. Hereon she was designing, or Uluminuting, in characters of Church text, the single word ALLELUIA “A sweet, saintly, Christian business, hers!” thought he. Her presence here was now fairly enough explained, ber skill in work of this sort having no doubt been ac- \juired from her father’s occupation as an ecclesiastical worker in metal. The lettering on which she was en- L024 “a fr . a ma. CRwIS TT MIEN Ss Te i gaged was clearly intended to be fixed up in some chan- cel to assist devotion. He came out. It would have been easy to speak to her there and then, but it seemed scarcely honorable to- wards his aunt to disregard her request so incontinently. She had used him roughly, 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. He had other reasons against doing so when he had walked away. She. seemed so dainty beside himself in his rough working-jacket and dusty trousers that he felt he was as yet unready to encounter her, as he had felt about Mr. Phillotson. And how possible it was that she had inherited 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 stimu- lated him. But she remained more or less an ideal char- | acter, about whose form he began to weave curious and fantastic day-dreams. Between two and three weeks afterwards Jude was ep gaged with some more men, outside Crozier College 1 Old-time Street, in getting a block of worked freestone from a wagon across the pavement, before hoisting it te the parapet which they were repairing. Standing in po- | sition, the head man said, “Spaik when ye heave! He ho!” And they heaved. Se ee ener ta ee Ace ng a 8 EA AA Lie a I EI AN ALE II EO LE ILL LOE aaa an a a ae re eee a arte oe La pie ~ bd = Ha ~ ee ne ee nee 103 sin a ho Ss &~~" ee, ‘ a a ee a ee a arian ep nee erate a I TEL Se te fac Pe el 0 eile aes ee er ne Neat a file eee ee ae : ee ee re en ats Somat TUDE, REE iO BS CUE SE 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, that combined, or seemed to him to combine, keenness with tenderness, and mystery with both, their expression, as well as that of her lips, taking its life from some words just spoken to a companion, and being carried on into his face quite unconsciously. She no more observed his presence than that of the dust-motes which his manipu- lations 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 possibly 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 elegant. That was about all he had seen. There was nothing statuesque in her; all was nervous motion. She was mobile, living, yet a painter might 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. How could one of his cross-grained, unfortunate, almost accursed stock, have contrived to reach this pitch of niceness? London had done it, he supposed. From this moment the emotion which had been accu- 104 IBoe Cho RS TM EN Ser &.R mulating in his breast as the bottled-up effect of solitude and the poetized locality he dwelt in, insensibly began to | precipitate itself on this half-visionary form; and he per- ceived that, whatever his obedient wish in a contrary direction, he would soon be unable to resist the desire to make himself known 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 circum- stances seemed to favor the passion. The third, even were he free, in a family like his own, where marriage usually meant a tragic sadness, marria; ge with a blood-relation would duplicate the adverse conditions, and a tragic sad- ness 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 wel!-wisher. So would she be to him a kindly | star, an elevating power, a companion in Anglican Wor: ship, a tender friend. 3 Bor under the various deterrent influences Jude’s instinct “was to approach her timidly, and the next Sunday he went _to the morning service in the Cathedral-church of Cardinal Ct 5 105 a = * is" Spe gn OL a A ra i es a SINE DIOS ESET ae ; pine a . — a ciiod es aS sete == = = Pe ee Sn OR eee es Me ee ST eee TENG ry aJUDE THE OBSCURE 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 knew 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 goingyA few minutes before the hour for service she appeared as one of the figures walking 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 had not as yet revealed himself. To see her, and to be himself unseen and unknown, was enough for him at present. oh ine ene =: Pah ie fenestra an oe a ia ec a eg re He lingered a while in the vestibule, and the service was some way advanced when he was put into a seat. It was a Jouring, mournful, still afternoon, when a religion of some sort seems a necessity to ordinary practical men, j}and not only a luxury of the emotional and leisured classes. In the dim light and the baffling glare of the clere-story windows he could discern the opposite wor shippers indistinctly only, 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, m which the choir was engaged, reached its second part, In quo corriget, the organ changing to a pathetic Gregorian tune as the singers gave forth: See Reba OR eae Ane a ec Sa oe tae Sen te tad tones tere ie ie 0 ES Be oe ] UT ‘ ah Fe - * . Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? It was the very question that was engaging Jude's at tention at this moment. What a wicked worthless fellow he had been to give vent as he had done to an animal passion for a woman, and allow it to lead to such dis 106 if ee hy = arse - a Pee eeAT GCHRIS TMINS T £E astrous 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 won- derful that he could hardly believe 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 eve: ning of the month The girl for whom he was beginning ‘to nourish an ex- traordinary 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 church sentiment as she must be by occupation and habit, had, no doubt, much in common with him. To an im- pressionable and lonely young man the consciousness of having at last found anchorage for his thoughts, which promised to supply both social and spiritual nossibilities was like the dew of Hermon, and he remained through- out the service in a sustaining 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 passed under the screen before he himself moved. She did not look towards him, and by the time he reached the door she 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 kind of feeling that was awakening in him? For though it had seemed to have an ecclesiastical basis 107 4 1) . °c < a Py - a wi SE ae De RT ee ee tei ee a a nO ee cee ee eS Se a ee ad - os od ot! ad ome, De nT pe — iae "tra a Ec ree Fe OE ede Rs See ad hers ot een » a See ee aT atl Al oe a OT OO “eer ZUDE DHE COC BRSiC.URS during the service, and he had persuaded himself that such was the case, he could not altogether be blind to the real nature of the magnetism. She was 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 kin, and the fact of his having a wife, even though she was not in ev idence in this hemisphere, might bea help in one sense. It would put all thought of a ten- der wish on his part out of Sue's mind, and make her in- tercourse with him free and fearless. It was with some heartache that he saw how little he cared for the free- dom and fearlessness that would result in her from such knowledge. Some little time before the date of this service in the Cathedral the pretty, liquid-eyed, light-footed young woman, Sue Bridehead, 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 Rena It was one of those cloudless 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, and 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 foot-path, she be- held 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-ar- 108AT CHRIS T MINS LE ranging before proceeding with them on his way. They were in the main reduced copies 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 southwest sun brought them out so brilliantly against the green herbage that she could discern their contours with lu- minous distinctness; and being almost in a line between herself and the church towers of the city, they awoke in her an oddly foreign and contrasting set of ideas by com- parison. The man rose, and, seeing her, politely took oft his cap, and cried, “I i-i-mages!” in an accent that agreed with his appearance. In a moment he dexterously lifted upon his knee the great board with its assembled nota- bilities, divine and human, and raised it to the top of his head, bringing 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 the tray. He said she should have them for ten shillings. “T cannot afford that,” said Sue. She offered consider- ably less, and, to her surprise, the image-man drew them from their wire stay and handed them over the stile. She clasped them as treasures. 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 109 »* . or aoe ee a= ~~ - = oP aa ST ih — = —_< IE ee See as ne Br CR eT arte ee s Da eee eR ne es ee we aet an eee EEL ed b er er eee rete Tet eae - ae paw a) aa me ee reg beni tee ee Se All eel S tT P JUDE THE OBSCURE temperament, she trembled at her enterprise. When she handled them the white pipe-clay came off on her gloves and jacket. After carrying them along a little way openly, an idea came to her, and pulling some huge burdock leaves, parsley, and other rank srowth from the hedge, she wrapped up her burden as w ell as she could in these, so that what she carried appeared to be an enormous arm- ful of green stuff, gathered by a zealous lover of nature. “Well, anything is better than those everlasting church fal-lals!” 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 Ve- nus’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 find- ing 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 el- derly lady in spectacles, dressed almost like an abbess; a dab at Ritual as became one of her business, and a wor- shipper at the ceremonial church of St. Silas, in the sub- urb 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 requi- sites and developing it to its present creditable propor- tions. She wore a cross and beads round her neck as 110AT CHRIS T MIN SEE 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, e sntered the room just as the other was 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 enough here already,” said Miss Fontover, looking round at the Goth- ic- leetined prints of saints, the Chireli. text scrolls, and other articles which, having become too stale to sell had been used to furnish this obscure chamber. “What is it? How bulky!” She tore a little hole, about as big as a wafer, in the brown paper, and tried to peep in. “\W hy, statuary? Two figures? Where did you get them?” “Oh—I bought them of a travelling man who sells casts “Two saints?” “Yes.” “What ones?” “St, Peter and St.—St. Mary Magdalen.” “Well—now come down to tea, ‘ahd go and finish that organ-text, if there’s light enough afterw ards.” "hese little obstacles to the indulgence of what had been the merest passing fancy create od in Sue a great zest for unpacking her objects and looking at them: and bedtime, when she was sure of being undisturbed, she unrobed the divinities in comfort. Placing the pair of figures on the chest of drawers, a candle on each side of dhe she withdrew to the bed, flung herself down thereon, and began reading a book she had taken from her box, which Miss Fontover knew nothing of. It was ay olume_of Gibbon, and she read.the chapter dealing with the reign 111 4 7 Coch iS ro a See ee ne oe pS a ee ene aan Petr eB a a ee oo a ae ar ee ais ee ~ Eom ae en Ra pana Den tart One et ia blac dae « S aa > oo od2% ee . ca pe ax al a em PY ES CLE, AE IT es SD AE 9 Nh teat) - a pi ner ek wer ee ee A ee JUDE THE OBSCURE of Julian the Apostate. Occasionally she looked up at the statuettes, which appeared strange and out of place amid | the other objects and pictures in the room, and, as if the | scene suggested the action, she at length jumped up and withdrew another book from her box—a volume of verse— and turned to the familiar poem, f “Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean: The world has grown gray from thy breath!” 5 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 was enough diffused light from the window 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 symbol picture of what was only discernible now as a Latin cross, the figure thereon being obscured by the shades. On one of these occasions the church clocks struck some small hour. It fell upon the ears of another person, who sat bending over 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 time, and hence he had stayed up, as was his custom, two or three hours later than 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 reading, the policeman and belated citizens passing along under his window might have heard, if they had stood still, strange syllables mumbled with fervor within—words that had for Jude an indescribable enchantment; inexplicable sounds something like these: 112AT CHRISTMINSTER “All hemin eis Theos ho Pater, ex ou ta panta, kai hemeis eis auton:” Till the sounds rolled with reverent loudness, as a book was heard to close: “Kai eis Kurios Iesous Christos, di ou ta panta kai hemeis di autou!” He was a handy man at his trade, an all-round man as artisans in country towns are apt to be. In London the man who carves the boss or knob of leafage declines to cut the fragment of moulding which merges in that leafage, as if it were a degradation to do the second half of one whole. When there was not much Gothic 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-dozen people forming the congregation, till the prayers should be ended, and he could resume his tapping. He did not observe till the service was halt over that one of the women was Sue, who had accom: panied the elderly Miss Fontover thither. Jude sat watching her pretty shoulders, her easy, curt ously nonchalant, risings and sittings, and her perfunctory genuflections, and thought what a help such an Anglican 113 a ee ee ee ne eT ee ee eee ee Serpe ace ne ar ee ee « a! a as ae TE Te A MS P\ow So asnage — — ae on Tak a a eri oe tne ete a eh ce certal heehee — ae hee la eat ie eames Re ee Ce Lee eel Tr RUDE “DHE OBSCURE 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 worshippers 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 indescribable manner. Those three enor- mous reasons why he must not attempt intimate acquaint- ance with Sue Bridehead now that his interest in her had shown itself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind, loomed as Be eae as ever . But it was also obvious. that man a tc arcu. RES at "any rate, wante a cs to Teve Some men \ would have rushed incontinently~ 6 her, snatched the ‘pleasure of easy friendship, which she could hardly re- fuse, and have left the rest to chance. Not so Jude—at first. But as the days, and still more particularly the lonely evenings, dragged along, he found himself, to his moral consternation, to be thinking more of her instead of think- ing less of her, and experiencing a fearful bliss in doing what was erratic, informal, and unexpected. Sureonneled by her influence all day, walking past the spots she frequented, he was always thinking of her, and was obliged to own to himself that his conscience was likely to be the loser in this battle. To be sure, she was almost an ideality to him still. Perhaps to know her would be to cure himself of this unexpected and unauthorized passion. A voice whis- pered that, though he desired to know her, he did not desire to be cured. There was not the least doubt that from his own ortho- dox point of view the situation was growing immoral. For Sue to be the loved one of a man who was licensed by the laws of his country to love Arabella and none other 114ATC He RIS TMiIN STEER unto his life’s end, was a pretty bad second beginning, when the man was bent on such a course as Jude pur- posed. This conviction was so real with him that one day when, as was frequent, he was at work in a neighbor- ing village church alone, he felt it to be his duty to pray against his weakness. But much as he wished to be an exemplar in these things, he could not get on. It was quite impossible, he found, to ask 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 entered the stone-mason’s yard with some hesitation, and, lifting her skirts to avoid 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 and there. Why, yes, she’s the daughter of that clever chap Bride- head, who did all the wrought ironwork at St. Luke’s ten years ago, and went away to London afterwards. I don't know what he’s doing now—not much, J fancy—as she’s come back here.” Meanwhile the young woman had knocked at the office door, and asked if Mr. Jude Fawley was at work in the 115 ss md ae Cl Pe ne ee ne ee Se Seg ar cen alii A Cn ee cn eer ES Aen eee De UF ad ann—o a —-—, os ee en ee eee aia eR FE ee ree da eI oN ee a oe ee a her Se ——e On ee we Nee term ill ee ee JUDE THE GQESCURE yard. It so happened that Jude had gone out somewhere | or other that afternoon, which information she received } with a look of disappointment, and went away imme- diately. When Jude returned they told him, and de- scribed 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 note from her—a first note—one of those documents which, simple and commonplace in themselves, are seen retrospectively to have been pregnant with impassioned consequences. The very unconsciousness of a looming 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, ir 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 learned by the merest accident that he was liy- ing in Christminster r, and reproached him with not letting Hes know. They might have had such nice times together, she said, for she was thrown much upon herself, and had hardly any congenial friends. But now there was every probability of her soon going away, so that the chance of companionship would be lost perhaps forever. A cold sweat overspread Jude at the news that she was going away. That was a contingency he had never thought of, and it spurred 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 116iy J a AT CRRPISTMAIINSTER the pavement which marked the spot of the martyrdoms. 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 same way, unfortunately, and it might not seem respectable to a dear girl like Sue. However, it could not be helped 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 deserted, al- though it was not late. He saw a figure on the other side, which turned out to be hers, and they both converged towards the cross-mark at the same moment. Before either had reached it she called out to him: “I am not going to meet you just there, for the first time in my life! Come farther_on.” The voice, though positive and silvery, had been trem- ulous. They walked on in parallel lines, and, waiting her pleasure, Jude watched till she showed signs of closing in, when he did likewise, the place being where the carriers’ carts stood in the daytime, though there were 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 IL thought it would save time if we were going to walk.” “Oh—I don’t mind that,” she said, with the freedom of a friend. “I have really no place to ask anybody in to. What I meant was that the place you chose was so horrid —TI suppose I ought not to say horrid—I mean gloomy and inauspicious. . . . But isnt it funny to begin like this, when I don’t know you yet?” She looked him up and TB. oe “Yond & ee en ee ne Fe ee ae a a a ee ere ee ’ Ae a Pat NO aT re ees - = ey ae am v ae a pan ee Ta tae Bd >a i me TE a, roe EE a a A eC carat eR RE Cee Ae neater OST ss 0 a erie - = eet — Semen COS AS A ih, YE I OE Jr: ee ee ee a JUDE Prk 0: Bs CU Ke 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!” “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. PhillotsonP A parson some- where about the country, I think he is.” “No—I only know of one Mr. Phillotson. He lives a little way out in the country, at Lumsdon. He’s a village 3school-master,” “Ah! I wonder if he’s the same. Surely it is impossible! Only a_school-master still! Do you know his Christian name—is it Richard?” ~Yes—it is; [ve directed books to him, though I’ve never seen him. ~hen-he.couldn’t.do it!” Jude's countenance fell, for how could he succeed in an enterprise wherein the great Phillotson had failed? He would have had a day of despair if the news had not ar- rived during his sweet Sue’s presence, but even at this moment he had visions of how Phillotson’s failure in the grand University scheme would 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 into the sky, und then the school-house, They inquired of a person in the street if Mr. Phillotson was likely to be at home, and | 118At CHER T'S TMI WN ‘SUELESR were informed that he was always at home. A knock brought him to the school-house door, with a candle in his hand, and a look of inquiry on his face, which had grown thin and careworn since Jude last set eyes on him. That after all these years the meeting with Mr. Phillot- son 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 at hes same time a sympathy with Phillot- son as an obviously much chastened and disappointed man. Jude told him his name, and said he had come to see him as an old friend who had been kind to him in his youthful days. a “L_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 at 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. And is this an old pupil, too?” “No—that’s my cousin. . . . I wrote to you for some grammars, if you 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 wagon, 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.” 119 re Ly a . ~ - eS ~ a “_". 7 ” \/ en i a aS c Pe ee et bed _ oe en a le DP oO rn ree Dao erejoe sey Lt - RAs , © Crna et Ee tee ee ie atta Sai hae Se a Cs toed Fr a ee Mae aa leet 5 Fal NA A AS ace rr ee ee ae eee ee nee et ea ane TUDE THE OBS TURE “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 part of the country, and out here to see you to-night.” “Come in,” said Phillotson. “And your cousin, too.” They entered the parlor of the school-house, where there was a lamp with a paper shade, which threw the light down on three 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 features of her cousin, and on the school-master’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 school-master speaking of his experiences, and the cous- ins 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 in-doors before it grew late, and the road was retraced to Christ- minster. Though they had talked of nothing more than general subjects, Jude was surprised to find what a revela- tion of woman his cousin was to him. She was so vibrant and everything she did seemed to have its source in feel- 120AT CHRIST MINS TER ing. An exciting thought would make her walk ahead so fast that he could hardly keep up with her; and her sen- sitiveness on some points was such that it might have been misread as vanity. It was with heart-sickness he perceived that while her sentiments towards him were those of the frankest friendliness only, he loved her more than before becoming acquainted with her; and the gloom of the walk home lay not in the night overhead, but in the thought of her departure. “Why must you leave Christminster?” he said, regret- fully. “How can you do otherwise than cling to a city in whose history such men as New man, Pusey, Ward, Keble, loom so large!” “Yes—they do. Though how large do they loom in the history of the w orld? . What a funny reason for caring to stay! I should never have thought of it!” she laughed. “Well—I must go,” she continued. “Miss Font- over, one of the partners whom I serve; is offended with me, and I with her; and it is best to go.” “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 heel—a horrid thing!” : “Too Catholic-Apostolic for her, I suppose? No doubt she called them Popish images, and talked of the invoca- tions of saints.” “No. . . . No, she didn’t do that. She saw the matter quite differently.” “Ah! Then I am surprised!” 121 y = 4 ¢ is - samp erpte -* - : ong tia rh apr ss 5 ee ke i es oe : és o a . < aes 5 YL - a nO eee Fa SS a nae eee met DDE heen SR ES TE MRR ong men ETT a ee Rd al oe lk ener ak we ORF LLL IC DOLLS Wi a CTO EMEA a ] Va wt nasee lm Se ae a esc WT eet She S = ener et OES a - Ne fT a eee On ee Be ne Reet eect et el Oe Sak wtneor yt AE - ie JUDE THE OBSCURE “Yes. It was for quite some other reason that she didn’t like my patron saints. So I was led to retort upon her; and the end of it was that I resolved not to stay, but to get into an occupation in which I shall be more independ- ent.” “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 like it, and go to a Training College, and become a first-class certificated mistress, you get twice as large an income as any designer or church artist, and twice 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 quite see how much 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 only. The school- master was unprepared for such 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? Does she really think of adopting teaching as a profession?” Jude said she was disposed to do so, he thought, and his ingenious arguments on her natural fitness for as- sisting Mr. Phillotson, of which Jude knew nothing what- QD 64dAT iCHRIST MINS TEX ever. so influenced the school-master 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 for a moment to the school-master and recluse that Jude’s ardor in promoting the arrangement arose from any other feelings tow ards Sue than the in- stinct of co-operation common among members of the same family. ‘Lue school-master 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. x pupil: -teacher who was to have been tr ansferred to Mr. Phillotson’s school had failed him, and Sue had been taken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as these could only last till the next annual visit of H. M. Inspector, whose approval was necessary to make them permanent. Havi ing taught for some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of late, Miss 123 ory aed Yond o c - a -+ Se Se ee = anit id 5 : » c= 2 ——> ~ ee | EN, ae Sage Oe rv a fe ae ee Te ce eae ene nN oe mee ane od te ea Le - ptm aah Snre Fh eee eee Sad Pai eter a ee Se el ee ee 4 Se ee Ty eat <= A} Pm Safe fee Ae ee ae a ee ee eT ven bet ee ee aye eT . Pe ae ee Pehle) Rie LE -ORSicv rE Bridehead was not exactly an outsider, and Phillotson thought there would be no difficulty in retaining her sery- ices, which he already wished to do, though 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 labor? It was a little over half-past eight o’clock in the morn- ing, and he was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when 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 sur- cound her this morning. He went to the school also, and Sue remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day under his eye. She certainly was an excellent teacher. It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and some article in the Code made it neces- sary that a respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and the taught were of different sexes. Richard Phillotson thought of the ab- surdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it, and sat down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose 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 that they were working at—she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all that was passing 12Ar CHRIESTMINS TER in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not really thinking of the afithmielic at all, but of her, ina novel w ay 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 monot- ony which in itself was a delight to him. Then it hap- pened 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 sim- ple 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 her arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they entered the exhi- bition-room few people were present but themselves. The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment, and the proprietor, with a fine religious phi- lanthropy written on his features, walked 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 gates, outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white cross. The spot, he said, was Calvary. “T think,” said Sue to the school-master, 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 was like this in the time of Christ? I am sure this man doesn't.” “It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits to the city as it now exists.” 125 a ET ee ee ee eS ee en Spe ners Pid ro os — — Nett - 9 a ee ee re SD pe io Oe Lanse ea RN a pee ot aE EO be ea CE Te es ee Ssar Led “ tee et ent ~ wy oT, zs Ne ak ¥) oe en Tee Pe oe a ee, he ee A TN ee iste | oo —s Sa on ln OR tn tetae ord Ser teted to oses ee a ra re iO ect air —weate pie faa eat, ae ae) OE AS A A eR BA Ne SS een iat eae eae , mae TUDE THE OB SIOCD RE not—I should say yes. Speaking from experience and un- biassed nature, I should say no. . . . Sue, I believe you are not happy!” “Yes, I am!” said she, excitedly. “How can a woman be unhappy who has 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’clock train. You will be staying on here, I .sup- pose?” “For a few days, to wind up aunt's affairs. This house is gone now. Shall 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 sto ‘an’t go to-night! That train won't take you to Shaston. You must stay and go back to-morrow. Mrs. Edlin has plenty of room, if you dont like to stay here.” “Very well,” she said, dubiously. “I didn’t tell him I would come for certain.” Jude went to the widow’s house adjoining, to let her know; and returning in a few minutes, sat down again. “It is horrible how we are circumstanced, Sue—hor- rible!” 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 before 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!” i r ih. 1 -i.7 - et ine tu AWOW 25) . ‘h XN, Aft > + aS ‘ >ony el AT SHASTON Her hand lay on the table, and Jude put his upon 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 action shows that you are ridiculously incon- sistent!” “Perhaps it was too prudish,” she said, repentantly. “Only, I have fancied it was a sort of trick of ours—too frequent perhaps. There, you may hold it as much as you like. Is that good of me?” EXes> 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 fee lings ‘of love left in me.’ “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 her now?” “Of course—just as you live w ith your husband.” ~~ She looked at the window-pots with the geraniums 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— | 255 A Ce ee Nace PC De ee ee er ea a ee eT th oom ee te bata eat eee boone! te men me be OE tae - ont Sh ole, The. bastoroy le? fe Tee aN 7 aes 9mere oT Se = wen ad _ ee a eT a pp eee A Th ‘ a oR I eA a RENCE ILEE LAL A LA AE LS CRIES, RAE OA SPO a ek ee ee ae aoe) oe ees JUDE 4L EE Om Ss CU hE 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 Arabella so soon?” “A special Providence, I suppose, helped it on its way.” “Ah—it isn’t true!” she said, with gentle resentment. “You are teasing me—that's all—because you think I am not happy!” “T don’t know. I don’t wish to know.” “If I were unhappy it would be my fault, my wicked- ness, not that I should have a right to dislike him. He is considerate to me in everything; and he is very interest- ing, from the amount of general knowledge he has ac- quired 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-satisfaction, 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 husband! There, now I have let it out—I couldn't help it, although I have been—pretending I am happy. Now — youll have a contempt for me forever, I suppose!” She © bent down her face upon her hands as they lay upon the cloth, and silently sobbed in little jerks that made the | fragile three-legged table quiver. “I have only been married a month or two!” she went on, still remaining bent up on the table, and talking into her hands. “And it is said that what a woman shrinks 2564 AT SHASTON from—in the early days of her marriage—she shakes down to with comfortable indifference in half a dozen years. But that is much like saying that the amputation of limb is no a‘fliction, since a person gets comfortably ac- customed 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 ex- cept my own wickedness, I suppose youd call it—a repug- nance on my part, for a reason I cannot disclose, and what would not be admitted as one by the world in general! . What tortures me so much is the necessity of being wy responsive to this man whenever 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 faithless to me, or do some open thing that I could talk about as a justification for feeling as I do! But he does nothing, 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! ... Dont come near me, Jude, because you mustn’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?” Instead of replying she rose quickly, and saying she was going to walk to her aunt’s grave in the churchyard to re- cover herself, went out of the house. Jude did not follow D57 ce a a re ee a Te ee ye ee my -r'9 a ae ~ , ) aa a [ci re a ataalai ati BBE OE celta cn ot TE EL Sete fee Re nh eS a me Aa Ne cae a es bent eee ad aa P= PRM vecn Sot JUDE “TCE OB Vew FE her. Twenty minutes later he 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 sat 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 .disheartened; and again ques- tioned his devotional motto that all was for the best. He retired to rest early, but his sleep was fitful 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 flien 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 prob- - ably would not do so more than once or twice, but would remain bearing its torture till the morrow, when the trap- per 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 tug 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 mortifica-_ tion of the limb. If it were a “good catch” namely, by the fore-leg—the bone would be broken, and the limb nearly | torn in two in attempts at an impossible escape. Almost half an hour passed, and the rabbit repeated its ery. 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 direc- » 95 / Min~ / 4 \ a \ be Khe! DH AKMimMal<= bye 5 ACY ss HAS T'ON tion 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 the 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 groundfloor 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, till I felt | 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 doctrines, 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 my doctrines.and I.begin.to.part company.” “Tknew it—I knew it! And that’s why I vowed I wouldn't disturb your beliefs, But—I am so glad to see you!—and, oh, I didn’t mean to see you again, now the last tie be- tween us, Aunt Drusilla, is dead!” 259 a c PE Pe a ee eae ar : oer as So ON eae OT AP, iT Sem ea ee RT ae a fee Soa ee ET ne ee ee a I et a RE Sie tin Na » Lee Me aata Satie cee bee te aie a ene re eee eS See tee ache aad Ot Seek oar Pat) = Ml ha ET LE AES AD OE RO ay ee eee JUDE QWaneE7 Oe esc ur = Jude seized her hand and kissed it. “There is a stronger | one left!” he said. “Ill never care about my doctrines or} my religion any more! Let them go! Let me help you, even | if I do ie you, and even if you “Don't say itl—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 cant 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 civilized life, but a tragedy artificially manufactured 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 thought I was very experienced. So I rushed on, when I had got into that Training-School scrape, with all the cocksureness of the fool that [ was! .. . | am certain one ought to be allowed to undo what one has done so ionorantly! I dare say it happens to lots of women; only they subnait and I kick, . When people of a later age look back upon the Reh arcas 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—l wish 4 “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 | 260AT SHASTON scarcely perceptible little kiss upon the top of his head, withdrawing quickly, so that he could not put his arms round her, as he unquestionably would have otherwise done, she shut the casement and he returned to his cot- tage. ; Shy is Cons einer distressful confession recurred to Jude’s mind all the night as being a sorrow indeed. The morning after, when it was time for her to go, the neighbors 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 theré was a look of exalta- tion not unmixed with recklessness. An incident had oc: curred, They had stood parting in the silent highway, and their tense and passionate moods had led to bewildered in- quiries of each other on how far their intimacy ought to go; till they had almost quarrelled, and she had said tearfully that it was hardly proper of him as a parson in embryo to think 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 de- pend 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 permit it. “Will you swear that it will not be in that spirit?” she had said. No; he would not. And then they had turned from each 261 oy a ae Ls SE RS pee ee ee Te, Te See NR ee a eR eT HL a ee ee ne 6 enw nS NES OX ae et De ari, Soe TE ET oe Pet pottery > “But you are committing a sin in not liking 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! . . . Will 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 interests, in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked after. Then we might be friends, and meet without pain to either. Oh, Richard, be my friend and have pity! We; shall both be dead in a few years, and then what will it} matter to anybody that you relieved me from constraint | for a little while? I dare say you think me eccentric, or} super-sensitive, or something absurd. Well—why should 5 ) suffer for what I was 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 ralways as to believe a creed always, and as silly as to vow always to like a particular food or drink!” “And do you mean, by living away from me, living by yourself?” “Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude.” 270AT SHASTON “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.forhim,;~-has no need of any other faculty than the ape-like one of im- tation. -f-"S-"Mill’s words, those are. 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 lead a quiet life! Do you mind my saying that ] have guessed what never once occurred to me before our marriage—that you were in love, and are in love, with Jude Fawley!” “You may -go on guessing that I am, since you have be- gun. But ab you suppose that if I had been I should Faire 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 unpredictable that he was ready to throw ip 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 I back of her head through the glass partition w henever he turned his eyes that way. As iit went on giving and hearing lessons his forehead and eyebrows twitched from concen- trated agitation of thought; till at length he tore a scrap from a eHbet 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?” Q71 «6 i MS a! > Zant 56% < aa Or ee eae en Doe Se a STE LC eee Cae ie a ee Ne Rt ne nner tral F oe ate Be a a ene en nn tate om > | tSLes Aad aa o) ~ a Ree te ane rh ae Came Se ce i Pi a eta Fe oA I al meet be ete tala oat eM - eeaeel Fn en ee aa ed one heater ee ay rte at ell ret et eae tad TUDE TIwEe OBSCURE He folded the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little boy to take to Sue. The child toddled off into the class-room. 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 un- der fire of so many young eyes. He could not see her hands, but she changed her Bentioel 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 pencilled therein: “I am sincerely sorry to say that it was seriously made.” Phillotson looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place of his brows tw itched again. In ten min- utes he: called up the child he had just sent to her, and despatched another missive: “God knows I don’t want to thwart you in any reasonable way. My whole thought is to make you comfortable and happy. But I cannot agree to such a preposterous notion as your going to live with your lover. You would lose every- body's respect and regard; and so should I!” After an interval a similar part was enacted in the elass-room, and an answer came: “I know you mean my good. But I don’t want to be re- spectable. To produce ‘Human development in its richest di- versity (to quote Humboldt) is to my mind far above re- spectability. No doubt my tastes are low—in your view— hopelessly low! If you won't let me go to him, will you grant me this one request—allow me to live in your house in a! separate way?” To this he returned no answer. QV2mipes HA S*T*'O N 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! I would not ask if I were not almost compelled by what I can't bear! No poor woman has ever wished more than I that Eve had not fallen, so that (as the primitive Christians believed) some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise. But I wont 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.” Nearly an hour passed, and then he returned an answer: “I do not wish to pain you. How well you know I dont! Give me a little time. I am disposed to agree to your last re- quest.” One line from her: “Thank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.” All day 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 arrange- ment; but the irksomeness of their position worked on her temperament, and the fibres of her nature seemed strained like harp-strings. She talked vaguely and indiscriminately to prevent his talking pertinently. ® Vs Ce ae a oe eT ree EE See ee ae eS ee el oe ae, ee Fo mae ee Se ee ey eter a 4 < te at A 3lee te aah ee ren he ae a a eee La alan amet i ee a ted cae aceite ed ao | te ee ae ee et ee Oo a ee a It JUDE Wwe OBSCURE 1 pees LOTSON was sitting up late. as was often his cus- ‘tom. trying to get toge ther the materials for his long- neglected hobby of Roman antiquities. For the first time since reviving the subject he felt a return of his old in- terest in it. He forgot time and place, and when he re- membered himself and ascended to rest it was nearly two o clock. a His preoccupation was such that, though he now slept on the other side of the house, he mechanically went te the room that he and his wife had occupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove’s Place, which, since his differences with Sue, had been hers exclusively. He _en- tered, and unconsciously began to_undress. There was a cry from the bed, and a quick movement. Before the school-master had realized where he was he perceived Sue, starting up half awake, staring wildly, and springing out upon the floor on the side away from. him, which was towards the window. This was some: what hidden by the canopy of the bedstead, and in a mo= ment he heard her flinging up the sash. Before he had thought that she meant to do more than get air she hact mounted upon the sill and leaped out. She disappeared in the darkness, and he heard her fall below. Phillotson, horrified, ran down-stairs, striking himself sharply against the newel in his haste. Opening the heavy door, he ascended the two or three steps to the level of the ground, and there, on the gravel before him, lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in his arms, and QT 4AL SiH AY S*T'O N 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 bottom 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 rubbed 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—nor 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 outside. 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 cir- cumstances 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 up-stairs?” he asked, drearily; for the signifi- cance of all this sickened him of himself and of every thing. “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,” ey - 7 As te DBA RR ame an TEL LE AN RNS TET SCO I kt ARIE lS tr gt SCE ON OEE i) dae > a a De tat: 5 a oe FY Pe ay » “=P CN a teat be ae }ee he we tee) es al te oo ee heel ES eee —ppeeneet me “ Cre an al el eta ee thee Da Lr See ee en ae tee ee GLA ON nt ee end er aes a et og 1s OF te te eee at ed JUDE THE OBSCURE The aspect of things was not improved by her admis- sion. She ascended the staircase slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her. Phillotson dia not ap- proach 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 one hand, and bowing his face into the other. Thus a pitiable object enough to one who had seen him; till, raising his head, and sigh- ing a sigh which seemed to say that the business of his life must be carried on, whether he had a wife or no, he he remained for a long, long time took the candle and went up-stairs 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 informing Sue where he was going. He descended from the town level by a steep road ina northwesterly direction, and continued to move downward till the soil changed from its white dryness to a tough brown clay. He was now on the low alluv ial beds, “Where Duncliffe is the traveller’s mark, And cloty Stour’s a-rolling.” v. X More than once he looked back in the increasing ob- scurity of evening. Against the sky was Shaston, dimly visible “On the gray-topp’d height Of Paladore, as pale day wore Away wen The new-lit lights from its windows burned with a steady shine as if w atching him, one of which windows was his } ° William Barnes. 276wae Sm ASTON own. Above it he could just discern the pinnacled tower of Trinity Church. The air down here, tempered by the thick 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 hand- kerchief. Leaving Duncliffe Hill on the left, he proceeded with- out 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 when he crossed the tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton—a little town of three or four thou- sand inhabitants—where he went on to the boys’ school, and knocked at the door of the master’s residence. A boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillotson’s in- quiry if Mr. Gillingham was at home, replied that he was, going at once off to his own house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. He discovered his friend putting away some 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 Winton- cester Training-College 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—since 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 before lumper- mg up again. I am glad you didnt wait, however.” Q7T7 on" a, _- e a a ne ee ee eS ee ee TH) . : _ ee obs Peat aad tae a LN egal ue uncaimeneral ne A Oe ae te eee Bee aeded bed rem x s ae eee ee eee ere ee a a arene ae es PE ET aa cate tet pt ee ee ee Se ea oS ee eT TG OS SIG UsSsrese2 Ss JUDE THE OBSCURE Though well-trained and even proficient masters, 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, will understand my motives if other people question them anywhen, as they may—indeed, certainly will. But any thing is better than the present éactaition a things. God forbid that you should ever have such an ex- perience as mine!” “Sit down. You don’t mean you and Mrs. Phillotson?” “I do. . . . My wretched state is that I’ve a wife I love.) who not only does not love me, but—but— Well, I won’ say. I know her feeling. I should prefer hatred from her!” ~ ’S-sh!” “And the sad part of it is that she is not so much to: blame as I. She was a pupil-teacher under me, as you} know, and I took advantage of her inexperience, and toled her out for walks, and got her to agree to a long en- gagement before she well knew her own mind. After- wards she saw somebody else, but she 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, too, I think—possibly to herself. She is one of the oddest} creatures I ever met. However, I have been struck. withe these two facts; the extraordinary sympathy, or similarity, between the pair. (He is her cousin, which perhaps ace counts for some e of it. They seem to_be one_person pt anything wrong between —, a ato: even Bough she may "like me as a friend, ‘tisk 278Ero os HAS TO N too much to bear longer. She has conscientiously struggled against it, but to no purpose. I cannot bear it—I cannot! [ cant answer her arguments—she has read ten times as much as I. Her intellect sparkles like diamonds, while mine smoulders_ like-brown—paper. .. . She’s one too many for me!” “Shell get over it, good-now?” “Never! It is—but I won’t go into it—there are reasons why she never will. At last Sie 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 con- clusion: that it is wrong to so torture a fellow-creature any longer; and I won't oe the inhuman wretch 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 wishe mow I may be wrong—I know I efend my concession to such a wish of her's, 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 possibly be regarded as right and proper and honor- able in him is to refuse it, and put her virtuously under lock and key, and murder her lover perhaps. But is that es- sentially right and proper and honorable, or is it con. temptibly mean and selfish? I don’t profess to decide. I 279 ws oT eS a saneiimmnemniateeminmemaeminmn eT On c BIN ise deta a eal acne tee et ae ee Se a LS De eed Seen ee eee a ae ne a as * enae) xe Ne has on hemlet bat hee Bc SR TE ak ne EE oe ee benicar area F => "hr Tn 7 — eas re lacie te AS LS Tt er ioenl « a ar Fe — an ea eee rn pecs Bef a) poet ng ee JUDE THE OBSCURE simply am going to act by instinct, and 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 neighbors and society—what will happen if everybody “Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher any longer! I only see what's under my eyes.” . “Well, I don’t agree with your instinct, Dick,” said Gil lingham, gravely. “I am quite amazed, to tell the truth that such a sedate, plodding fellow as you should have entertained such a craze for a moment. You said when I called that she was puzzling 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—been 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 differ- ence in the world, if one has any manliness or chivalry in him. I had not the remotest idea—living apart from women, as I have done, for so many years—that merely taking a woman to church and putting a ring upon her finger could by any possibility involve one in such a daily, continuous tragedy as that now shared by her and 2? me. “Well, I could admit some excuse for letting her leave you, provided she kept to herself. But to go attended by a cavalier—that makes a difference.” i “Not a bit. Suppose, as I believe, she would rather endure her present misery than be made to promise to keep apart from him? All that is a question for herself. It 280pete SH A ST ON 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 under- standing, it is not an ignoble, merely animal, feeling be- tween 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 in the first jealous weeks of my marriage, before I had come to my right mind, I hid myself in the school one evening when they were together there, and T 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 flavor of grossness. Their supreme desire is to be to- gether—to share each other’s emotions, and fancies, and dreams,” “Platonic!” “Well, no. Shelleyan would be nearer to it. They re- mind me of Laon and Cynthia. Also of Paul and Virginia a little. The more I reflect, the more entirely I am on 7 their side!” “But if people did as you want to do, there’d be a gen- eral domestic disintegration. The family would no longer. be the socj fhe at ‘Yes, I am all abroad, I suppose, said Phillotson, sadly. “I was never 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!” | | | | | 281 | | a ry ‘ a = = - - 7 . - ase FITC ssinieeeeainineiaiamememmanaiemmmimnemememaeminn eT Yay & err ~ Se ee ae OF TN Se Oe Te ee De ae ee eee ee ae WOT BG CORR hal ad eke. * een Phen ites ee ae bn a ph eaca nee RE a areca ater 9 mE TT " ~ re —. iat Da So Le ae ta ee ne eerie ar Pe a, tal ae ee ee ee soe lemsedeimncettint het hetero Send ke te ete See ee ee er ~ . re eS MeL RS Oe Festi) yom er tn Put JUDE THE OBSGCURG “Tt will upset all received opinion hereabout, Good God! what will Shaston say?” “I don’t say that it won't. I don’t know—I don't know! _ As I say, lam 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. “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 wont stay. [ have a long walk before me.” Gillingham eocompanied 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 thei old comradeship. “Stick to her!” were his last words, Hung into the darkness after Phillotson; from which his friend answered, “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 arguments against it than those!” “I think she ought to be smacked and brought to her senses—that’s what I think!” murmured Gillingham, as he walked back alone. The next morning came, and at breakfast Phillotson told Sue: “You may go—with whom you will. I absolutely and un conditionally agree.” Having once come to this conclusion, it seemed to Phil fotson more and more indubitably the true one. His mild serenity at the sense that he was doing his duty by 4 | 282AT SHASTON woman who was at his mercy almost overpowered his grief at relinquishing her. Some days passed, and the evening of their last meal together was 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 parlor to tea, a slim, flexible figure; a face, strained from its roundness, and marked by the pallors of restless days and nights, sug- gesting tragic possibilities quite at variance with her times of buoyancy; a trying of this morsel and that, and an in: ability to eat either. Her nervous manner. begotten of a fear lest he should be injured by her course, might have been interpreted by a stranger as displeasure that Phillot- son intruded his presence on her for the few brief min- utes that remained. “You had better have a slice of ham, or an egg, or something with your tea? You can’t travel on a mouth- ful 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 would find the key of this or that cupboard, what little bills were paid, and what not. “Lam 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 little while. I have, too, this grand hobby in my head of writing “The Roman Antiquities of Wessex; which will occupy all my spare hours,” by you will send me some of the manuscript to copy at any time, as you used to, I will do it with so much pleasure!” she said, with amenable gentleness; “I should 283 . . oe a a ee eR To &e - — a Ce ee ee fn ek ee le a EL ake etn Ee ee a fn Pn eee lo eT aot ae ae eee ae er REET FE ene cy em TY ae a ale ee Le eee tot ate ee ee pre ri a 8 ta na ‘ 2 i eet Rae eee tat ea ee ie ET ae fee bet ee) JTUDEOTHE OBS CUR much like to be some help to you still—as a f-f-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. z “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 him, if you don’t mind. You are free, absolutely; and your course is your Own.” “Very well. But Ill 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 Tae Be- sides 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 would take thine: -quarters of the Hoacchiold furniture. I don’t w ant to be bothered with it. I have a sort of affection for a little of it that belonged to my poor mother and father. But the rest you are wel- come 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 4 quarter to SIXs “You. ... You dont seem very sorry I am going, Richard?” “Oh no—perhaps not.” “I like you much for how you have behaved. It 1s 4 284aoe SHASTON eurious thing that directly I have begun to regard you as not my husband, but as my old teacher, I like you. I wont be so affected as 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 reflec- tions, and then the station omnibus came round to take her up. Phillotson saw her things put on the top, handed her in, and was obliged to make an appearance of kissing her as he wished her good-bye, though she shrank even from that. 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 up- stairs 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 le. call; you remember,” “Yes. I am much obliged to you, Gillinghaxn, particu: larly for coming to-night.” “How is Mrs,” She: is quite well. She is gone—just gone, That’s het teacup that she drank out of only an hour ago. And that’s € plate she—_” ; : Phillotson’s throat got choked up, and he could not go °= He tumed and pushed the tea-things aside Q 8 5 myself comfortable. I said I would . % A ulna eteenet eeennenaieteneienin nm mmmamaminmna er Soe Core eee il ae & os a re ~ me near ~ a on rns , r =. peti [ eae | pecemeietentiaete teeta aaa ee ee i a a ES Sm ee ee eS tet eel ee ee aspeor rep, Cab Fat EY S = _ . P J. ‘ a a Se a Tee ee ee ee Oe eee itil eee catia een einen amen ee Ne ee ae soe ve sent : a ad We alpn ome teary MER is Lal oA os Sno es . ba ~ | > “? aar Sep Re ar Bs Sheree TS Sal St eo tee em a ae Ri le | eh: Nate a ee ts r nies > - toe - | ae ap Sa Fl Oe ee ee aye ae a Na . Se ee eee eat Pace neat rg ee as a aay ry ae pet JUDE THE OBSCURE the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn’t love 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 rep- aration, married him, though you tortured yourself to death by doing it?” “Well—if you will put it brutally!—it was 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 tearful at his criticisms, and soothed her, saying, “There, dear, don't mind! 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 you think that!” she said, trying to blink away her tears. “I think and know you are my dear Sue, from 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 oclock when they arrived at Aldbrickham, the county town of North Wessex. As she would not go to the Temper- ance Hotel because of the form of his telegram, Jude in- quired for another; and a youth who volunteered to find one wheeled their luggage to a place near at hand, which proved to be the inn at which Jude had stayed with Ara- bella on that one occasion of their meeting after their division for years. Owing, however, to their now entering it by another door, and to his preoccupation, he did not at first recog- 294AT SHASTON nize the place. When they had engaged their respective rooms they went down to a late supper. During Jude’s temporary absence the waiting-maid spoke to Sue. ‘I think, ma’am, I remember your relation, or friend, or whatever he is, coming here once before—late, just like this, with 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 itP” “About a month or two. A handsome, full-figured woman.” 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 can't bear the place! And I don’t like you so well as J did!” an fidgeted you seem, dear! Why do you change like this?” “Because it was cruel to bring me here!” “Why?” “You were lately here with Arabella. There, now I have said it!” “Dear me, why—” said Jude, looking round him. “Yes, itis the same! I really didn’t know it, Sue. Well—it is not cruel, since we have come as we have—two relations stay- ing together,” “How long ago was it you were here? Tell me! tell me!” “The day before I met you in Christminster, when we Went back to Marvegreen together. I told you I had met her » “ , eves; you said you had met her, but you didn’t tell me ~_ L b Jt vo =. a oe e J i Late ene ST ola ete Re a ee ee ee 'S aee By i A ns tata eed) = at es Ps ae a=o ae i « — = Ss Pa Nar pars ee Ce RR ne ee tenons - ° we Fe Sela tee ec Nat ra arr hie cae ee ee pte me ne oe ee — — te ee a ee oe De ee ate Pec) JUDE “THE Ops cuURE all. Your story was that you 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—nev er!” “But by your Own wish, dear Sue, we are only to be friends, not lovers! It is so very inconsistent of you to——" “Friends can be jealous!” “T don’t see that. You concede nothing to me, and I have to concede everything to you. After all, you were on good terms with your husband at that time.” “No, I wasn’t, Jude. Oh, how can you think sol And you have taken me in, even if you didn’t intend to.” She was so mortified that he was obliged to take her into her room and close the door, lest the “people should hear. “Was it this room? Yes, it was—I see by your look it w as! 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 wife, if not Slipping down on her knees Sue Gericd 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 your Why are you so gross? I jumped out of the window!” “Tumped out 6k window? “I can’t explain.” It was true that he did not understand her feeling very well. But he did a little, and began to love her none the less. 296oe Coed Ar > e “ > oa S ~s - ee ee a eee eas Re ee tend a a eee Re eet aia J Looking up from the quilt she replied, prov okingly, “If it hadn’t Bean 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 parting such a as yours from her, and mine from him, ended the marriage.’ “I can’t Say more without speaking against hes , and ] don’t want to do that,” said he. “Yet I must tell you one thing, which would settle the matter in any case. She has maned another man—really married him! T knew nothing about it till after the visit we made here.” “Married another? . . . It is a crime 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 shall 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 re-marry this man legally. So, you perceive, I shall not be likely to see her again. “And you didn’t really know anything of this when you saw her?” said Sue, more gently, as hee rose. 297 oS as the world treats oy ~ ane »? 3 “Oh, it is too flattering, so I won't go on! But say it’s mel «e—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 of her finger gingerly to her cheek, and he did as commanded. “You do care for yme very much, don’t you, in spite of my not—you know?” Yes, sweet!” he said, with a sigh, and pade her good- night. 298=e AS TON Ik RETURNING to his native town of Shaston as school- master Phillotson had won the interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants. who. though they did not honor him for his miscellaneous acquirements as he would have been honored elsewhere, retained for him a sincere regard. When, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a pretty wife—awkwardly 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 flizht from that home Sue’s ab- sence 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 acquaintance that he did not know where his wife was staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till, to affirm that § rom him, T] lessness over Jumping to conclusions, people ventured ue had played him false, and run away 1€ school-master’s growing languor and list- 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 misappre- hensions as to Sue’s conduct spread abroad. On a Monday moming the chairman of the School Committee called. me alter attending to the business of the school, drew hillotson aside out of earshot of the children. 299 * we aes — aT a * Pe , en ea nite “ ae urns hae ; Lae Se a et eee a a ea ee Te ee a a a ee eee te ee A Tn ele bey Soe oe a ees S ,i B! ip b he My : if f | , f v F 5 ¥ ; i 4 : d RS A ec enn een ere al os a eee ed rete ei tae 4 Fl MD SS od ee ar ae x a ee ee ea Gates Po ee Spl Se ales NG TUDE*CT HE OBSCURE “You'll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since 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 elope- ment with a lover? If so, I condole with you.” “Don't.” said Phillotson. “There was no secret about it.” “She has gone to visit friends?” “No.” “Then what has happened?” ‘She has gone away under circumstances that usually call for condolence with the husband. But I gave my consent.” The chairman looked as if he had not apprehended the remark, “What I say is quite true,” Phillotson continued, testily. “She asked leave to go away with her lover, and I let her. Why shouldn't IP A woman of full age, it was a question for her own conscience—not for me. I was not her jailer. I cant explain any further. I don’t wish to be questioned.” The children observed that much seriousness marked the faces of the two men, and went home and told their parents that something new had happened about Mrs. Phil- lotson. Then Phillotson’s little maid-servant, who was 4 school-girl just out of her standards, said that Mr. Phillot- son had helped in his wife’s packing, had offered her what money she required, and had written a friendly letter to her young man, telling him to take care of her. The chair- man of committee thought the matter over, and talked to the other managers of the school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet them privately. The meeting lasted a long time, and at the end the schoolmaster came home, looking, as usual, pale and worn. Gillingham was sitting in his house awaiting him. “Well, it is as you said,” observed Phillotson, flinging 300Avis St A S/T O N himself down wearily in a chair. “They have requested me to send in my resignation on account of my scandalous con- duct in giving my tortured wife her liberty—or, as they call it, condoning her adultery. But I sha’n’t resign.” “I think I would.” “I won't. It is no business of theirs. It doesn’t affect me in my public capacity at all. They may expel me, if they like.” “If you make a fuss it will get into the papers, and youll 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 the 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 [ 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 friend 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 letter of dismissal arrived, the man- agers having remained behind to write it after Phillotson’s withdrawal. The latter replied that he should not accept dismissal, and called a public meeting, which he attended, although he looked so weak and ill that his friend implored him 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 matter was a domestic theory which did 301 oy a eS aaa Ee ee Le eee ee oe ae ae Se eee le Le an oa caeedal Ces - ——- a Bel a TN aa eee ciED DRD IL Eo a SES RS len 8 WPT a sg a - i gaat Sasha “ ie nC a et a eo a ae ee ee grea inca a = ee ee eee re Pars esas ee Ly yt ge JUDE WHE OBSCURE not concern them. This they over-ruled, insisting that the private eccentricities of a teacher came quite within their sphere of control, as it touched the morals of those he taught. Phillotson replied that he did not see how an act of G@iiristian 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 dozen champions rose up in his defense as from the ground. It has been stated that Shaston was the anchorage of a curious and interesting group of itinerants, who frequented the numerous fairs and markets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumn months. Although Phillot- son had never spoken to one of these gentlemen, they now nobly led the forlorn hope in his defeace The body in- cluded 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-mak- ers, 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 expeti- ences 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 joined, the result being a general scuffle, wherein a blackboard was split, three panes of the school-windows were broken, an inkbottle spilled over a town-councillors shirt-front, and some black eyes and bleeding noses given, one of which, to everybody’s horror, was she vento incumbent’s, owing to the zeal of an emancipated chim- ney-sweep, who took the side of Phillotson’s party. When 302Al SHAS TON Phillotson saw the blood running down the rector’s face he deplored 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 his 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, [ suppose some time ago,” at least, he was living there When Gillingham reached home he sat and reflected and at last w rote an anonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reaching her, the letter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at the diocesan capital. Ar- ‘Mung at that place, it was forwarded to Marygreen in North Wessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the only person who knew his present address—the widow who had nursed his aunt. Three days later, in the evéning, when the sun was going down in splendor over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shaston windows like tongues of fire to © eyes of the rustics in that Vale, the sick man fancied ‘that he heard somebody ¢ ome to the house, and a few minutes after there was a tap at the bedroom door. Phil- 3038 2% f ee” _- a re oN ea . ne ” - ni pe ee ee a ee ee ae ee ee een Bor OR ee eet ae i eg ROSIE ar i mE = ce cene met lg LAB Aico Po F +f iden ee ee, Cerca SCL os et eed ae CaN peer ane Ces tee rer ae ce at or de a ice IO a “at ee ne ee ee Cee ree er te Cee De gece En ee Ee Ieee JUDE THE OBSCURE lotson did not speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and there ente:ed—Sue. She was in light spring clothing, and her advent 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, turning her fi ight- ened 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.” “IT am not very ill, my dear friend. Only unwell.” “I didn’t know that; and I am afraid that only a severe iliIness 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 sup- pose?” “INO; 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 Shaston. 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 interested in their history than they supposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted her eyes and hands in grotesque amaze- ment. While they sipped, Sue went to the window and thoughtfully said, “It is such a beautiful sunset, Richard.” 3O4Aa SH AS TON “They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing the mist of the Vale. But I lose them all, as they don't shine into this gloomy corner where J lie.” “Wouldn't you like to see this particular one? It is like heaven opened.” “Ah, yes! But I can’t.” “Tl help you to.” “No—the bedstead can’t be shifted.” “But see how I mean.” She went to where a swing-glass stood, and taking it in e i Se ne ee ee ae Se Oe ee ee ET ee ee Sina een Cea en 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 am sure it will cheer you—I do so hope it will!” She spoke with a child-like, 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. “T have to catch 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.” “Lam glad to know you think so,” said Phillotson, huskily. “No; I don’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 leave, she put her hand in his—or, rather, al- lowed it to flit through his, for she was significantly light 305 a ee be ital) TD ent ae fe oe Pe ® a‘ ~. ae a i nO” eaeJUDE THE OBSCURE in touch. She had nearly closed 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 while he pur- sued it. But he could not help it. She came back. “Sue, he murmured, “do you wish to make it up, and stay? I'll forgive you, and condone e\ erything!” “Oh, you can’t, you cant!” she said, hastily. “You cant condone it now!” -He is your husband now, in effect, you mean, ot 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?” Sac a aT aS aerate BERT TL Laerty oy hn “Like mine. He is not doing it so much on his own ac- count as on hers. She wrote and told him it would be a kindness to her, since then she could marry and live re- spectably. 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 have 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 must go now. I'll come again—may IP” “I don’t ask you to go, even now. I ask you to stay.” 306Ar SH AS TON ‘I thank you, Richard, but I must. As you are not so ill as I thought, I cannot stay!” “She's his—his from lips to heel!” said Phillotson, but so faintly that in closing the door she did not hear it. The dread of a reactionary change in the school-master’s senti- ments, coupled perhaps with a faint shamefacedness at letting even him know what a slipshod lack of thorough- ness, from a man’s point of view, characterized her trans- ferred allegiance, prevented her telling him of her, thus far, incomplete relations with Jude; and Phillotson lay writhing like a man in hell as he pictured the prettily dressed, maddening compound of sympathy and averse- ness who bore his name, returning impatiently to the home of her lover. Gillingham was so interested in Phillotson’s affairs, and so seriously concerned about him, that he walked up the hill-side 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, after a hard day's work in school. When he called on the next occasion after Sue’s visit his friend was down-stairs, and Gilling- ham noticed that his restless mood had been supplanted by a more fixed and composed one. “She’s been here since you called last,” said Phillotson. “Not Mrs. Phillotson?” “Yes.” “Ah! You have made it up?” aio} <. . She just came, patted my pillow with her little white hand, played the thoughtful nurse for half an hour, and went away.” | 7(7 “Well—I’'m hanged! A little hussy!” , pA 307 a . La eee | wel, CL eal ed Oe Se me aa eT ke ee Ae Te ee ee ee ee ee a ne ae a ee ene os ay a ya eric Jc apeyi ee pone . ——T rr a CT al Ca TIL rhe nD a i a a cree oie ok ae ae ET SS ot 1 TTT ES < aie Ke Lerten oo T HE OBSCURE “What do you say?” ~Oh—nothing!” _ What do you mean?” “I mean, what a tantalizing. capricious little woman. If ~ she were not your wite “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 Te fused 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 on to me if she doesn’t belong to me? I know—I feel absolutely certain—that she would welcome my taking such a step as the greatest charity to her. For though as a fellow-creature she sympathizes with, and pities me, and even weeps for me, as a husband she cannot endure me—she loathes me. There’s no use im mincing words; she loathes me, and 1 dignified and me begun. ny only manly and rciful course is to complete what I have } . . And for worldly reasons, too, it will be better for her to be independent. I have hopelessly ruined my prospects because of my decision as to what was best for us, though she does not know it; I see 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, “Ow my occupation’s gone; and I shall be better able to bear it alone. I may as well tell you that what has sug- gested 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!”Aes, i ALS) 1) ON “Well—I don’t want your opinion on that. What I was going to say is that my liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open up a chance of happiness for her which she has never dreamed of hitherto. For then they'll be able to marry, as they ought to have done at first.” Gillingham did not ie to reply. “I may disagree with your motive,” he said, gently , for he respected views he could not share. “But I think you are right in your de- termination—if you can carry it out. I doubt, however, if you can.” mond a} > a . ¢ = ‘ i ao —. = - ‘= 5 te ’ - et} Wy a a a ete a ee ne en el ee ere ee tenet ted ae Ss s Ne ie ee a ee ee es ee saan eee ae rv a a Ssae my =e = Linn a om a = : Se eS a) GT a MR AS ares a. eee en cae oe fe ee Pe net Re heer : ‘a ' of 4 4 : | ‘ , Ly rf is i f tr \ J a CTE REST otek eg ennro ~. ie Mt Part Five ¥ ere) LLL) LI LOLS LI LIL L eer re Semen ac con tea oe ee At Aldbrickham ¢z Elsewhere Cs a a it Ne ch ae TE nee OO ead “Thy aerial part, and all the fiery parts which are mingled in thee, though by nature they have an upward tendency, still in obedience to the dis- position of the universe they are overpowered here in the compound mass the body.” —M. ANTONINUS (Long) — “ ie ee ie aN STS et pte Caxte S| OW Gillingham’s doubts were disposed of will most quickly appear by passing over the series of dreary months and incidents that followed the events of the last 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 them- selves when she left Shaston to join him the year before. The proceedings i in the Law-Courts had reached their con- sciousness but as a distant sound, and an occasional mis- sive, which they hardly understood. 311 Ce ee oe nS > paca eT Reet) ie eee aT Py ea Pa — ~ ae a) ~—er ee mo =~ rece ane pres ee nn ee tT - ee Ce Re et Na ee i ne ee ee Se A ee eee a aloe JUDE TEE OBS Cw Ree They had met, as usual, to breaktast together in the little house with Jude’s name on it, that he had taken at fifteen pounds a year, with three- “pounds- -ten extra for rates and taxes, and furnished with his aunt’s ancient and lumbering goods, which had cost him about their full value to bring all the way from Marygreen. Sue kept house, and man- aged everything. As he entered the room this morning Sue held up 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 Ara- | bella had occurred about a month or two earlier. Both cases had been too insignificant to be reported in the papers, further than by name in a long list of other unde- fended cases. “Now then, Sue, at any rate, you can do what you like!” He looked at his sweetheart cur iously, “Are we—you and I—just as free now as if we had never married at all?” “Just as free—except, I believe, that a clergyman may object personally to re-marry you, and hand the job on to somebody else.” “But I wonder—do you think it is really so with us? I know it is generally. But I have an uncomfortable feeling | that my freedom has been obtained under false pr eal “How?” “Well, if the truth about us had been known, 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 312pr ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE supposition? Thereforé-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 obliged to prove anything. That was their business. Anyhow, we are living together.” Yes; though not in their sense.” “One thing is certain, that however brought about, a marriage is dissolved when it is dissolved. There is this advantage in being poor, obscure people like us—that these things are done for us in a rough-and-ready fashion. It was the same with me and Arabella. I was afraid her criminal second marriage would have been discovered, and she punished; but nobody took any interest in her— nobody inquired, nobody suspected it. If wed been pat- ented nobilities we should have had infinite trouble, and days and weeks would have been spent in investigations.” By degrees Sue acquired her lover’s cheerfulness 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 upstairs and prepared to start, putting on a joyful colored gown in observance of her liberty; seeing which, Jude put on a lighter tie. “Now we'll strut arm-in-arm,” he said, “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 color and produce. The pair, however, were so absorbed ales a a Oe Se a ee ee pet See eee ta ee te a ' i) “aa” o-_ ou P — ay il le aoa te ee ae i eee Ee cd Se aN ne Ce it ae Pe Ort JLi a rt na ne ca Yi iT a F % Ty ca by vy ‘| a i 4 Rhee er hn eae ie eee ee ee Se eg re De owl Gl he letters ee ee pe ee Pt Me ina ee ea oe eee ne nae ee TUDE THE OBSCURE 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.” “I know it abundantly. But I think I would much rather go on living 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; “either owing to our own dissatisfied, unpractical natures, by our misfortune. But we two e “Should be two dissatisfied ones linked together, which would be twice as bad as before. . . . I think I should be- gin to be afraid of you, Jude, the moment you had con- tracted 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. 314ae A EG DBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE “Apart from ourselves, and our unhappy peculiarities, it is foreign to a mans nature to go on loving a person when he is told that he must and shall be that person’s lover. There would be a much likelier chance of 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 considera- tion of personal possession being given, and to avoid each other's society as much as possi ible 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 clambering in at bedroom windows, and the hiding in closets! There’d be little cooling then.” 4 “Yes; but admitting this, or something like it, to be true, you are not the aly one in the world to see it, dear little Sue. People go on marrying because they can't resist natu- ral 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 mar- ried just the same, because they had ordinary passions. But you, Sue, are such a phantasmal, bodiless. creature, one who—if you ll allow me to say it—has so little animal pas~ sion in you, that you can act upon reason in the matter, when we poor unfortunate wretches of grosser substance cant.” “Well,” she sighed, “you've owne -d that it would prob- ably end in misery for us. And I am | not sO € ee ea a woman as you think, ce marriage than you Suppose, only they enter into it for the dis one it is as- A b19 Poe, a y ah laa a a ae a he ee SO ee te ee I Te y- - ey ae ” a Pn he oe nn aNamen ue otros eh . * as Rae nd or a ees Sareea cae Pil Se ie a IL Ca a a seater sme eed ie ee en at ae ee yo ec eo. Fre ee ee ey a JUDE THE OBSCURE sumed to confer, and the social advantages it gains them a dignity 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. “And you are so reticent. [ know that women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection 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 attends 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 acquired a’ \J guilty look; and she suddenly replied, in a tragic voice: “I don’t think 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’1 deserve the ut- most rigor of lecturing!” sometimes “No, you are not bad. You are a dear. But as slippery as an eel when I want to get a confession from you.” “Oh yes, I am bad, and obstinate, and all sorts! It is no use your pretending I am not! People who are good don’t want scolding as I do. . . . But now that I have no- body but you, and nobody to defend me, it is very hard 316—eaUuDPBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE that I mustn't have my own way in deciding how [ll live with you, and whether I'll be married or no!” ‘Sue, my own comrade and sweetheart, I don’t want to force you either to marry or to do the other thing—of courseg@l don't! It is too wicked of you to be so pettish! Now we wont say any more about it, and go on just the same as we have done; and during the rest of our walk well talk of the meadows only, and the floods, and the prospect of the farmers 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 work- ing and lettering head-stones, 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 size for him, and blacked them in after he had cut them. It was a lower class of handicraft than were his former perform- ances as a cathedral mason, and his only patrons were the poor people who lived in his own neighborhood, and knew what a cheap man this “Jude Fawley: Monumental Mason” (as he called himself on his front door ), was to employ for the simple memorials they required for their dead. But he seemed more independent than before, and it was the ouly arangement under which Sue, who particularly wished to be no burden on him, could render any assistance. oe ° ee ee RS ee Ee EE TL ~ & aa) ae ae Se ne ee en nd ee ee Le ne ee re aor 4 8 pa aes ' rf ay { ie 1 : 5"a - — 1, — a ae to a eae hae pee ee ee a a al ae alan ei re OTL ele eat oe reed mh ee a ee ee ate ee —— Pet bab mee ont fei JUDE THE; ORS Cun Ee 2 he WAS an evening at the end of the month, and Jude had just returned home from hearing a lecture on ancient | history in the public hall not far off. When he entered, Sue, who had been keeping in-doors during his absence laid out supper for him. Contrary to custom, she did not speak. Jude had taken up some illustrated paper, 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, she 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. “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 head-stone. Was she in mourning?” “No. She wasn’t in mourning, and she didnt want a head-stone; and I thought you wouldn’t see her.” Sue looked critically and imploringly at him. “But who was she? Didn’t she say?” “No. She wouldn’t give her name. But I know who she was—lI think I do! It was Arabella!” “Heaven save us! What should Arabella come for? What made you think it was she?” 318AT ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE “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. She 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 mar- ried 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 release her. She and the man both wanted to lead a proper 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 pain- ful to talk to her now—for her as much as for me. How- ever, 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, fastened the doors, and got to the top of the stairs, than there came a knock, Sue instantly emerged from her room, which she \ had but just entered, There she is again!” Sue whispered, in appalled ac- cents, How do you know?” a aaimern iia inde kek Gta i ed a & ne Lr roe tse ee | A Ae i oT Sm nae Oe eS a et Fo he Oe 4 ae ree s 319 ~i*9 md aa ee a atee a ce et a I le acter tc tee Tn OR RT ae Rafer fac Ba Toh eae tS ee ee ee ee ee ee meh Se Dene teats Co oP oad JUDE THE OBS 'CIUORE “She knocked like that last time.” They listened, and the knocking came again. No servant was kept in the house, and if the summons were to be responded to one of them would have to do it in person. “I'll open a window,” said Jude. “Whoever it is cannot be expected to be let in at this time.” He accordingly went into his bedroom and lifted the sash. The obscure street of early retiring work-people was empty from end to end save of one figure—that of woman walking up and down by the lamp a few yards off. “Who’s there?” he asked. “Is that Mr. Fawley?” came up from the 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 Ara- bella, Htiral ly. “But I called earlier. I w anted ian to see you to- night, if I could. I am in trouble, and have nobody to help me!” “In trouble, are you?” mYEeS.” There was a silence. An inconvenient sympathy seemed to be rising 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 barmaid soon. But it takes time, and I really am in great distress, because of the sudden responsibility that’s been sprung upon me from Australia; 320Mae RLCKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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, hearing 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 lodging 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 dont like to call out particulars 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 well, 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 perplex- ity. “As she’s going back to-morrow it can’t make much difference.” “But you can go and see her to-morrow, Jude! Don't go now, Jude!” came in plaintive accents from the door- way. “Oh, it is only to entrap you; I know it is, as she did before! Don't, don’t go, dear! She is such a low- passioned woman—I can see it in her shape, and hear it in her voice!” “But I shall go, said Jude. “Don’t attempt to detain me, Sue. 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 "e And you are not either, dear, yet,” said Jude. Oh, but are you going to her? Don't! Stay at home! 321 t " D - ce i we fl et OO I ad ge BE rag aot Ll C "end So eee ee a ae a a ee tie : re Tr a ae ee, i oY bya ee ae. seems tee) cr , $ . panel Swe ee a Ca ete bees Cap d ae ee ae rene ar haere ie a lal ome tae SS Bad or ge a ek “= . = Ps med mw * * i > (by JUDE THE OBSCURE Please, please stay at home, Jude, and not go to her, now she’s not your w ife 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 waited 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, sooth 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 said no more, but, turning to her room as meekly as a martyr, heard him go dpe stairs, unbolt the door, and close it bel hind him. W ith a woman’s disregard of her dignity when in the presence of nobody 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 walk ‘ing’ pace; seven to come beach again. If he did not return in fourteen minutes he would have lingered. She looked at the clock. It was tw enty-five minutes to eleven. He might enter the inn with Arabella, as they would reach it shefete closing time; she might get him to drink with her; and Heaven only would befall him then. In a still suspense she waited on. It seemed as if the whole time had nearly elapsed, when the door was opened again, and Jude appeared. Sue gave a little ecstatic cry. Ol you! How good you are knew ihat disasters 1, | knew I could trust * 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, 32! tSAT ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE poor woman. I’ve come back for my boots, as it is begin- ning 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 cared for her; and one can’t be a brute in such circumstances.” “She isn’t your wife any longer!” exclaimed Sue, passion- ately excited. “You mustn't go out to find her! It isn’t right! You can’t join 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 erring, 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 relations to her. If she was my wife while she 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 come straight back, after a few minutes, won't you, dear? She is too low, too coarse for you to talk to long, Jude, and was always!” “Perhaps I am coarse, too, worse luck! I have the germs of every human infirmity in me, I verily believe—that was why I saw it was so preposterous of me to think of being a curate. I have cured myself of drunkenness, I think; but I never know in what new form a suppressed vice will break out in me! I do love you, Sue, though I have danced attendance on you so long for such poor returns! 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 dreamed myself capable of, or any man, a year or two ago. It is all very well to ar a ° SM A a Nn 0 RT TIN I a 8 Sa a a MA SALLI IN OD a NR i tr i nl ER TON Mme . Pear ee She eer ae oot « ee or a ret Oe Cre eae ss ies eh ame, Pa_— = eS _— om wt a ee eT se are en ea ne rece Be IE ll eer cs oe holes ta DEEL ss ee a eee Pe ee a eee een Pe ne ee ss a ee - aes feta reo pees, em sAuUveg unl : Cc + xd JUD THE O48 :S:C Usk preach about self-control, and the wickedness of coercing | a woman. But I should just like a few virtuous people 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 beligwe: I think, that I have exercised some little restraint in always giving in to your wishes—living here in one house, and not a soul be- tween us.” “Yes, you have been good to me, Jude; I know you have, my dear protector.” “Well, Arabella appeals to me. I must go out and speak to her, 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 mel 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 di I didn’t want airy again, either! . But, yes—I agree | agree! I ought to hav e known Eh at you w ould conquer in the long-run, livi ing like this!” She ran across and flung her arms round his neck. “I am not a cold-natured, sex sass creature, am I, for keeping you lat such a distance? I am sure you don't think so! Wait and see! I do belong to you, don't IP I give in.” “And I'll arrange for our marriage to-morrow, or as soon as ever you wish.” “Yes, Jude.” “Then I'll let her go,” said he, embracing Sue softly. “I do feel that it w ould: be unfair to you to see her, and per- haps unfair to her. She is not like you, my darling, and 32),mar ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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 other, and in the middle, and rebolted the front door. The next morning it was wet. “Now, dear,” said Jude, gayly, 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 fea- tures, ‘I feel I was wickedly selfish last night!” she murmured. “It was sheer unkindness in me—or worse—to treat Ara- bella as I did. I didn’t care about her being in trouble, and what she wished to tell you! Perhaps it was really something she was justified in telling you. That’s some more of my badness, I suppose! Love has its own dark morality 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, poor woman.” “Oh yes; she got on all right,” said Jude, placidly. Thope she wasn’t shut out, and that she hadn’t to walk the streets in the rain. Do you mind my putting on my water-proof and going to see if she got in? I’ve been think- Ing of her all the morning.” | “Well—is it necessary? You haven't the least idea how Arabella is able to shift for herself. Still, darling, if you want to go and inquire you can.” There was no limit to the strange and unnecessary pen- ances which Sue would meekly undertake when in a 326 ©) you ‘, *° a ¥ ~ e oy on oad er ee : aie rt Sir ft tht on te eto Se Ae en ee enn nnn eee een enn eee ence ean eee ee ee ee nse en a Oe ee er Oe eee ih tae at ae —Ce eta ae ae es ey t= rs thE GRU EEA CEES RESO ALROIE TS ~ ee erated ee 5 nen bee ie te OE diy era? ae ae ee te ere ESE ee TUDE THE O'R'S CIR SD contrite mood; and this going to see all sorts of extraordi- nary persons whose relation to her was precisely 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, “Tll be ready to go about the banns. You'll come with me?” Sue agreed, and went off under cloak and umbrella, let- ting Jude kiss her freely, and returning his kisses in a way she had never done before. Times had decidedly changed. “The bird is caught at last!” she said, a little sadness showing in her smile. “No, only nested,” he assured her. She walked along the muddy street till she reached 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 up-stairs, 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 turn 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 wish for a moment that Jude could behold her forerunner now, with the daylight full upon her. She may have seemed handsome enough in profile under the lamps, but a frowsiness was apparent this morning; and the sight of her own fresh charms in the looking-glass made Sue’s manner bright, till she reflected what’a meanly sexual emotion this was in her, and hated herself for it. ~_— eer 7 326DPOoeanoBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE “Tve just looked in to see if you got back comfortably last night, that’s all,” she said, gently. “I was afraid after- wards 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 head back upon the pillows with a disappointed toss, and ceasing to retain the dimple she had just taken the trouble to pro- duce. VJ “Indeed I don’t,” said Sue. “Oh, I thought you might have, even if he’s not legally yours. Decency is decency, any hour of the twenty-four.” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Sue, stiffly. “He is mine, if you come to that!” “He wasn’t yesterday.” Sue colored roseate, and said, “How do you know?” ‘From your manner when you talked to me at the door. Well, my dear, you ve been 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, al wished she Rad not come. In the pause there was a knock at the door, and the chamber-maid brought in a telegram for “Mrs. Cartlett.” Arabella opened it as she lay, and her ruffled look dis- appeared. ‘Lam much obliged to you for your anxiety about me, 4 she said, blandly, Shen the maid had gone; “but it is not necessary you should feel it. My man 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. BLT Ls a ea late ES ack hs OC CER a oe eae De DC Bs Qe Se ES ee cs ee i ee ee te ee Se ea a ae ov rag , . Jn) Se bae Lee a eee > Sr a Sa a a a i Ti a rani WO TE SPOT fo tarer5 7 ae re Sa) Paes ae, -Gal ta | Ce Ee ee ee ae I as tale J .U Dee Teo OBS C URE 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. “He asks me to come back. His little corner public in Lambeth would 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 after 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 through 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— youll have the sticks o furniture, and won’t be looked upon as a thief. I shall marry my man over again, now he’s willing, as there was a little flaw in the first cere- mony. In my telegram last night, which this is an answer to, I told him I had almost ese it up with Jude; and that frightened him, I ex ‘pect! Perhaps I should quite have done it if it hadn’t been for you, she said, laughing; “and then how different our histories might have bean Fe om 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 well as if I had male it up, and I forgive you. And, as I say, I'd advise you to get the Business legally done as soon as 328' R 5 ae a Sonera AT ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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 didnt the moment I was free.” “Ah, yes—you are a oneyer too, like myself,” said Ara- bella, eying her visitor with humorous criticism. “Bolted from your first, didn't you, like me?” “Good morning!—I must go,” said Sue, hastily. “And I, too, must up and off!” replied the other, spring- ing out of bed so suddenly that the soft parts of her person shook. Sue jumped aside in trepidation. “Lord, I am only . . Just a moment, dear, e Ne —_-* ee a em Ce eee Var? re . ae i a ellie ae et Tay So ee De TS Pe nee Oke ee te ee Oe Jae fees A a ae t seo Het OO a ey ee ee ee oy 5 ‘ h 5 : eee a eee eee) a ee) 4 woman—not a six-foot sojer! she continued, putting her hand on Sue’s arm. “I really did want to consult Jude on a little matter of business, as |] 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? You think not. Well, I'll write to him about it | didn’t want to write it—but never mind, I will.” lA mV Ve 3 W uen Sue reached home Jude was awaiting her at the door to take the initial step towards their marriage. She clasped his arm, and they went along silently together, as true comrades ofttimes do. He saw that she was pre- occupied, and forbore to question her. “Oh, Jude, I’ve been talking to her,” she said at last. “I 329 e ao og a 4" «7? eT The - Sree eee) aera * are : n ow ss = Ed ed ante sa ni TA Ir a erat hE n a et ate pee eh hee Ox 9 a a mana tert oo ee eee ee eel Yr eS anes: = See ee ee eee JUDE TH © '@B St U hee wish I hadn’t! And yet it is best to be reminded of things.’ oa hope she was civil.” oo gee Yes. I—I ‘cant help liking her—just a little bit! She's not an ungenerous nature; and I am so glad her difficulties have all suddenly ended.” She explained how Arabella had been summoned back, and would be enabled to retrieve her position. “I was referring to our old question. What Arabella has been saying 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 let you put up | the banns this morning.” EE 5 “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 stanchness. So [ am not a bit frightened about losing you, now I really 4m yours and you really are mine. In fact. I am easier in my mind than I was, for my conscience is clear about Richard, who now has a right to his freedom. I felt we were deceiving him before.” “Sue, you seem when you are like this to be one of the women of some grand old civilization, read about in my by-gone, wasted, cl than a denizen of a mere Christi pect you to say at these times that you have just been talking to some friend whom you met in the Via Sacra 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.” 330) / j : ,< LA ~~, 1) a i‘ LLY 4) ’ : oe { whom I used to assical days, rather an country, I almost ex- et prt Ce min Tere ee See Be onc ee eet a Seas ee Ss fa ie i ta : . Nae ert COT al Ah ee RTT ~ ark a7 Ata re i eee cet jo Datel a ee JUDE THE OWS CURS nounced to the ears of any Aldbrickham congregation. Whilst they were postponing and postponing thus, a letter and a newspaper arrived before breakfast one morn- ing 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 opened the newspaper; Jude the letter. After 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 tur a while. “Look!” said she. He looked and read. The paper was one that circulated in South London only, and the marked advertisement was simply the announcement of a marriage at St. Johns Church, Waterloo Road, under the names, “CARTLETI— DoNN’”; 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 fam glad— However, she is provided for now in a way, [ suppose, whatever her faults. poor thing! It is nicer that we are able to think that, than to be uneasy about her. | ought, too, to write to Richard and ask him how he is getting on, perhaps?” But Jude’s attention was still absorbed. Having merely glanced at the announcement, he said, in a disturbed voice: “Listen to this letter, What shall I say or do? * “THE THREE Horns, LAMBETH. ~ Dear Juve (I won't be so distant as to call you Mr. Faw- ley),—I send to-day a newspaper, from which useful docu- ment you will learn that I was married over again to Cartlett last Tuesday. So that business is settled right and But what I write about more I wanted to speak tight at last. particular is that private affait to you on when I came down to Aldbrick- 332a AnD BRICK HAM & ELSEWHERE ‘ham. I couldn’t very well tell it to your lady friend, and should 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 months 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 be- fore 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 parents took the child, and he has been with them ever since. That was why I did not mention it when I met you in Christminster, nor at the law proceedings. He is now of an intelligent age, of course, and my mother and father have lately written to say that, as they have rather a hard struggle over there, and I am settled comfortably here, they don’t see why they should be en- cumbered with the child any longer, his parents being alive. I would have him with me ‘here in a moment, but he is nok old enough to be of any use in the bar, nor will be for years and years, and, naturally, Cartlett might think him in the way. They have, however, packed him off to me in charge of some friends, who happened to be coming home, and I must ask you to take him when he arrives, for I don't know what to do with him. He is lawfully yours, that I solemnlt swear. If anybody says he isn’t, call them brimstone liars, for my sake. Whatever I may have done before or afterwards, I was honest to you from the time we were married till 1 went away, and I remain, yours, d>C., a ARABELLA CARTLETT. — Sue’s look was one of dismay. She asked, faintly. Jude did not reply, and Sue watched him anxiously, é with heavy breaths. “It hits me hard!” said he, in an under-voice. “It may 333 - a rd : ‘ ©? “What will you do, dear? 4 ee EE om > Pt a oe ee Sees a. ‘ ee Re ee etch ten ee ee ed ee At —~e ’) a ee fate tS ud z* - =, - tied = » - a > - . rf - = ae we she A teens oer aie DOTS senda Ws eee ret it in eh bet ee eR Bkrte ce Se a el fee ee a ee faa Sea ce nog hae ie er Ss aye em P OG ee ee ak tl a that, if I were better off, I should JUDE THE OBSCURE be true! I can’t make it out. Certainly, if his age is exactl . what it ought to be. . . . I cannot think why she didnt tell me when I met her at Christminster, and came on here that evening with her! . . . Ah—I do remember now that she said something about having a thing on her mind) that she would like me to know. if ever we lived together _— again. 7 “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 not stop for a moment to think whose he might be. I would take him and bring him up. The beggarly question of parentage—what is it, after allP What does it matter, 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 to our general care. That ex- cessive regard of parents for their own children, and their! dislike of other people’s is, like class-feeling, patriotism, virtues, a mean eX- \ N of the time, and entitled save-your-own-soul-ism, and other clusiveness at bottom.” Sue jumped Uy > and kissed Jude with passionate devo- tion. “Ye S—Sso it is, dearest! And we'll have him here. And if he isn’t yours it makes it all the better. —though perhaps |] ought not to I should like so much child!” “Well, you must assume ing to you, I do hope he isnt feel quite that! If he isnt, 1 for us to have him as an adopted about him what is most pleas- my curious little comrade!” he said. “I feel that. anyhow, I don’t like to leave the fellow to neglect. Just think of his Ji house, and all its evi] influences, S34 unfortunate little ‘ ‘e in a Lambeth pot- with a parent who doesnt= = aw 7 — Se ee a eee RW ADD emo me MAM & ELSE 3? HERE want him, and has, indeed, hardly seen him, and a step- father who doesn’t know him. ‘Let the day perish wherein [ was born, and the night in which it was said, There is 4 man child conceived! That’s what the boy—my boy, perhaps—will find himself saying before long!” “Oh no!” “As I was the petitioner, | am really entitled to his eustody, | 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 keep him somehow. I'll work harder. I wonder when a Seated NR ane te ee te ae he'll arrive?” “In the course of a few weeks, I suppose.” “1 wish— When shall we have courage to marry, 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.” “Tt would make a more natural home for him, perhaps,’ 7 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, making no remark whatever on the surprising nature of Arabella’s information, nor vouchsafing a single word of opinion on the boy’s paternity, nor on whether, had he known all this, his conduct towards her would have been quite the same. Aa eee 8 In the down train that was timed to reach Aldbrick- ham 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 DIV é i ee rere s ee ne a Se ie eeeJUDE THE OBS C Wiha round his neck by a piece of common string, the key attracting attention by its occasional shine in the lamp: light. In the band of his hat his hat-ticket was stuck. His eyes remained mostly fixed on the back 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, where upon the kitten would put out its head, and indulge in playful antics. At these the fellow-passengers laughed, except the solitary boy bearing the key and ticket, who, regarding the kitten with his saucer eyes, seemed mutely to say: “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 mam. Your box is safe in the van.” The boy would Say, “Yes,” without animation, would try to smile, and fail. He was Age masquerading as Juvenility, and doing it so badly that his real self showed through crevices. A ground swell from ancient years of night seemed now and then to lift the child in this his morning-life, when his face 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, which they did one by one—even the kitten curling itself up in the basket, weary of its too circumscribed play—the boy re- mained 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 theif whole rounded lives rather than their immediate figures. This was Arabella’s boy. With her usual carelessness, she 336prea t DB RICKHAM & ELSEWHERE iad postponed writing to Jude about him till the eve of us landing, when she could absolutely postpone no longer, hough she had known for weeks of his approaching ar- ‘ival, and had, as she truly said, visited Aldbrickham nainly to reveal the boy’s existence and his near home- 2oming to Jude. This very day, on which she had received ner former husband’s answer at some time in the after- noon, 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-bye, 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 yery much what I expected you to be,” had given him a good meal, a little money, and, late as it was getting, despatched him to Jude by the next train, wish- ing her husband Cartlett, who was out, not to see him. The train reached Aldbrickham, and the boy was de- posited on the lonely platform beside his box. The collector took his ticket, and, with a meditative sense of the unfit- ness of things, asked him where he was going by himself at that time of night? “Going to Spring Street,” said the little one, impas- sively, “Why, that’s a long way from here; amost out in the country; and the folks will be gone to bed.” ‘Tve got to go there.” “You must have a fly for your box.” “No. I must walk.” “Oh, well, you’d better leave your box here and send for it. There’s a ’bus goes half-way, but youll have to walk the rest.” “I am not afraid.” 337 er a’ ce spate ante tenet Seve 7a. “hte eee PO a ae = - Seen _ be or ‘ — J " ¥ A PA | i ; a iH H f bY p Lf U rit : ed bi 1} He b OF AN oie 1 OI ie Be ad ae 7 c -_ a a a eed eee ae = >» OP a aJUDE THE OBSCURE “Why didn’t your friends come to meet ’ee>” =] 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 the 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 followed his directions literally, witl It could have been see different from those of ei 1out an Inquiring gaze at anything. n that the boy’s ideas of life were the local boys. Children begin with detail, and learn up 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 meadows, but as human d tion, and the wide. d Ot eile ae as brick residences, pollards, wellings in the abstract, vegeta- ark world. He found the way to the little ] door of Jude’s house. Jude had 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?” ane, and knocked at the just retired to bed, and ny na CL atl Ah Ot OT ae Lae be ten eS atthe Rie - “Mr. Fawley, that’s his name.” Sue ran up to Jude’s room and told him, and he hurried ee QAO I¢ x, edehy ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE Jown as soon as he could, though to her impasxence he eemed long. “What—is it he—so soon?” she asked, as Jude came. She scrutinized the child’s features, and suddenly went uway into the little sitting-room adjoining. Jude lifted ihe boy to a level with himself, keenly regarded him with gloomy tenderness, and telling him he would have been met if they had known of his coming so soon, set him 1e went to look for Sue, provisionally in a chair, while | whose supersensitiveness was disturbed, as he knew. He found her in the dark, bending 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! can't bear! But I ought 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 ‘dea! We'll educate and train him with a view to the University. What | couldn’t accomplish im my Own person perhaps I can carry out through him. They are making it easier for poor students now, you know.” “Oh, you dreamer!” said s turned to the child with him. The boy | she had looked at him. “Is it you who's my last?” he inquired. “Why? Do I look like your father’s wife?” ie “Well, yes; ‘cept he seems fond of you, and you of him Can I call you mother?” And that’s what I he. and, holding his hand, re- ooked at her as real mother at 339 ry fi > = ss B. a as a ee oe a a I ed oe a ts eS ERIS es “—— e-- CT le Pe I OO rn ie en nae ee ee eee amare ae ne ate a ee OL Sime AE ES Nos AN ae ate ——, - ne Cohen Caen ae Ee oes eT) . = . . - Le AR ie en ee = a Se a eo “i NT NV AIS and a NR ~ al eR eer tN Na lena ie oa ee ee nes ete oe at oa + fa . meee oe ple ei next liberately made, though it was |} lowing the singular child’s arriy JsU DE T HE Ores Clu-Ren Then < yearning look came over the child, and he be: gan to cry. Sue thereupon could not refrain from im stantly 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 af- fected 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. “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. us to think about in that one little the stars of the sky. up courage, and get tl struggling age “There’s more for hungry heart than in all vl suppose, dear, we must pluck lat ceremony over? It is no use uinst the current, and | fee intertwined with my kind. Oh, Jude, wont you, afterwards? |] do w and to be a mother to him: to our marriage mig] | myself getting youll love me dearly, ant to be kind to this child, and our adding the legal form it make it easier for me,” 4. and second attempt thereat was more de- 9eguN On the morning fol- al at their home." ey Ir , a AU DBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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. “What is your name, dear? Did you tell us?” “Tittle Father Time_is what they always called me—it ‘is a nickname—because I look so aged, they say.” “And you talk so, too,” said Sue, tenderly. “It is strange, Jude, that these preternaturally old boys almost always hristened?” 2 SR en ee RT Nee RE Se SO ee te ER SISA a ts a sy ol come from new countries? But what were you c “I never was.” “Why was that?” “Because, if I died in damnation, ’twould save the ex- pense of a Christian funeral.” “Oh, your name is not Jude, t 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 Jude; and, privately, 1 to Sue, “The day we are married.” Yet the advent of the child disturbed him. Their position lent them shyness, and havin ( pression that a marriage at a Superintendant Registrar's office was more private than an ecclesiastical one, they decided to avoid a church this time. Both Sue and Jude together went to the office of the district to give notice: they 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 looking } 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 341 hen?” said his father, with e- g an 1m- i Ae Oe nena) etd at Rien R Se eee Te Dente See Ee ee eee ee ee eens oe OGRA a oom eens eset The FS ae res * Pm ee Tom Se om eA tare ta = F é a — epi rT a % ’ a! a S a) = ‘ H Sa he Pcl § a staal Ch ieid patel =e Seer a a ee re oh eee TS oe ce ee S a) Se te ce cer er Soe tt ae A eT al OS oS Ed or erry ET A A So soe hond x ie “ ee JUDE? TH FE O'R SC D RE were inserted, and by which that very volatile essencé, their love for each other, was supposed to be made per- manent, her face seemed to grow painfully apprehensive “Names and Surnames of the Parties” (they were to be parties now, not lovers, she thought). “Condition” (a horrid idea). “Rank or Occupation”—“Age”—“Dweelling 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,” 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 welll 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 rer. 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 office, and furtively glancing in, saw affixed to the wall the notice of the purposed clinch to their union. She could, not bear its aspect. Coming after her pre Of matrimony, all the romance of the ‘lo be starved away by placing he vious experience ir attachment seemed r present case in the same category. She was usually leading little Father Time by the hand, and fancied that people regarded the intended ceremony old error, Meanwhile Jude decided to link his present with his past in some slight degree by inviting to the wedding the 342 thought him hers, and as the patching up of anMreAUDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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 that she would come; but she did, bringing singular presents, in the form of apples, jam, brass snuffers, an ancient pewter-dish, a warming-pan, and an enormous bag of goose-feathers towards a bed. She was allotted the spare room in Jude's house, whither she retired early, and where 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 discovered that Sue and Jude were still sitting up—it being, in fact, only ten o’clock—she dressed herself again, and camé down; and they all sat by the fire till a late hour, Father Time included; though, as he never spoke, they were hardly , conscious of him. “Well, I bain’t set against marrying as your great-aunt was,” said the widow. “And I hope twill be a jocund wedding for ye in all respects this time. Nobody can hope it more, knowing 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, 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 weré one of your-family.” “What was that?” said Jude. _ “Well, that tale, ye know—he that \ / on the brow of the hill by the Brown Ho 343 ee a a a a RO SN ee Ee ee Reet aT en TER of aaa = —e Mie ee > es oo—wouldn't POD a De ee Ee Lie tO a oe Oe oe Dnt tept ed vas gibbeted just use—not far froms , - ne eee ene es p Dae OT en |” pad aE Or ed oS a at Tae ade th re an erent Ped on Oe- erry P a — as en oh eer ela wt eaae ater h Feo tt y iY al VS AS Et ah ot mee ye ae ee en Tt Peres ae a ue ae is — TL aa TO UI TUDE! AE OBSCURE the milestone between Marygreen and Alfredston, where the other road branches off. But, Lord. it was in my grand- father’s time; and it medn’ have been one of your folks 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 house to steal the coffin away; but he was catched. and being obstinate, wouldn’t tell what he broke in for. They brought it in burglary, and that’s why he was hanged and gibbeted on Brown House Hill. His wife went mad after he was dead. But it medn’ be true that he belonged to ye more than to me.” A small, slow voice rose from the shade of the fireside. as if out of the earth: “If I was you, mother, I wouldnt marry 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 widow on the eve of the solemnization they rose, and, wishing their guest good-night, 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,” she said, tremulously nestling up to him, with damp lashes. “It won’t be ever like this any more, will it? I wish we hadn’t begun the business. But | suppose we must go on. How horrid that story was last BhdMme AUDBRICKHAM & ELSEWH E! : night! It spoiled my thoughts of to-day. It makes me feel as if a tragic doom overhung our family,.as it did. the house of Atreus.” “Or the house of Jeroboam,” said the quondam theo- logian. “Yes. And it seems awful temerity in us two to go marrying! I am going to vow to you in the same words | 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,’ said he. “I had hoped you would 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 aforesaid, witness accompanying them except the Widow Edlin. a, day was chilly and dull, and a clammy fog blew through the town from ‘ ‘Royal-tower'd Thame.” On the steps of the office there were the muddy footmarks of people who ‘ had entered, and in the entry were damp umbrellas. Within the office several persons were gathered, and our , couple perceived that a marriage between a soldier and a | _ young woman was just in progress. Sue , Jude, and the ‘ widow stood in the background w hile this was going on, . Sue reading the notices of marriage on the wall. The _100m was a dreary place to two of their temperament, " though to its usual frequenters it doubtless seemed ordi- nary enough. Law-books in musty calf covered one wall, and elsewhere were Post-Office Directories, and other * books of reference. Papers in packets tied with red tape were pigeon-holed around, and some iron safes filled a re- 3 4 5 t le x Py a , ed » = bs A NE RE PID a Se a ei rent oe Ne ‘= ce Oe nL ee oS ae ee eee Tel ta OF eS mtr Atl PT geile Teatlie~Fs . aioe) ut ag sted 0 ERO Oa aaa Pe RT one Yr ome Bente te! NES Te ae a are +tee epee PS as ees ee md FY bet a arlene aot Se te earner iain pp er ea Deere) Fi ne ee re ae ere a . aii eee ee etre! JUDE THE OBSCURE cess; while the bare wood floor was, like the door-step, 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 black eye. Their little business was soon done and the twain and their friends straggled 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 jail this morning. She met him at the jail gates, and brought him straight here. She’s paying for everything.” She turned her head and saw an ill-favored man, closely cropped, with a broad-faced, pock-marked woman on his arm, ruddy with liquor and the satisfaction of being on the brink of a gratified desire, They 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 itself 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 seems so unnatural as the climax of our love! I wish it had been at church, if it had to be at all. It is not so vulgar there.” “Dear little girl,” said Jude, “how troubled and pale you look!” “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 anywhere, 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. Any- how, let us go out till you are calmer, dear, and I too, and talk it over.” 46AT ALDBRICKHAM & ELSEWHERE They went out stealthily and guiltily, as if they had committed a misdemeanor, 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 you will please me.” “But Jude, dearest, I am worrying you! You wanted it to be there, didn’t your” “Well, to tell the truth, when I got inside I felt as if I didn’t care much about it. The place depressed me al- most as much as it did you; it was ugly. And then I thought of what you had said this morning as to whether -we ought.” They walked on vaguely till she paused, and her 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 terrible that scene was to me! The ex- pression of that flabby woman’s face, leading her on to give herself to that jail-bird, not for a few hours, as she would, but for a lifetime, as she must. And the other poor soul—to escape a nominal 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 forever was her only chance of salvation. mae Uhis is our parish church, isn’t it? This is where it would have to be if we did it in the usual way? A service or something seems to be going on.” oT Jude went up and looked in at the door. “Why, it is 347 nS cay =i ~ a rs Srna De oP I eee DR SOLES ot Ot a 2 eile Oe De oe SD Ee PO ee See en a a Se nee fi Se eT PP IT a ede eee nee PT ari ee eae a a _ ae gee Se ie ee ee a ae —eee a. N eee een Se ee a ee ne eens Se Sa am Sa re al a ee Ie ae a one tt i TL a tae DO NIC TRH Ah Sh oe al OL AS Sh or et Sea 2 aw arrsea wr iscry. ae ee JUDE THE OBST URE a wedding here too,” 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 per- formed in a church.” They stepped in, and entered a back seat, and watched the proceedings at the altar. The contracting couple ap- peared to belong to the well-to-do middle class, and the wedding altogether was of ordinary prettiness and interest. They could see the flowers tremble in the 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 her self-conscious- ness. 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, as 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, and to my Own too squeamish feelings perhaps sometimes, it really does seem immoral in me to go and undertake the same thing again with open eyes. Coming in here and seeing this has frightened me from 4 church wedding as much as the other did from a registry one. . . . We are a weak, tremulous pair, Jude, and what others may feel confident in I feel doubts of—my being proof against the sordid conditions of a business contract again, r Then they tried to laugh, and went on debating 1 | whispers. the object-lesson before them. And Jude said he also thought they were both too thin-skinned; thal 348—ier oe BRICK HAM & ELSEWHERE 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 earnestly if he indeed felt that they ought not to go in cold blood and sign that life-undertaking again. “It is awful if you think we have found ourselves not strong enough for it, and, knowing this, are proposing to perjure ourselves,” she said. ‘I fancy I do think it—since you ask me,” said Jude. “Remember, I’ll do it if you wish, own darling.” While she hesitated he went on to confess that, though he thought they ought to be able to do it, he felt checked by the dread -of incompetency, just as she did—from their peculiarities, perhaps, because they were unlike other people. “We are horribly sensitive; 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 1s good, and right for many, no doubt; but in our case it may defeat its own ends, because we are 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 nothing queer or excep- tional in it—that all were so. “Everybody is getting to feel as we do. We are a little beforehand, that’s all. In fifty, aye, twenty years, the descendants of these two will act and feel worse than we. They will see weltering humanity stil] more vividly than we do now, as «ce Shapes like our own selves hideously multiplied, and will be afraid to reproduce them.” . “What a terrible line of poetry! . though I have felt 349 ee edt ns foie ae tee tele ap shady _ a eee et Ere ate — a fas “ < ne a tint elie ae Sea ten el a a i FO ey Se on ime ee Le et ny ae eee ee ee! ~ Wels as panel a Ch ee ut a a nee A/a eaeeae.” ee, e] ’ an REE Pee rt rf Sot aT Dt leon tl SSSR Ra eens oo be eee re lo co el tae ne eee Fal A do ee Ee wape- aera: ee = nae JUDE THE OBS CUEE it myself about my fellow-creatures at morbid times. Thus they murmured on, till Sue said, more brightly: “Well, the general question is not our business, and why should we plague ourselves about it? However differ- ent our reasons are, we come 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 you 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 atten- tion of everybody present was taken up in observing the bridal procession entering the ve stry, and then they came outside the building. By the door they waited till two or three carriages . which had gone away for a while, re- turned, and Hel new husband and wife came into the open daylight. Sue sighed. “The flowers in the bride’s hand are sadly like the gar- land which decked the heifers of sacrifice in old eimeal” “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 1s only the helpless transmitter of the pressure put upon him.” “Yes; some are like that, instead of uniting with the man against the common enemy, coercion.” The bride and bridegroom had by this time driven off, and the two moved away with the the rest of the idlers. “No, don’t let’s do it, she continued—?” he interest lighting up his face, “Yes. Arcades, gables, east windows, and all.” She told him the pecuniary results, and then hesitated. At last, when 390 said, a gleam ofmr AL DEBERICKHAM & ELSEWHERE 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,” she continued, kissing him anxiously. “Yes. . . . Dear me! Arabella not in the depths of Lon- don, but down here! It 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,” 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 Mrs. 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 tearfulness 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 like to go back there. Why should they care if they were known? It was oVer-sensitive of them to mind so much. They could go on selling cakes there, for that matter, if he couldn’t work. He had no sense of shame at mere poverty; and perhaps he would be as strong as ever soon, and able to set up stone- cutting for himself there. 1B “Why should you care so much for Christminster? she said, pensively. “Christminster cares nothing for you, poor dear!” 391 - OO pa ke ti Di - Sar de Feo in BO mae rant RR neem Reape oe eee = aS i ai is ° ete Dnt he ee ee toe NM we Pe] * ee ee “Zur e ort rs De Sl er So ~ 4 Sere ee ee oe peur aT | -Sc bebeaeet slate Re Dien wal Pal oe ede a Le be eee a A Sas pr _, i { ‘§ | A ’ 5 he Me ay ye ptt eae nate az ahem « - ao ree ec ee a a lear ace ch I eae Sala oe yee fies We Nl eso ras | a ea . JUDE THE OBSCURE “Well, I do; I can’t help it. I love the place—although 1 know how it hates all men like me—the so-called Self- taught—how it scorns our labored 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! . . . Nevertheless, it is the centre of the universe to me, because of my early dream: and nothing can alter it. Perhaps it will soon wake up, and be generous. J pray so! . . . I should like to go back to live there—perhaps to die there! In two or three weeks I might, I think. It will 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 tl 1e sunshine from its wasting walls.hb. nfl ht . 5 AR a ae mo tas M Part Six * At Christminster Again 2 Sei eh a Ne Sc a ee ~ a alah « ..And she humbled her 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. BROWNING wantin he ~ Se ee sie ee ee ee eer ne N THEIR arrival the station was lively with straw-hatted young men, welcoming young girls who bore a remarkable family likeness to their he brightest and OY 0s meas dr eae Dt welcomers, and who were dressed up in t lightest of raiment. , “The place seems gay,’ said Sue. “Why it is Remen: brance Day!—Jude—how sly of you—you came to-day on purpose!” “Yes,” said Jude, quietly, as he took charge of the sua 393 ee ee nee a Pe dird = ctl AON PS a cae tee Re ta | ear a} ef ed- ’ mee SCR EE et aces Neen Se lea Te Re ees eke oo bee ft —— . - aaa eg aS tal ee Ee Cee De nats ATED OT al I Td a tet ein te et bag ND SG RS ee ee ee JUDE THE OBSCURE child, and told Arabella’s boy to keep close to them, 5ue attending to their own eldest. “I thought we might as well come to-day as on any other.” “But I am afraid it will depress you!” 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. The first thing is lodgings.” Having left their luggage and his tools at the station, they proceeded on foot up the familiar street, the holiday people all drifting in the same direction. Reaching the Fourways, they were about to turn off to where accom- modation 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.” “Oughtn’t we to get a house over our heads first?” she asked. But his soul seemed full of the anniversary, and together they went down Chief Street, their smallest child in Jude's arms, Sue leading her little girl, and Arabella’s boy walk ing thoughtfully and silently beside them. Crowds of pretty sisters in airy costumes, and meekly ignorant parents, who had known no college in their youth, 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 lived on earth till they came to grace it here and now. My failure is reflected on me by every one of those young fellows,” said Jude. “A lesson on presumption 15 awaiting me to-day!—Humiliation Day for me! ... If you, my dear darling, hadn’t come to my rescue, I should have gone to the dogs with despair!” 394”_ andy Zoom tbs TMINSTER AGAIN 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 a waken old solrows in you, and do no good!” Well—we are near; we will see it now,” 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 his abandoned hopes; for it was from that outlook that he had finally surveyed the City of Colleges on the afternoon ol 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 this build- ing 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 o! the college to the door of the large building between it and the theatre, | ‘Here is the place—they are just going Jude, in sudden excitement. And, pushing his way to the front, he took up a position close to the barrier, still hug: ging the youngest child in his arms, while Sue and the others 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 lower door of the college, and solemn stately figures in blood-red robes be- gan to alight. The sky had grown overcast and livid, and thunder rumbled now and then. Father Time shuddered. “It do seem like the Judgmeut Day!” he whispered. to pass!” cried eS iw eS eee Ok ee Ba aoe eieeatee eee St nes ete ae ee ent ee ilies ae > é SS aT tn ete oe ed eae oe to he | a) rs me ns noted od memo * tina ca -- re aeaay EEL Art tier Et oe _. ee ee eran ea atte pape ee ee ear ad FS ects Kt scr) wh aa bul St alerts Rehan cation ae eds Rt we beet oo a JUDE THE OBSCURE “They are only learned Doctors,” said Sue. While they w aited big drops of rain fell on their 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 fagade 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 de- scribe the carving of the frieze (which he had studied years before), aa to criticise 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 them- selves did; till one of cher 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 nick- named Tutor of St. Slums, a ye mind?—because he aimed at that line 0 business? He’s married, | 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, vi vith whom Jude had formerly worked in repairing the college mason- ries; Tinker Taylor was seen to be standing near. Having his attention called, the latter cried across ake barriers to Jude: “You’ve honored us by coming back again, my friend!” 396mae te mers T MIN S.T E 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!” This came in a new voice, and Jude recognized its owner to be Uncle Joe, another mason whom he had known. Jude replied good-humoredly 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?” threw in Joe. Yer powers wasn’t enough to carry ‘ee through?” “Don’t answer them any more!” entreated 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 declarations 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 yous man—that question I had to grapple with, and whicl thousands are weighing at the present moment in these uprising times whether to follow uncritically the track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it, or to consider what his aptness or bent may be, and e shape his course accordingly. I tried to do the latter, and I failed. But I don’t admit that my failure proved my View to be a wrong one, or that my success would have 397 as Rs etn Bete ee ne nit Ot ae tO te OE nS mre oe RE ees ae eres oe sy es — » eee ee al at a ~ a . = a ON an Tn fare a na a ae fo Pe ie oe at ae = nee ie, Pel ian weg a asa dary 8 ee ee Ed ee A aT acne Chal So ae ee eer ee rs os ST OT EEC ES. Ba EE a aon Bee ee ee RI or yn er Bote Pees canta neta erste pepe te toee ne ate nee Sees so? JUDE THE! OBSCURE made it a right one; though that’s how we appraise such attempts nowadays—I mean, not by their essential sound- ness, 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 would have said: ‘See how wise that y oung man was, to follow the bent of his nature!’ But having ended no better than 1 began, they say: ‘See what a fool that fellow was in follow- _ing-a freak of his fancy!’ “However, it was my poverty and not my will that consented to be beaten. It takes two or three generations to do what I tried to do in one: and my impulses—atfec- tions—vices perhaps they should be called—were tod ] tamper a man without advantages, who shouta De as cold-blooded as a fish and as selfish as a pig to have a really good chance of be ‘ing one of his country s worthies. You may ridicule me I am quite willing that you should—I am a fit sub yject, no doubt. But I cal if you knew what I have gone through these last few years you would rather pity me. And if they knew”—he nodded towards the college at which the Dons were severally wriving—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 frigh tful. ex xample of what not to do, and so ustrate a moral story,’ continued Jude, beginning to grow bitter, though he had opened serenely enotels al was, perhaps, after all, a paltry victim to the spirit. of nental and social restlessness that makes so many unhappy in these days.’ “Don’t tell them that!” whispered Sue, with tears, at 398ae pe AGAIN a Ga RLiST MINSTER perceiving Jude's state of mind. “You weren't that. You struggled nobly to acquire knowledge, and only the meanest souls in the world would blame you.” ; Jude shifted the child into a more easy position on his am, 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. Eight or nine years ago, when I came here first, I had a neat stock of fixed opinions, but they dropped away one by one; and the further I get the less sure I am. I doubt if I have anything more for my pres- ent rule of life than following inclinations which do me and nobody else any harm, and actually give pleasure to those I love best. There, gentlemen, since you wanted to know how I was getting on, | have told you. Much good may it do you! I cannot explain further here. I perceive there is something wrong somewhere in our social formu: las; what it is can only be discovered by men or women with greater insight than mine—if, indeed, they ever dis- cover it—at least, in our time. ‘For who knoweth what is good for man in this hfe>-~and who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun? ” "Hear, hear!” said the populace. “Well preached!” said Tinker Taylor. And privately to his neighbors: “Why, one of theni jobbing pa sons swarming about here, that takes the services when our head Reverends want a holiday, wouldn’t ha’ discoursed such doctrine for less than a suinea 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, tobed and panting, a cab whose horse failed to stop at 399 o 5 SE a et ~ ih ae TN Se + soled ere eta hed teeiendee bet te ont Semeeents AT ea os Ste ne ee ane oad = oe ieee bone PO ear iat ees ie a adage aime -/ i Ds wee Pe} gigi ee poe ieee tet eae) et oe ht el tat nie fit Or ea ret al te eet n) 1d , AeCee ae Zs =~ ena tee poe 4 ote COS ee te eee Pope es a a an Se err Las ee regan ere Tet Oa en ee eee ae Ce er nnd Te wae a — “Svaewuascs. iuDE: THE: ORS Cc Uns the exact point required for setting down 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 world, what shall we say as to how far we’ve got?” “Order!” said one of the policemen, who had been en- gaged with a comrade in opening the large doors oppo- site the college. “Keep yer tongue quiet, 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, and 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, endeavoring to shelter him. “We haven’t any lodgings yet, remember, and all our things are at the station; and you are by no means well yet. I am afraid this wet will hurt you. “They are coming now. Just a moment, and Il go, said he. A peal of six bells struck out, human faces began 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 in- formants, 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 quaint and frost-eaten stone busts encircling 400ad pe =| Rh. AGAIN mee mnRoST MINS TE the building looked with pallid grimness on the proceed- ings, and in particular at the bedraggled Jude, Sue, and their children, as at ludicrous persons who had no busi: ness there. ‘I wish I could get in.” he said to her, fervidly. “Lis- ten—I may catch a few words of the Latin speech by Seen ee eee Sat ot ata staying here; the windows are open. 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 a than, now and then; a sonorous word in um or ibus. Well, I'm an outsider to the end of my days,’ he sighed, after a while. “Now Il 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 more about the infernal cursed place; upon my soul | won't! But what made you . eer oe ¥ . ~tonid Da ne Ek Rae te ~ nia Fe Teel ee ge a TN ee Ee Fr = —) oe et tremble so when we were at the barrier? And how pale you are, Sue!” ; - £ db . ”> I saw Richard among the people on the other side. Ah—did you?” He is evidently come up to Jerusa ival like the rest of us, and on that account Is probably He had the same hankering oe ee een te ieee Lr are o or lem to see the fes- ae not’so very far away. - the University that you had. in a milder form. I dont t ink he saw me, though he must have heard you speak- | ; : C . >” ng to the crowd. But he seemed not to notice. : Well, suppose he did. Your mind is free from worries about him now, my Sue?” Yes, I suppose so. But I 1 yi . . a is all right with our plans, him; an aw > | It comes over me at times like a sort of creeping pat ( and makes me so sad!” pi Bene oe eee fie OC iar et es Pah ae am weak. Although I know : ‘ I felt a curious_dreac of 1 I don’t believe in. ate th fae ie ote alysis, te, lh tinggi rire a OE ee On at 01 Pa tak deata ae oe te ee, nee ATT - ecmesese7s a Pe a Sorte Beve hak ch Let Nae ere Fa aa ea < ed a Oe ET al ed ox meme ee a Tr JUDE THE OBSCURE “You are getting tired, Sue. Oh—I forgot, darling! Yes, we'll go on at once.” The »y started in quest of the lodging, and at last found something that seemed to promise w ell, in Mildew Lane— a spot which to Jude was irresistible—though to Sue it was not so fascinating—a narrow lane close to the back of a college, but having no communication with it. The little houses were darkened to gloom by the high collegiate buildings, within which life was so far remov ial from. that of the people j 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 new-comers 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? 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, coming to himself. The Rousehalder scrutinized Sue a moment. “We havent 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 the way. They found a second place hard by; but here the occu- pier, observing not only Sue, but the boy and the small children, aid civilly, “I am sorry to say we dont let where there are aie and also closed the door. The small child squared his mouth and cried silently, 4027 ce aol Hoe mRESTMINSTER AGAIN with an instinct that trouble loomed. The boy sighed. ‘I don't like Christminster!” he said. “Are the great, old houses jails?” “No; colleges,” said Jude; “which perhaps you'll study in some day.” ‘Id rather not!” the boy rejoined. “Now we'll try again,” said Sue. “Ill pull my cloak more around 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 Jude. There was one other house, and they tried a third time. The woman here was more amiable;.but she had little Sitch ot Res Fn ee Re eae om eS en TTA EERE room to spare, and could only agree to take in Sue and the children, if her husband could go elsewhere. This ar- rangement they perforce adopted, in the stress from de- laying their search till so late. They came to terms with her, though her price was rather high for their pockets. But they could not afford to be critical, 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 stay ed and had a cup of tea, and was pleased to find that the window commanded the back of one 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 startled by the landlady saying, suddenly: “Are you really a married woma LOS 403 - : ~ Ai Oe eee ee eh ine ee ee ene Et pe ee ee eos mn?” oe PE a Stl OOM : “ , an Ne aN Le Re ea eee eeeteed tia | cies Oy epagnhe op = ne Ld) ae ee aie pn pee S rn ee ee a A een eo oat eee tata Sere Feat Pre aol Ne eel ia ee ee ite lo ee ete ee ee Le ete = - Be Fe ot Ee et ie Rg) nae eee TUDE) THE OS'GCURE Sue hesitated; and then impulsively told the woman 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 lest the condition of the con- tract 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 embar rassed, and went down- Stairs. Sue sat by the window in a reverie, watching the rain. Her quiet was broken by the noise of someone enter- ing 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 straight w ith ‘em—coming like that. Taking in a family when I said a single man. The wife expostulated, but, as it se emed. the husband insisted on ngs point; for presently a tap came to Sues door, and the woman appeared. “I am sorry to tell you, ma’am,” she said, “that I cant let you have the room for the week, after all. My husband objects; and therefore I must ask you to go. I don’t mind your staying over to- night, as it is getting Tate in the after- noon; 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 w eek, Sue did not wish to create a disturbance be- 404ros 7’ on enn ee Re ne oe Sa ee ee ee ee ee hey “ Ot - Stossise ti Pe Poe eo mRISTMINSTER AGAIN tween the wife and husband, and she said she would leave as requested. When the landlady had gone Sue looked out of the window again. Finding that the rain had ceased she proposed to the boy that, after putting the lit- tle ones to bed, they should go out and search about for another place, and bespeak it for the morrow, so as not to be so hard driven then as they had been that day. Therefore, instead of unpacking her boxes, which had just been sent on from the station by Jude. they sallied out into the damp, though not unpleasant, streets, Sue re- solving 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 company 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 no- body to promise her a room for the following day. Every householder looked askance at such a woman and child inquiring for accommodation in the gloom. ‘I ought not to be born, ought I?” said the boy, with murmured Sue, her — os Se al ted fore ee ede tn eet te a as ar, etd ee Ae Oe Sethe eeCreep oee Cn et eh I a at tla hs a8 SIL ee a ne es aoe leet Lene ear ia ten en maa eee Se nee bee et el ae i. _ “ Ae tag NT ey nae hee a ee adel ee ee 292 JUDE WHE GBS CURE don't care!” he cried, in bitter reproach. “How evef could you, mother, be so wicked and cruel as this, when 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 0’ 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 cant ex plain; I will when you are older. It does seem—as if I had done it on purpose, now we are in these difficulties l cant explain, dear. But it—it is not quite on purpose; I cant help it.” “Yes it is—it must be! For nobody would interfere with us, like that, unless you agreed! I wont forgive you, ever, ever! Ill never believe you care for me, OF father, or any of us any more!” He got up, and went away into the closet adjoining her room, in which a bed had been spread on the floor, There she heard him say, If we children 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 past 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 before he went out. She arose softly, to avoid disturbing the children, who, as she knew, must be fatigued by their exertions esterday. She found Jude at breakfast in the Gbscure-tavern he had chosen as a counterpoise to the expense of her lodg- ing, and she explained to him her homelessness. He had 408Pee mnRiSTMINSTER AGAIN been so anxious about her all night, he said. Somehow, now it was morning, the request 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 noi be worth while to insist upon her right to stav 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 back and prepare the children’s meal before they wake. In fact, ll go with you. She joined Jude in a hasty meal, and in a quarter of an hour théy started together, resolving to clear out from Sue’s too respectable lodging immediately. On reaching the place and going up-stairs she found that all was quiet in the children’s room, and called to the landlady in tim- , Orous tones to please bring up the teakettle and some- thing for their breakfast. This was perfunctorily done, and, producing 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 watch in . his hand, timing the eggs, so that his back was turned to , the little inner chamber where the children lay. A shriek from Sue suddenly caused him to start round. He saw that , the door of the room, or rather closet—which had seemed , 10 go heavily upon its hinges as she pushed it back—was Open, and that Sue had sunk to the floor just within it. 409 ra >, as pre oT] —* =. a ha Se nae eae ee St See sain ieee ie toe en teeth ee cae - oe Betta et ates SS ee ua ae ean c seemed a tte ae Lae» os Sa oh I TS Or ae gee er eee ee ee tet are ew re" « a ma AS ee 9 eee ac ia rs ee da cease eee er ae eke gee fo . 7 a = “ae, + EH a pe i a i rer Ee a omer Sea ca IS a a ~ Dower wos T MINSTER AGAIN outline against the light, but no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general aspect and air. Yet some- thing seemed to denote that she was not quite so com- fortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly attired, as she had been during Cartlett’s lifetime. The three attempted an awkward conversation about the tragedy, of which Jude had felt it to be his duty to inform her immediately, though she had never replied to his letter. ‘I have just come from the cemetery,” she said. “I in- | quired and found the child’s grave. I couldn’t come to the | funeral—thank you for inviting me all the same. I read all about it in the papers, and | felt I wasn’t wanted. No—I couldn’t come to the funeral,” repeated Arabella, who, seeming utterly unable to reach the ideal of a cata- strophic manner, fumbled with reiterations, “but I am glad I found the grave. As ’tis your trade, Jude, youll be able to put up a handsome stone to em.” “I shall put up a head-stone,” said Jude, drearily. “He was my child, and naturally I feel for him.” ‘Lhope so. We all did.” “The others that weren't mine I didn’t fee] 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,” continued Mrs, Cartlett. “Perhaps ’twouldn’t have happened then. But of course I didn’t wish to take him away from your SA aA ee a aS ae rs ee > * i ce nT ee ae we ae « i ee eM ee my ei rete De as Lb 7 Cy . » : Wife, 4 ee . . >» I am not his wife,” came from Sue. P 2 The unexpectedness of her words struck Jude silent. é “Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said Arabella. “[ thought you were!” sok cmmanye Se ei aid oP a, fit Lies Lag tS 25 S 4 Nees s a adae a. | 3 a F armen Te — ip om - To Ps re a a ra ae re ea re ht ee Oe UMAR Bie SLE aT Sh or mee ee” a et JUDE THE*G@ERS CURE 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 sustaining 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 criticise what she says.” “Ah—I see! Well, my time is up. I am staying 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?” said Jude, with lan- guid 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 young ones have just got back. He has got 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. When she had departed, Jude, much relieved, went to the stairs and called Sue— 426AGAIN Dee ee RISTMINSTER 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 hour was growing late. The carpenter called his wife, who conjectured that Sue might have gone to St. Silas’s 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 church, 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 the door to bé¢ hind 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 dead- ened his footsteps as he moved in that direction through the obscurity, which was broken only by the faintest re- flected night-light from without. | High overhead, above the chancel steps, Jude could dis- cern a huge, solidly constructed Latin cross—as large, prob- ably, as the original it was designed to commemorate. It seemed to be suspended in the air by invisible wires; 1 Was set with large jewels, which faint] Weak ray caught from outside, as the cross swayed to and fro in a silent and scarcely perceptible motion. Under- neath, upon the floor, lay what appeared to be a heap of black clothes, and from this was repeated the sobbing that 427 y glimmered in some é wu \ v ee” a anne = te Te ee A A er ene ey Se ee ee = oe mp ee ae he Ne St Oe Reese ted —— ee eee ere root i wr FO os and ee My ype 5 Te ne a at onl 4 . ae a SSA ee ear ett eee Rear eal ‘oP .Y aH 4acer a a ct OT Fo a oe po a s Pe Re uprateTe ; > Se oe Re ee ee ce teeta a tn ed hoe Nee et ta ee en tee lee re ae ee ee rc =o = ge eee ee ee Pe ec tae Penge eel Tenet fas JUDE THE! OBSC TRE he had heard before. It was his Sue's form, prostrate on the paving. “Sue!” he whispered. Something white disclosed itself; she had turned up her face. ~What—do you want with me here, Jude?” she said. “You shouldn't come! I wanted to be alone! Why did you intrude here?” “How can you ask!” he retorted, in quick 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—oh, f far better—than you have loved me! What made you leave me to come here alone?” “Don't criticise me, Jude—I can’t bear it!—I have often told you so. You must take me as I am. I am a wretch— broken by my distractions! I couldn’t bear it when Arabella came—l felt so utterly miserable I had to come away. She seems to be your wife still, and Richard 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 show me this! Arabella’s child killing mine was _a_judgment—the right slaying the wrong, What, what shall I do! Iam such a vile creature—too worthlen to mix with ordinary human beings!” “This is terrible!” said Jude, almost in tears. “It is mon- strous and 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 oc of it! You make me hate Christianity, _Or_mysticism, 0 Ce 7 Osre a ee AIN AT GHrRIUSTMINAS TERY AG Sacerdotalism, or whatever it may be called, if it’s tha which has caused this deterioration in you. That a woman- poet, a woman-seer, a woman whose soul shone like a diamond—whomi all the wise of the world would have been proud of, if they could have known you—should degrade herself like this’| Tam glad | had nothing to do with —Divinity—dammn glad—it it's going to ruin in this way “You are angry, Jude, and unkind to me, and don't see how things are.” “Then come along home with me, dearest, and perhaps 1% ¢ I shall. I am over-burdened—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 sup- port. “I don't dislike you, Jude,” she said, in a sweet and im- ploring 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 _and wife, if ever two people were in this worldf Nature’s*own marriage it_is, unques- tionably! lf « Fe ee LS OT Oa ine ee Se ee te ee OOO TO Ne eS ee Ee ee Se ae ee Te “But not HeaverrssAnother was made for me there, and ratified eteimally in the church at Melchester.” “Sue, Sue—affliction has brought you to this unreason- able state! After converting me to your views on so many things, to find you suddenly turn to the right-about like Ae for no reason whatever - confounding all you have formerly said through devtiment merely! You root out of me w hat little ee oti and reverence I had lef€in me for the Church as an Ohtecquaintance,.. . What I can’t nh a mapas Ta ties bette ile ok oe ee Sie Ba - —_ sa ‘\ ee nist ¥ ie, eee } 4 al> he a a ae et Rotate ee : aa ais a . TR SSepsmrerataa alan See See Nac he ir ace I rete ter fo res bee on ee Mol ee ed ee ete et GaP ares JUDE THE OBSCURE understand 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 w anting its integer? How you argued that marriage was only a clumsy contrac sy coneacE which itis how joushawed all the objections to-it=alt the absurdities #two-and two make tour when we | ke four now? I cant understand it, | repeat! ~ Ah, dear Jude, that’s because you are like 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 fa you, and not a true parallel! You threw off old husks 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 hard with me! | can't help being as I am, and 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 were out- side the building, and she had returned the key. “Can this be the girl,” s eer Jude, when she came back, feeling a slight renewal of elasticity now that he was in the open street— “can this be the girl y who brought the Pagan deities into this most Christian “city who amimicked-Miss-Fontov er yhen she crushed them with her heel?—quoted Gibbon anf Shelley and Mill?-where-are dear Apollo and dear Venus now? a ee “Oh, don’t, don’t be so cruel to me, Jude, and I so un- happy!” she sobbed. “I can’t bear it! I was in error—I can- not reason with you. I was wrong—proud in my own con- ceit! Arabella’s coming was the finish. Don’t satirize me; it cuts like a knife!” Fle flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately 430A aT Lindl ne moe GHRISTMINSTER AGAIN 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 your 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 up-stairs 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?” 8 “You said you would do as I wished!” Te “Yes. Very well! . . . Perhaps it was 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 haye parted. Perhaps the world is not illuminated enough for such experiments as ours! Who were we, to think we could act as pioneers!” 8 faa “I am so glad you see that much, at any rate. | never deliberately meant to do as I did. | slipped into my false position through jealousy and agitation.” ‘ “But surely through love—you loved me? “Yes. But I wanted to let it stop there, and as mere lovers; until “But people in love couldnt “Women could: men cant, ee oO nw gE ES _ a a GTN TONLE RT aa an hl none oe aa La ae ~ ee ee ene ee eee go on always | . f . , }?? live forever like that! because they—won t. An \ Fae eee eae ee ete te nied A “s ° . _ rare ro io |— fo 4 average woman is in this superior to an average man th that she never instigates, only responds. We ought to have ‘ i lived in mental communion, and no more. d a “I was the unhappy cause of the change, as I have sai i before... . Well. as you will... . But human nature | : > : »> a cant help being itself. Wy : ay) it 3 Xv L te ae a P nog . a Os Be th tee fine ony Lon iy a way to act thus. He accordingly addressed a carefully considered epistle to Sue, and, knowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthine strictness into it here and there, care- fully hiding his heterodox feelings, not to frighten her. He stated that, it having come to his knowledge that her views had considerably changed, he felt compelled to say that his own, too, were largely modified by events subsequent to their parting. He would not conceal from her that pas- sionate love had little to do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their lives, if not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they threatened to be- come, through his acting on what he had considered at the time a principle of justice, charity, and reason. 439 owen eee to, en : eon -- : : Pes Te a es aaa vs Sg 7 OO Ta Se eet DS a fe ee eeePe ae 7 peared os PON LL tne a ee er aS On el [ai eet rec NE ET aa Cora on be tale OT Eh ee meee FE ae te ale See ce ee bee te a ae “sk a bs as oa i ee re J°U DEY Tf Hk O.n SC UB 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 artificial sense of the same if you wished to enjoy an average share of comfort and honor, and to let loving-kindness take care of itself. He suggested that she should come to him there at Mary- | green. On second thoughts he took out the last paragraph but one; and having rewritten the letter, he despatched it im- mediately, and in some excitement awaited the issue. A few days after a figure moved through the white fog which enveloped the Beersheba suburb of Christminster towards the quarter in which Jude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue. 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 that 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 dont 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 initia- tory power seemed to have left her, and they proceeded through the fog like Acherontic shades for a long while, without sound or gesture.AT @eRLST MINS TER A2AGALN “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 magnani- mously—agreed to forgive 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 wellnigh fierce. “But you are my wife! Yes, you are! You know it! I have always regretted that feint of ours in going away and pre- tending to come back legally married, to save appear- ances. 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—I know it, Sue! Therefore, our marriage is not cancelled.” “Yes; I know how you see it,” she answered, with despair- ing self-suppression. “But | am going to marry him again, as it would be called by you. Strictly speaking, you, too— don’t mind my saying it, Jude!—you should take back— Arabella.” “I should? Good God, what next! But how if you and | had married legally, as we were on the point of doing?” “I should have felt just the same that ours was not a marriage. And I] would go back to Richard without re- peating the sacrament if he asked me. But ‘the world and its ways have a certain worth’ (I suppose ), therefore I con- cede a repetition of the ceremony... . Don’t crush all the life out of me by satire and argument, I implore you! I was strongest once, I know, and perhaps I treated you L4t < ra ' ma p Aa De aie ee OT reat aN eee Se ee ee ee ER ee oe eR Ee ee aR * oa pen eee te ee A eet) ene ee ieee ie - — = . aie Pe ne eed Po a ~ ae , _pe cr) - ae? \ Pa Foren: ae aaauiaae Reese bom | ed ee See ts le ee a ale ch ae rece OST oe Cor ces ir AY han! ee ee eee ee ae ee eects JU DE.T BE OBSCURE 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 who is trying to mend!” \——He shook his head hopelessly, his eyes wet. The blow of her bereavement seemed to have destroyed her reasoning faculty. The once keen vision was dimmed. “All wrong, all wrong!” he said, huskily. “Error—perversity! It drives me — out of my senses. Do you care for him? Do you love him? You know you don’t! It will be a fanatic prostitution—God _ torgive me, yes—that’s what it will be!” “I don’t love him—I must, must own it, in deepest re- inorse! But I shall try to learn to love him. by obeying him.” Jude argued, urged, implored; but her conviction was proof against all. It seemed to 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 tones, “that you might not consider yourself slighted by hearing of it at second-hand. I have even owned the ex- treme 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 Y went away from him. We are to be married at his little church at Marygreen.” She was so’ sadly sweet in what he called her wrong- bhi j ©RK A G ALN Beers LST MINS T E headedness that Jude could not help being moved to tears more than once for pity of her. “I_never_knew such a woman for doing impulsive _penances_as_you, Sue! No BMges (one expect you to so straight on, as the one rational proceeding, than you double round the corner!” ‘Ah, well, let that go! . . . Jude, I must say goodbye! But I wanted you to go to the cemetery with me. Let our farewell be there—beside 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 still. “It is here—I should like to part,” said she. "90 be it.” ‘Don't think me hard because I have acted on convic- tion. Your generous devotion to me is unparalleled, lude. 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 successtul man is more or less a selfish man, The devoted fail... . ‘Charity seeketh not her Own,” In that chapter we are at one, ever beloved darling, and on it well 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 ero sinner, and kindest friend!” ‘i “Good-bye, my mistaken wife. Good-bye! w a | iy? , aoe >) re ae ee St i ee ia ee) at 5 A —s ce Se en ND eet See ene a a Ee Lt ae ee eee Le Le = ie Oe sn ae Pd rer a pa ee a et foe wen ee ah a aed ae PS i lee eT . Sony 4 Las LY tS | Xe ae a weory ON Se ed pee re ae ro Laclen etee ace ne err 5 Leeper rar ~ oe Sere Ra ae a ar Neer em Tai a tad a ee ah Re ene ee eae yk an ty : ee ae ee De ees Sirug at JUDE THE OBS €C DIRE Oo None next afternoon the familiar Christminster fog still hung over all things. Sue’s slim shape was only just dis- cernible going towards the station. Jude rd no heart to go to his work that day. Neither could he go anywhere in the direction by which she would be likely to pass. He went in an opposite one—to a dreary, strange, flat scene, where boughs dripped, and coughs and consumption lurked, and where he had never been before. “Sue's gone from me—gone!” he murmured, miserably. She in fie mean time 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 hearth-stone. It was Friday evening, which had been chosen because the school-master was disengaged at four o'clock that day till the Monday morning following. The little 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 lesire, and preceded her to the school-house with such portion of her luggage as she had brought. On its return she encountered it, and asked the driver if he had found the master’s house open. The man informed her that he had, and that her things had been taken in by the school- master himself. ' She could now enter Marygreen without exciting much observation. She crossed by the well and under the trees Addar CGCHRISTMINSTER AGAIN to the pretty new school on the other side, and lifted the latch of the dwelling without knocking. Phillotson stood in the middle of the room, awaiting her, as requested. ‘lve come, Richard,” said she, looking pale and shaken, and sinking into a chair. “I cannot believe—you forgive your—wife!” é “Everything, darling Susanna.” said Phillotson. She started at the endearment, though it had been spoken advisedly, without fervor. Then she nerved herself again. “My children—are dead—and it is right that they should be! I am glad—almost. They were sin-begotten. They were / sacrificed to teach me how to liv e!|—their death Vv ie \ oy first stage of my surification. Thats 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, der the touch of his lips. ; Phillotson’s heart sank, for desire was 1 You still have an aversion to me? “Oh no, dear—I—have been driving throug and I was chilly!” she said, with a hurried smile of appre- hension. “When are we going to have the marriage? Soon?” sabes | “To-morrow morning, early wish. I am sending round to the you are come. I have told him all, and he highly approves | —he says it will bring our lives to a triumphant and satis- factory issue. But re you sure of yourself? It is not too late to refuse now if you think you can’t bring yourself to it, you know.” “Yes, yes, I can! I want it done quic ae ho yeir death was her flesh quivering un- nascent in him. h the damp, ht—if you really | thoug vicar to let him know are k. Tell him, tell him r4 Ney: , i ne. en re x | i . ater A Ne ee Ft ee rors — a my i =z sare y a a Ne Der ea Ramee oe a ee *y » ee Bas Gane ts - — ST la re a etapa an eee nt Le , pale a” “ars TR oF a oa Sl hee eae ee TS Lo ww a ie _ Snel Use hm 7 teFeet ep Ee Pee Lee a ovine A aS BET Ra alge ger ot ee ee tate ae pe noe ee aero ee ie oc OO R Sinko nes eee Se Ome r ee ee eee The ee JUDE THE OBSCURE at once! My strength is tried by the undertaking—I can't wait long!” “Have something to eat and drink then, and 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 Gillingham 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 keen 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 parlor to put down her muff she ut- tered a little “Oh!” and grew paler than before. Her look 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 plac- ing 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 license. . . . 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 obe- diently ate some supper, 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. LIR £40AT GHRISTMINSTER “T didn’t mean it to be. Here is a different one.” She handed a new and absolutely plain garment, of coarse and un- bleached calico. “But this is the prettiest,” said Mrs. 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. 7 “Tt is adulterous! It signifies what I don't feel—I bought it long ago—to please Jude. It must be destroyed!” sie 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 ache to see such pretty open-work as that a- burned by the flames—not that ornamental night-rails can be much use to a’ ould ’ooman like I. My days for such be all past and gone!” “It is an accursed thir to forget!” Sue repeated. “Lord, you be too strict! W AGAIN 1g—it reminds me of what I want hat do ye use such words for and condemn to hell your dear little innocent children life, I don’t call that religion! that’s lost to ’ee! Upon my Sue flung her face upon the bed, sobbing. “Oh, dont, don’t! That kills me!” She remained shaken with her grief, and slipped down upon her knees. ‘Tll tell "ee what—you ought not to marry this man again!” said Mrs. Edlin, indignantly. “You are in love wi tother still!” “Yes, I must—I am his already.” “Pshoo! You be tother man’s. If you didn’t like to com- mit yourself to the binding vow again, just at first, twas all the more credit to your consciences, considering your rv pp “It is only fit for the fire.” be Fo a) aw ES bt x | & rd w Le ee ee nse eee ee en Penny ee ae ; ; OR fee Pe een ee Oe Ne Sa Ie A ee he ee ee -s row an yma . aa wr J weenie i IO FM as as rene, = et led AD ye Brn in eee an 5 nd J_ = ae ne) Re a ah et Lapel ago ae - Ld ee Saree a ne [a ec ra a OT hc reeneiat a SR) a eee ket PF al OS Sh Or eR TO ek er P- a fi eats De bec sath a \ Pr JUDE? H KH OFBsS'G THE 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 gol 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-clothes, 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 green to smoke a while, A light was burning in Sue’s room, a shadow moving now and then across the blind. Gillmgham had evidently been impressed with the in- definable charm of Sue, and after a silence he said: “Well, you've all but got her again at last. She can’t very well go a second time. The pear has dropped into your hand.” 2G aay ee | suppose I am right in taking her at her word. I confess there seems a touch of selfishness in it. Apart from her being what she is, of course, a luxury for a fogey 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 my 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 be spector by this time, or a reverend 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 448 en a school in- , if you hadn’t been soAGAIN AT CHRISTMINSTER admit clearly that his taking Sue to him again had at bot- tom nothing to do with repentance ot letting her go, but was, primarily, a_human instinct flying in the face of custom and profession. He sald, es, I shall do that. I know-woman better now. Whatever justice there was in releasing her, there was little logic, for one holding my views on other subjects.” Gillingham looked at would ever happen that the reactionary spirit in by the world’s sneers and his own physical wishes would make Phillotson more orthodoxly cruel to her then he had erstwhile been informally and perversely kind. ‘I perceive it wont do to give way to impulse," Phil- lotson 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 without malice pre- pense. Women are so Strange im their influence that they tempt you to misplaced Gndness. However, | know myself better now. icious severity, per 1aps. f “Yes; but you must tighten the reins by degrees only. Don’t be too strenuous at first. Shell come to any terms in time.” The caution was unnecessaty, say so. “I remember what my vicar at Sh left after the row that was made about my elopement. “The only thing you can do to retrieve your po- sition and hers is to admit your error in not restraining her with a wise and strong hand, and to get her back again if shell come, and be firm in the future. But I was so head: strong at that time that | paid no heed. And that after the divorce she should have thought of doing so J did not dream.” him. and wondered whether it duced though Phillotson did not aston said, when | agreeing to her / t 9 y, ay rs 7S) 5-473) 0 a ele I Cal ene fel Pe Ce eee OD foe See oe; . “ . ee ane Se ee a te ee a eer . és ; 2 . SALLI hain’ om cnin- ~ i : fala or ri en mee eG IN LEO nhl ee er ee iy at See bttata ct ot anaes eT sap eT Oe a St e Ree ORR ad ac cme a6 2 nee en IS aSaw Gal ee ~. < ee Pe ane A OG eR ‘to —— ee ee Te Se eh a Sg a a a lt a RT a a cae = Seca oY Balen gE EO es FT TT wien 7 ee * ne ee en eee oat =r Tie ao pn ene pe ewe JUDE THE OBRSCURE 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 Mrs. Edlin. “I was go- ing over to see ‘ee. I’ve been up-stairs 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 dont.” “It’s her wish, and I am willing,” said Phillotson, with Brave 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 its 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 friend the obstinate creature wont allow to come near her. What first put her into this mood o’ mind, I wonder?” “I can't tell. Not I, certainly. It is all voluntary on her part. Now that’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 neighbor for that. But I must be allowe best for myself and Susann church with us, then?” “No. Be hanged if I can! 450 d to know what's a. I suppose you won't go to I don’t know what thePant a y bbs 4 oJ " ae AGAIN ar GMmRISTMINSTER rimony have growed to be that serious in these days that one really do feel afeared to move in it at all. In my time we took it more careless, and I dont— know that we Was any the Worse for wt Whertandn ry poor man were jined in it we cept up the junketing alt the week, and drunk the parish dry, and had to borrow falt a crown to begin housekeeping! ———~S Te Tae When Mrs. Edin had gone back to her cottage Phillot- yw whether | ought to do it times be coming to! Mat son spoke moodily. “I don’t knc —at any rate, quite so rapidly.” “Why?” “If she is really compe instincts—merely from this new s —I ought, perhaps, to let her wait a bit.” _s “Now you've got so far you ought not to back out of it. That’s my opinion.” “I can’t very well put it o . t . . ¢ lling herself to this against her ense of duty or religion fF now, that’s true. But I had a qualm when she gave that little cry at sight of the license.” “Now, never you have qualms, old boy. I mean to give her away to-morrow morning, and you mean to take her. It has always been on my conscience that | didn't urge more objections to your letting her go, and now weve got to this stage I sha’n't be content if | don’t help you to set the matter right.” Phillotson nodded, and, seeing how stanch his friend t when it gets known was, became more frank. “No doub what I’ve done I shall be thought a soft fool by many. But. they don’t know Sue as | do. Hers is such a straight and open nature that I don’t think she has ever done any- thing against her conscience. The fact of her having lived with Fawley goes for nothing. At the time she left oe for him she thought she was quite within her right. Now she thinks otherwise.” 461 St neeo ¥ a [a Na) Sa a = - ) —— ahaa reso f svokr DiS and a ame ETS SE ee Saar Rev al a cre es Le Seat ete ae Be ee ete TL a ret I a oe Oe ree ete el CTIA Soe JUDE THE' OBSCURES ise place was the door of Jude's lodging in the out- skirts of Christminster—far from the precincts of St. Silas’s, where he had formerly lived, which saddened him to sick- ness. The rain was coming down. A woman in shabby black stood on the door-step talking to Jude, who held the door in his hand. =. am lonely, destitute, and houseless—that’s what I am! Father 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 help 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 woman to keep virtuous where there’s so many young men!” The woman in the rain who spoke thus was Arabella, the evening being that of the day after Sue’s remarriage with Phillotson. “Ll am sorry for you, but I am only in lodgings,” said Jude, coldly. “Then you turn me away?” “Tl give you enough to get food and lodging for a few days.” “Oh, but can’t you have the kindness to take me in? I can- not 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 404AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN of those things; and if you talk about them I shall not help you. “Then I suppose I must go!” said Arabella. She bent her head against the door-post, and began sobbing. “The house is full,” said Jude, “and I have only a little extra room—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 what 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 Lamb 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 cou! “But still, if you are a friend « what we can for a day or two—if swerable.” “Yes, yes,” said Jude. awares, but I should wish to help And an arrangement was ultimately come a bed was to be thrown down in Jude's | make it comfortable for Arabella till she could get out of the strait she was in—not 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, | suppose?” _ , d not recall her features. ¢ Mr. Fawley’s, well do hell make himself an- “She has really taken me quite un- her out of her difficulty. to under which umber-room, to oo . ss Fe a) Bawkadi Ae EAE 5 SS Oe ae Re Fe a x — ee, ‘Ill 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 Ishould want to sleep here, and should be late.” ‘I thought you'd soon get tired of giving yourself airs and keeping away!” : . “Well—don’t do the door. That's all J say. She then sallied out again, and first hastening back te Jude’s to make sure that he hac search for him. A shrewd guess as to took her straight to the tavern which Jude 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 ale just then. He did not observe her, and she entered and sat beside him. Jude looked up, and said, come to have something, Arabellar .. - I’m trying to for- get her; that’s all! But I cant; 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, 4d9 1 not returned, began her his probable course had formerly without surprise, “You ve dear boy. You are En oR ea TT enna cy Sona - " u te od lela ae a re NeW UTES ae ag trae ass 2 =! ra ae | oe a a os ot eee ne ee ent hoes a es mie ——— FR EP eet a ep a —yt* * a Ra os ett o RET ea -* e' as —ah JWU DE “EHE GES CUBE + ery SECS not well. Now you must 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 curacoa, 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. I didn’t expect it of Sue! I stuck to her, and she ought to have stuck to me. I'd have sold my soul for her sake, but she wouldn’t risk hers a jot for me. To save her own soul she lets mine go damn! But it isn’t her fault, poor little girl—I am sure it isn’t.” How Arabella had obtained money did not appear, but she ordered a liqueur each, and paid for them. When they had drunk these Arabella suggested another: and Jude 5 had the pleasure of being, as it were, personally conducted through the varieties of spirituous delectation by one who knew the landmarks well. Arabella kept very considerably in the rear of Jude; but though she only sipped where he drank, she took as much 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 out, so that hell have to rome down and let us in.” ‘I don’t know—I don’t know.” cnn > 1 . . . Chat’s the worst of not having a home of your Own, J rs Ao poem ir Rp eee = as Sa A a Se am abe le ee eA I a ert oe! ee nen nee nt el a Ae ee Dante ss a tel = - Roles rae ee Leh area ee! 5 Be Oe tee eh) sr | 460 SNareussas.fa) ti Ts J ny 5 Lee a pe CHORISTMINSTER AGAIN tell you, Jude, what we had best do. Come round to my fathers—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 morn- ing youll be all right.” “Anything—anywhere,” replied Jude. “What the devil does it matter to me?” They went along together, like any other fuddling 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 need of support. » Chis—is th’ Martyrs —burning-place,” he stammered, as they dragged across a broad strect. “ftremember—in old Fuller’s Holy State—and I am reminded of it=by—our passing by here—old Puteri his Holy Stare-saysthat-at Durning of Ridley, Doctor Smith—preached sermon, the and took as his text ‘Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth 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 was her seducer—poor little girl! And she’s gone—and I don’t care about myself! Do what you . . And yet she did it for conscience’ sake, IAA eo Se Se oo a eae ee . x 4) TOS TI, Pat a a a x ey os = 2? J like with me! poor little Sue!” “Hang her!—I mean, I think she was right,” hiccoughed Arabella. “I’ve my feelings too, like her: and I feel I be- long 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 un- fastened the door, groping about for a light within. The circumstances were not altogether unlike those of 161 i B a i i , “ 5 R i i t ¥ aa a e i ‘? t Be N 4 , OF em ‘ the - = Eee Ph ett tt a ie - aes id pa we i Tae a att fe ee— a oa os a ne ie TIT ad Sa et —) oes Pa eo ee cnt Ce ee ee eee eee re oS ” aera oe _ ~ Sea a eee Serta ta atte pas bee wR AE Ll Sar Pe oe fo LL A ee die fet) ioe oe en JU DE. Te-E DEB'S CD-R SE their entry into the cottage at Cresscombe, such a long time before. Nor were perhaps Arabella’s motives. But Jude did not think of that. though she did. “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 Ill lead you. That’s it. Just sit down here, and I'll pull off your boots. I don’t want to wake him.” “Who?” “Father. He’d make a row, perhaps.” She pulled off his boots. “Now,” she whispered, “take 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? That’s what I want to know?” “We are at my house, dear, where there’s nobody to spy on how ill you are. Now—third stair, fourth stair—that’s it. Now we shall get on.” ~ / A fA RABELLA was preparing breakfast in the down-stairs room of this small. recently hired tenement of her father’s. She put her head intc the little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready. Donn, endeavoring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue blouse, and with a 462s % ee re) if" Dy — nea AT GCHRISTMINSTER AGAIN strap round his waist from which a steel dangled, came in promptly. “You must mind the shop this morning,” he said, casually. ‘Tve to go and get some inwards and half a pig from Lums- don, and to call elsewhere. If you live here you must put your shoulder 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 up-stairs.” “Oh!—What’s that?” “A husband—almost.” “No!” “Yes. It’s Jude. He’s come back to me.” Your old original one? Well. ’m damned!” “Well, I always did like him, that I will say.” “But how does he come to be up there?” said Donn humor-struck, and nodding to the ceiling. “Don’t ask inconvenient questions, father. What we've to do is to keep 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 blooa in the world! He’s no catch, to my thinking. Id have had a new one while I was about it.” “It isn’t rum for a woman to W for respectability, though for a man to back—well, perhaps it is funny, rather!” suddenly seized with a fit of loud laughter, father joined more moderately. . “Be civil to him, and I'll do the rest,” she said, when she had recovered seriousness. “He told me this morning that his head ached fit to burst, and he hardly seemed to 463 2 Tt len, a ae Lend Cee ee ge ee Fee) ON aa nd = i 7 os ta a ante Da at al a A Se Et oe eee ee ~ ee et a ieee ie eee ha ant her old husband back, want his old wife And Arabella was in which her Oh ea pai Rm — an tee ere ee a en eee ~ ‘ a tt 9ma So's Roh eeer| ~ a Se a a NE a ce ci ta ee a Cal rt SS es ee ee me 8 - . Cees lee crate Ss Leder ie tas ae toe : Ar eee et Pee eee JUDE THEI GuSsecu nr o know where he was. And no wonder, considering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly and cheerful here for a day or two, and not let him go back to his lodging. Whatever you advance I'll pay back to you 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 4 Samson was asleep, she entered to the bedside and stood regarding him. The fevered flush 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 black hair 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 re- capture—highly important to recapture as a woman strait- ened both in means and in reputation. Her ardent gaze seemed to affect him: his quick breathing became sus- pended, 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 there. 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 stone-works that you are knocked up.” “I wonder what they are thinking at the lodgings.” “Tl go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, or they'll think we’ve run away.” “Yes. You'll find enough money Quite indifferent, not bear in my pocket there.” | and shutting his eyes because he could the daylight in his throbbing eyeballs, Jude 464ra “oa Yaad ) ae da ba ar GMRISTMINSTER AGAIN seemed to doze again. Arabella took his purse, softly left the room, and, putting on her out-door things, went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the evening before. 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, and 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, in- termixed with woman’s apparel, he scarcely considered how they had come there, or what their coming signalized. “Now,” said Arabella to her father, down-stairs, we must keep plenty of good liquor going in the house these next few days. I know his nature, and if he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into sometimes, hell never do the honorable thing by me in this world, and I shall be left in the lurch. He must be kept cheerful. He has a little money in the savings-bank, and he has given me his purse to pay for anything necessary. Well, that will be the license; for I must have that ready at hand, to catch him the moment he’s in the humor. You must pay for the liquor. A few friends and a quiet, convivial party 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 afford victuals and drink. . . . Well, yes—it w tise the shop—that’s true.” Three days later, when Jude had recovered somewhat from the fearful throbbing of his eyes and brain, but was 465 by anybody whol ould adver- a 2 ee aaa ee OD Le a ne Ee pe me ee : —_ 7 bs : ~ Bp ee eS en nes en eee eed Sate ews - eee ae eee eee ae ~~ . at aaeta rs ore) Sted ee shh ae LG ofan —-* Uri aeng mate: a = Snes Pd apt Ts “ : * nt . wa Sean om Le Oe OT an Se Rt Dede. me rte een oN a A asmae" * ye a el 7 ga py PES fe A aL an eS le acl eT SATA ES Ce tee ee a artic tai rats EE RO os ey JUDE THEAGESGe UE sh 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 little convivial gathering suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking-point, took place. 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 certain class in Christ- minster who knew not the colleges, nor their works, nor their ways. Jude was asked if he could suggest any guest in addition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a saturnine humor of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the decayed 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 line at the ladies, Another man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he lived in the same street, was not invited: but as he went home- ward from a late job on the evening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for trotters. 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 won- dered how the party went off. He thought it hardly worth while to call at the shop for his provisions at that hour, Donn and his daughter being probably not up if they caroused late the night before. However, he found in pass- 466Ar GmRISTMINSTER AGAIN ing that the door was open, and he could hear 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, astonished. Hosts and guests were sitting card-playing, smoking, and talking, precisely as he had lett them eleven hours earlier; the gas was burning and the curtains drawn, though ithad been broad daylight for two hours out-of-doors. “Yes!” cried Arabella, laughing, “here we are, just the same. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, oughtn’t we? But it is a sort of house-warming, 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 be- lieve my eyes when I looked ‘nl It seemed as 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 Jude, her arm being round his waist. Jude, like the rest of the com- pany, bore on his face the signs of how deeply he had been indulging. “Well, we’ve been waiting for cert tive, to tell the truth,” she continued, bashfully, . ing 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 gre 467 ain legal hours to ar- and mak- at heed to what she was an- es. ‘ et’) ai seine * = ob rita oats SN eae Soa oes a ay ce - a oe < se bus i a le i Te ac are : ee Se Nee eee een eae 7 4 ee te hy aaa so one MEMOS. Pe teed poste tree eae a Sat eee — eo Pas - f ad Se eeeSESS R RIG pie heed —— mn ‘ I Lace eh a IL a Laake BS NL a Coe Lr Caer aa et a al has - ened att = a et ee Cea ek De ten ener ae Ce ee Te eee an JUDE THE OBS CURE nouncing, or, indeed, to anything whatever. The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into the company, and they remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her father: fay > XQ “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, which 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 business 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 prom- ised to marry me several times as we’ve sat here tonight. These gentlemen have heard you.” ‘I don't remember it,” said Jude, doggedly. “There's only one woman—but I won’t mention her in this Ca- pharnaum!” Arabella looked towards her father. “Now, Mr. Fawley, be honorable,” said Donn. “You and my daughter have been living here together these three or four days, quite on the understanding that you were going to marry her. Of course I shouldn’t have had such goings-on in my house if I hadn’t understood that. As a point of honor you must do it now.” : ~Don’t say anything against my honor!” enjoined Jude, LO68mr OC PMRISTMINSTER AGAIN hotly, standing up. eeamarry the W—— of Babylon rather than do any thing dishonorab le! No reflection on you, my call in the dear. It is a mere rhetorical figure—what they c books, hyperbole.” “Keep your figures for your debts to friends who shelter you, said Donn. ‘Tf 1 am bound in honor to marry her—as I suppose I 1 her I know no help me God! any am—though how I came to be here witl more than a dead man—marry her | will, so {have never behaved dishonorably to a woman or to living thing. I am not a man who w ants to save himself at fhe 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 well go. Make it up with father.” They shook hands. Jude went up-stairs 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 pane the little maid to get the breakfast while we are when we come Back we'll all have some. A good strong cup of tea will set everybody right for going home.” “T’ve told gone; and When Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared on Mem matrimonial errand the assembled guests yaw med themselves wider awake, and discussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the most sober, rea- soned the most lucidly. “I don’t wish to speak against friends,” he said, “but itdo seem a rare curiosity for a couple to marry over again! 469 +cat Sy = (ane -_ fan bo | = Cs . ee ee RE ee na Ae aah oa pa ee . watt a e- Se eae ee enantio eS lane eee ie Eee omen eee eh ares om a Sr ad OT are to topete e ene net et on peer ee. Sd ee rare Bsemeenesel ian ete ec le ee eee tt beet a a se le alr Nate a aA Sa ee ee ee ett Deere nt ee ora ee ee ee ne Cena) his » ee oa bad-looking piece IU DEST HEP ORS CDR F If they couldn’t get on the first time when their minds were limp, they won't the second, by my reckoning.” “Do you think he'll do it?” “He's been put upon his honor by the woman, so he med.” “He'd hardly do it straight off like this. He’s got no license nor anything.” “She’s got that, bless you. Didn't you hear her say so to her father?” “Well,” said Tinker Taylor, relighting his pipe at the gas-jet, “take her all together, limb by limb, she’s not such particular by candle-light. To be | sure, halfpence that have been in circulation can’t be ex- pected to look like new ones from the Mint. But for a woman that’s been knocking about the four hemispheres for some time, she’s passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch, perhaps; but I like a woman that a puff o’ wind wont 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 cur- tains were undrawn. and the expression of the house made to look 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 walking in a very onusual 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 Ara- 470ye Vind . eer 2% PE eomRISTMINSTER AGAIN bella, boisterously; and her face was enough to show thra* her strategy had succeeded. 'e “Mis. Fawley, I presume?” said Tinker Taylor, with mock courtesy. “Certainly. Mrs. Fawley again,” replied Arabella, blandly, pulling off her glove and holding out her left hand. “There’s the padlock, see! .. Sage 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 that of your husband, I think you have both done the right and pro] per 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 have for- given each other, says he. Yes: he was a very nice, gentle- manly man. “The church don’t recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking, he says, ‘and bear in mind the words of the Service in your goings out and your comings in: What at God hath joined toge ther let no man put asunder. Yes; he wa WaS a Very nice, gentlem: anly m: Are But” Furcte, to make a oe laugh! You Id yourself that steady, that = et ae FO ee ee a a eats oe ae ewe os nce ec ee ee ee Se satiate eee ate EP eae my dear, you were enough walked that straight, and he One would have thought you were going ‘prentice to a, louble » all the time, judge; though I knew you were see ing C from the way you { fumbled with my finger. . | “I said I'd ‘do oO any thing to—save a woman’s honor, mut- Wt v tered Jude, “and I’ve ieie it!” J “Well, now, old deary, come along and have some pee fast.” “T want—some—more whiskey,” said Jude, stolidly. left. The “Nonsense, dear. Not now! There's no more tea will take the muddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks.” ee sie . , TP a st nye y ee pe ns 3S ame palo ee a) ek ae ee 4v1 — are a oa eeJUD EPH EF. GE SO BE nr a ae Ty Fea So jp All right. 've—married you. She said I ought to marry ou again, and I have straightway. It is true religion! Ha— XQ é Cee >> SD ha—ha! 7 ; ome: 8 Mitel antiicas came and passed, and Jude and his wife, who had lived but a short time in her father’s house after their marriage, were in lodgings on the top floor of a house 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 indiffer- ent, and it was 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. “TI 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, deceiving one like this? You were well enough when I married you!” “Ah, yes!” said he, laughing acridly. “I have been think- ing 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 landlord of the lodging, who had heard that they were a queer couple, had doubted if LQ a are acne ee a Te I Ca ke ee fis ‘ * 7 hd SO Ra ch at tae i a ef Sea ee Foe tee ee Ce ree oe ar ryt tan os aba 4) ote eaea i ae en teetuctes= > AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN they were married at all, especially as he had seen Ara bella 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 the note of ordinary wedlock; and conclud- | ing 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 com- Mission for him. She asked him, indifferently, what it was. “To write to Sue.” ‘What in the name—do you want me for?” 67> ask how she is. and if shell come to see me, Im ill, and should like to see her—once again. “Tt is like you to insult a lawful wite by asking such a thing!” “It is just in order not to insult you that I ask you to do it. You know I love Sue. I dont 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 knowl- edge. 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 odor of intrigue. If she re- tains any of her old nature at all, shell come.” “You've no respect for marriage whatever, Or its rights and duties!” “Vetrat woes it matter what my opinions like me! Can it matter to anybody in the world who comes to see me for half an hour—here with one foot in a " grave! . . . Come, please write, Arabella!” he pleaded. Repay my candor by a little generosity: ‘T should think not!” a ee aes — OSE ag 2 4 eo Supra ere EN LT IT! to write to her because Se a Le a ~ oi pee yr oe PENT Ss —— aS Si 5 fata alr tintin Te $e UO ig eo et eat are—a wretch we Ol rer > fu ae ape toe ent ee eee 473 PD a oe flan RENE XE sees . os )) Mog 7 any ama - TT . Reheat ae Te s-8 ae ~ ‘ re lac eT ST ter oe ct Se a I rl Fetes a eee Seeded han fei ee gk acta ated tection a cen ee eee ree Eee te arte ho 7 JUDE? THE:-OBS ¢ UR ER “Not just once? Oh, do!” He felt that his physical weak- ness had taken away all his dignity. “What do you want her to know how you are for? She don’t want to see ’ee. She’s the rat that forsook the sinking ship!” “Don't, don’t!” “And I stuck to un—the more foo] I! Have that strumpet in the house, indeed!” Almost as soon as the word from the chair, and before Ar he had her on her back upon there, he kneeling above her. “Say another word of that sort,” he whispered, “and Tl kill you—here and now! I’ve everything to gain by it—my own death 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] 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 passion. Taunt away!” He then began coughir his life with an a S were spoken Jude sprang abella knew where she was a little couch which stood y, as he loosened 1g very much, and she estimated Ppraiser’s eye as he sank back ghastly pale. “Tll send for her,” Arabella murmured. “if you ll agree to my being in the room with you all the time she’s here.” The softer side of his nature, the desire to see Sue, made him unable to resist the offer even now, provoked as he had been: and he replied, breathlessly, Yes] agree. Only send for her.” In the evening he inquired if she had written. Lr)iad om AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN “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.” The next day Jude wondered if she really did post it, but would not ask her; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a crumb, made him restless with expectation. He knew the times of the possible trains, and listened on each occasion for sounds of her. She did not come; but Jude would not adc again thereon. He hoped and expected all tl but no Sue appeared; neither was there any note of reply. Then Jude decided in the privacy of his mind that Ara- bella 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 dis- appointment when she was not there to see. His suspicions were, in fact, well founded. Arabella, like : thought that your duty to lid was to pacity him by any means short of really acting upon his fan- cies. He never said another word to her his conjecture. A silent, undiscerned resolve grew Uj him, which gave him, if not strength, stability and calm. One mid-day when, after an absence of two hours, she came into the room, she beheld the chair empty. Down she flopped on the bed, and, sitting, meditated. “Now, where the devil is my man gone to?” she said. | A driving rain from the northeast had been falling with more or less intermission all the morning, and looking from the window at the dripping spouts it seemed impos- sible to believe that any sick man would have ventured Mutto. almost certain death. Yet a con Arabella that he had gone out, and it became a certainty 475 - oI Pn ne lress Arabella ye next day, | a o md bs _ ~ - a - ~ s - Ole Nae tet Seen oct a Len oe - mh Pe td meas OE re he ae on ee! ries ieee a other nurses, wards your inva bt Ly itn ae ae) erect: eats a ie about his wish or > in Sr NARA. viction possessed af fh oe So San ; a ? CAN ate NRE Ione cone eae eg React earl eee acs Oe Sal irs os = a= pig as aan Rea TT . ant Coheed bbe -~ a a a a ra oT I a Sa bor Ri RS aa een hat See ee ed el ns tal ee Et ante Nemrt e Ont a nat ie 40 i es . eo en re Le trae Coe ee lari eens JUDE THE OBSCURE when she had searched the house. “If he’s such a fool Jet him be!” she said. “I can do no more.” Jude was at that moment in a railway train that was | drawing near to Alfredston. oddly swathed, pale as a mon- \ umental 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 um- brella, could have been seen walking along the five-mile road to Marygreen. On his face showed the determined purpose that alone sustained him. but to which his weak- ness afforded a sorry foundation. By the was quite blown, but he pressed on; and oclock stood by the familiar well at Marygreen. The rain was keeping everybody in-doors; Jude crossed the green to the church without observation, and found the build- ing open. Here he stood. looking forth whence he could hear the usual sing-song tones of the little voices that had not learned Creation’s groan. He waited till a smal] boy came evidently allowed out be other. up-hill walk he at half-past three at the school. fore hours for some reason of Jude held up his hand, and the child came. “Please call at the school-house and ask Mrs. 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 himself went farther into the church, Everything was new, except a few pieces of carv- ing preserved from the wrecked old fabric, now fixed against the new walls. He stood by these; they seemed akin to the perished people of that place who were his ancestors and Sue’s. A light footstep, which might h 476 ave been accounted 10 from the school—one .AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN more than an added drip to the rainfall, sounded in the porch, and he looked 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, but she quickly recovered and went back. ‘Don't go—don’t go!” he implored. time! I thought it would be less intrusive your house, And I shall never come again be unmerciful. Sue, Sug! we are acting by t thedeter iets” YZ ‘TIL 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?” “This is my last than to enter - Don't, then, he letter; and < - ~ : . Marrying Arabella again. It was in the Alfredston than yours, Jude—in a paper. She has never been other 13d so well—oh, so well! proper sense. And therefore you al¢ king her to you again.” —in recognizing it—and ta 1] ’'ve come to hear? If there’s “God above!—and is that a anything more degrading, immoral, unnatural, than an-, other in my “5 this meretricious contract with Ara- bella which has been called dome the right thing’ And you, too—you call yoursel Phillotson’s wite! His wife! You are mine!” ‘Don’t make me rush away from yo much! But on this point | am decided.” “‘T cannot understand how you did it— it—I cannot!” “Never mind that. He is a kind husb —Ive wrestled and struggled, and faste 477 we, 1 —] . can't beat how you think and to me, and I d and prayed. I _—7“—n _ \y i. ae ms —_ - — x Te ne eee re — Te a a ng Se ee Se = ae tls ct is Ba . } ve —_ = en Pa — : > a ae te Pt ths ain a 2 . Pe ea ee teen ee Et Relate bt oe eee Oe Eo Ltn Lit arene aE ene - - ws v2 a = “ee at - tt a ns pen P ? Foe ee rn ot A ake Atl a eat oe angeer SUDE THE GES CURE mC) 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 argue with you if I didn’t know that a woman in your state of feeling is quite beyond all appeals to her brains. Or is it that you are humbugging yourself, as so many women do about these things, and don’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 wreck of a prom- ising human intellect that it has ever been mv lot to be- hold! Where is your scorn of convention gone? I would ve died game!” tee a Se AIT cl ier 5 os ot Oe oe Te . 2 ’ - ry i gelat edge NATE ated ge pgm IE “You crush, almost insult me. Jude! Go away from me!” She turned off quickly. nt nl rf “I will. I would never come to see you again, even if I had the strength to come, which I shall not have any ‘more, Sue, 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!” she burst out: and her eye resting on him a moment, she turned back impulsively. “Don't, dont 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 mouth on is, continued: “I must tell you—oh, I must—my darling VY. Love! It has been—only a church matriage eA ee ee SORIA Sh el Re an apparent marriage, I mean! He suggested it at the very first!” How?” I mean it is a nominal marriage only. It hasn’t been more than that at all since I came back to him!” 478 i in poet ND Ga TT a Se nee eat x6 7S ae a ee AT GHRISTMINSTER AGAIN “Guel” he said. Pressing her to him in his arms, he bruised her lips with kisses. “If misery can know happiness, [ have a moment's happiness now! Now, in the name of all you hold holy, tell me the truth and no lie. You do love me still?” ae Erect I do! You know it too well! . . . But I mustnt do this! I mustn't kiss you back as | would!” . “But do!” “And yet you are so dear!—and you look so ill “And so do you! There's one more, in memory 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, J do, I do! .. . And now I'll hate myself forever f sin!” “No; let me make my both remarried out of our senses. | w it. You were the same. [I was gin-drun drunk. Fither form of intoxication takes away tl vision... . Let us then shake off our mistakes, and run away together!” “No; again no! It is too merciless! Wont follow me—don't look at me.’ Leave me, sake!” She ran up the church to the east end, and Jude 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 in- stinct of human affection, even NOW unsubdued by her 479 Ca of our a a EC oe HASTE URE TAO RT OE aah i Leal ‘Or my Z last appeal. Listen to this. Weve as made drunk to do k, you were creed- 1e nobler \ eC. _ . Why do you tempt me so far, Jude S 7 1c r 3 ‘ve + over myse LOW. But Ive got ovel mysei n ) for pity S - - ~ pm Aha So ed . - — < a hs es ee et in > ae ae cas EERO ee arb ca hee = av | a gag ime oS oe cs oa ee a a - me ee v ei orl x ae te Be ees De Oot Lech Sc ed Lar Neer cm ae a ee a woh a od et ee eee OTN OAT al WE or enn ee” we : + : ee eee eet HU DEA THE! OBSCURE fetters, she sprang up as if to go and succor him. But she knelt down again, and stopped her 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. once, 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 autumn and winter weather, but the coldest of all, when a north or east wind is blowing, is the crest of the dewn by the 3rown House, where the road _to_Alfredston crosses the ~ old Ridgeway. Here the first winter sleets and snows fall and lie, and here the spring frost lingers_last unthawed. Here in the teeth of the northeast wind and rain Jude now pursued his wa y,-wet through; the-necessary slowness of his walk from lack of his-former strength being insufhi- cient to maintain his heat, He came-to the mile-stone, and, raining as it was, spread_his blanket and lay down there to rest. Before moving on he went and felt at the back of the stone for his own carving. It was still there, but nearly obliterated by moss. He _passed _the-spet-where the _gibbet of his ancestor_and Sue's-had-steod, and descended the | hill. : $ALANK It was dark when he reached Alfredston, where he had a cup of tea, the deadly chill that beg bones being too much for him to e 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 0 clock, an to creep into his ndure fasting. To getpre A AGAIN ma TT CHRISTMINSTER eae ae, ee teette ol otal Q | a hoe at nd a ar da <. a a . - ~ - r ral ooh ree nha Ae ean bt ee eae oe ee ee et) eae 2450 Ox THE platform stood Arabella. She looked him up and down. “You've been to see her?” she asked. “I have,” said Jude, literally tottering wit lassitude. “Well, now you'd best march along home.” The water ran out of him as he went, and he was com- pelled to lean against the wall to support himself while coughing. “You've done for yourself by this, ‘I don’t know whether you know it. “Of course I do. I meant to do for myse “What—to commit suicide?” “Certainly.” “Well, I’m blest! Kill yoursel “Listen to me, Arabella. You think you are the stronger; and so you retin a physical sense, NOW. nou could push me over like a ninepin. You did not send that letter ne other day, and I could not resent your conduct. But DY am not so weak in another way as you think. I made up Dy, mind that a man confined to his room by inflammation of the lungs, a fellow who had only two wishes lett in ce world—to see a particular woman and then to ore i neatly accomplish those two wishes at one stroke by taking this journey in the rain. That I’ve done. I have for the last time, and I've finished myself—put an € ave been begun. a feverish life which ought nev@! to have been beg us “Lord, you do talk lofty! Wont you have something warm to drink?” h cold and Ss young man, said she. > lies f for a woman! . Be Dee Det eee Loe a snare emer ed Pe a on ate re seen her nd to ad = . er ——aerr" UG + nee Pal Oa aw e oO 481 oes Gene be a — ‘e* —— . oa adCU ae Cu lale ” . Od eee oh EE a meaty ea ah rae = ADB onl ai ee BT CR or ber ect Res oh Le Naat a a 4 ene ieoar me Saati a fae ce eee ie eee deen eae De ee Ot er ee ee eee es ne eee : ree ase ar J7U DE THE: OBSCURE “No, thank you. Let’s go home.” They went along by the silent colleges, and Jude kept stopping. “What are you looking at?” “Stupid fancies, I see, in a way, those spirits of the dead again, on this my last walk, that I saw when I first came here!” “What a curious chap you are!” “I seem to see them, and almost hear them rustling. \ But I don’t revere all of them, as I did then. I don't be- } " / lieve in half of them. The theo logians, the apologists, and their kin the metaphysicians, the high-handed statesmen, and others, no longer interest me. All that has been spoiled for me by the grind of stern reality!” The expression of Jude’s corpse-like 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 re gather their meaning. “They seem laughing at me!” “Who?” “Oh, I was talking to myself! here, in the college archways and windows. They used to 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 Jead hereabouts except a damn policeman! I never saw the streets emptier.” “Fancy! The Poet of Liberty used to w great Dissector of Melancholy there!” 482 peated as if to The phantoms all about alk here, and the_ Yad a) alt a nS Sed K Ar GMRISTMINSTER AGAIN fe? “TI don’t want to hear about ’em. They bore me! “Walter Raleigh is beckoning to me from that lane— Wycliffe—Harvey—Hooker Arnold—and a whole crowd of Tractarian Shades “t don’t want to know their names, I tell you! What do I care about folk dead and gone? Upon my soul, you are more sober when you have been drinking than when you have not!” “T must rest a moment,” he said; and as he paused, hold- ing to the railings, he measured with his eye the height of a college front. “This is old Rubric; and this Sarcoph- and Tudor; and all down _and its windows with ise of the * See ae Da dn a Seren eh a ae en Oy es “ "8 —- tT i na ‘ ie re cin be ene) al agus; and up that lane Crozier there is Cardinal with its long front litted eyebrows, representing the polite surpr 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 tog from the meadows of Cardinal as if death-claws were grabbing me through and through. As Antigone said, | am neither a dweller among men nor ghosts. But, Arabella, when I am dead, you'll see my spirit flitting up and down here among these!” “Pooh! You won't die. You are toug man, ns ee alae ee ae nee en Teen dy star h enough yet, old Fn in ee Le 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 Christ- minster homeward, the Widov Edlin crossed the green and opened the back door of the school-master’s dwelling, “ which she often did now before Ledtime, to assist Sue in putting things away. a ~ Ne ee te ed . nae Ee _- ea = “i rs Se br ee Or ede vo epee ae 183 nae ee y rdee ee Comecnia wh MR Te ee pat ee = .* - ed Code ame aC eh Set a EA ae a cle ere = ated A xine = rae tars St ee eran ee ie ot Pare a ee Sine etg erer ei coe coterie cries IN DUDE, PHE: ORSGURE Sue was muddling helplessly in the kitchen, for she was not a good housewife, though she tried to be impatient of domestic details. “Lord love ’ee, what do ye do that yourself for when I've come 0’ purpose? You knew I should come.” “Oh, I don’t know—I forgot! No, I didn’t forget. I did it to discipline myself. I have scrubbe eight o'clock. I must practise myself in ties. I’ve shamefully neglected them!” “Why should ye? Hell get a better school. perhaps be a parson, in time, and youl] keep two servants. Tis to spoil them pretty hands.” “Don’t talk of my pretty hands, Mrs. Edlin. T] body of mine has 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-night, my dear. Husband cross?” “No. He never is. He’s “Then what is it?” , and grew d the stairs since my household du- a pity us pretty gone to bed early.” “I cannot tell you. I have done wrong to-day. And I want to eradicate it. . . . Well—] t will tell you this: Jude has been here this afte rnoon, and I find I stil] love him—oh, grossly! I cannot tell you more.” “Ah!” said the widow. “I tol “But it sha’n’t be! Lh visit; it is not necess d ’ee how *twould be!” ave not told my husband of his ary 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 pen- ance—the ultimate thing. T 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 | choose; but I feel it is an indulgence | ought not.to exact from him. It oughtTeo AC ea ee 7 / aoe = ie AGAIN AT GHRISTMINSTER To reverse it will be Oh, why was | eee ant sty not to have been accepted by me. terrible—but I must be more just to him. so unheroic?” “What is it you don’t like in him? curiously. “I cannot tell you. It is something. The mournful thing is, that nobody would admit it as a reason for feeling as | do: so that no excuse is left me.” “Did you ever tell Jude what it was? “Never.” ‘Tye heard strange tales 0 husbands in my time,” ob- served the widow, ‘na lowered voice. “They say that when the saints were upon the earth devils used to take hus- bands’ forms o’ nights, and get poor women into all sorts of trouble. But I don’t know why that should come into my head, for it is only a tale. ... Whata wind and rain itis to-night! Well, don’t be in a hurry to alter things, my dear. Think it over.” “No, no! I’ve screwed my more courteously—and it must_be I break down!” ) “I don’t think you ought to force your nature. No woman ought to be expected 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 ytd grate at cs 7 ae | > asked Mrs. Edlin, .. | cannot say. OR a a a gee ee ah fe a le? u ee eee J ~ a . F iene ers LE AEE RP OOD weak soul up to treating him now—at once—betore Pad 7 = dined Pa TaN DRO aga — WeaLeILOY. “No, no—don't go, Mrs. Edlin,” she implored, ber eyes ‘ _ enlarged, and with a quick, nervous look over her shoulder. i \ “But it is bedtime, child.” j i: 1 “Yes, but—there’s the little spare room—my room that i Edlin—1 shall want are a iE was. It is quite ready. Please stay, Mrs. q } you in the morning.” an rere <4 Sn ee paws P ne SSee ed SS i bay ee TES 4 eer aa co “ a aS I cr Lac dl ae er et De a te ee a a ce er nae —— b en es On eee —— P Tele IS ee Pp tee, Bersih) po = 1 her—and God!” JUDE THE ORS'CU RE “Oh, well, I don’t mind, if you wish. Nothing will happen to my four old walls, whether I be there or no.” She then fastened up the doors, and they ascended the stairs together. “Wait here, Mrs. Edlin.” said Sue. “Ill 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 ar- rival at Marygreen, and, pushing to the door, knelt down by the bed for a minute or two. She then arose, and, taking her night-gown 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 rcom 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 came out of her mouth she visibly shuddered. The snoring had quite ceased for some time, but he did not reply. Sue seemed relieved, and hurried back to Mrs. Edlin’s chamber. “Are vou 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 w hile to un-ray. I ha’n’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 gortoyjucel::).. Ah—no=ai forgot Let’s go and hearken. No—he’s snoring again. But the rain and the wind is so loud that you can hardly hear anything but between whiles.” 486as ae eA * % a sy ws “ AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN Sue had dragged herself back. “Mrs. Edlin, good-night lled vou out.” The widow retreated a again! I am sorry I ca second time. The strained, resigned look returned to Sue’s face when must do it—I must! I must drink to the she was alone. “I dregs!” she whispered. “Richard!” she said again. | “Hey—what? Is that you, Susanna?” “Yes.” : “What do you want? Anything t ment. He pulled on some articles o 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 till now—when L-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 against your impulses, as I have said. “But I beg to be admitted.” She waited a moment, and repeated, “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.” he matter? Wait a mo- | f clothing, and came to ' A) EI een ene a ne Si eee Pe pee ee eS =<: eae = Ln de rin Seen ee ee ee oe teeter ete DL et a ine De Deh tte Ot Pe eee ed MIA : .~ . -- m ee ee : Se eh a ee Pg et OE RN a a, ae oe er es : ee — oak cs “How?” “T 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. | don’t know. I am horrifie on it, and the least I can do after it is to come to yo this,” d to look back u like a be ae a a Oe Se GR Paes wan aed — 487 ad c. ee“ —— wi Say a. “aes eed Hl St = Coen ae Die etn mee ee ao ee ae Oe Re ee aan eee eek eee aaa Se ea Te on en en ae i hel sr : eee JOUAD Eu) i BE. -OcRiS Cl) RE “Come—this is pretty bad, after what I’ve done! Anything else to confess?” “No.” She had been intending to say: “I called him my darling Love.” But, as a contrite woman always keeps back a little, that portion of the scene remained untold, She went on: “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!” ~Well—about not seeing him again any more. Come— you really mean this?” There was something in Phillotson’s tone now which seemed to show that his three months of remarriage with Sue had somehow not been so satis- factory as his magnanimity or amative patience had anticipated. 7 Yes, yes!” | Perhaps youll swear it on the New Testament?” “I will.” He went back to the room and brought out a little 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 honor and obey, as | vowed, to let me in.” “Think it over well. You know what it means. Having you back was one thing—this another, So think again.” “T have thought—I wish this!” “That’s a complaisant spirit— right. With a lover hanging about be completed. But I repe last time.” It is my wish! . . . O God!” Tee and perhaps you are a half-marriage should at my reminder this third andae | AT GHRISTMINSTER AGAIN “What did you say O God for?” “T didn’t know!” “Yes, you do! But—” He gloomily considered her thit and fragile form a moment longer as she crouched before him in her night-clothes. “Wel swe iGormmaaes Soot oi es i ae) ¢ ll. 1 thought it might end like this,” he said, presently. 1 owe you nothing, after these signs; but lll take you in at your word, and forgive a Nn ED you.” He put his arm round her to lift her up. Sue started | back. | “What's the matter?” he asked, speaking, for the first a time, sternly. “You shrink from me againr—just as for- ; merly!” | | i : “No, Richard—I—I—was not thinking—— “You wish to come in here?” axes.” | “You still bear in mind what it means?” / “Yes. It is my duty!” Placing the candlestick on the chest of drawers, he led her through the doorway, and, lifting her bodily, kissed. her. A wild look of aversion passed over her face, but, clinching her teeth, she uttered no Mrs. Edlin had by this time unc . to get into bed, when she said to I'd better go and see if the little it do blow and rain!” , The widow went out on the landing, and saw that Sue had disappeared. “Ah! Poor soul! Weddings be funerals, SPE icky KE si ee ees a — cry. lressed, and was about herself: “Ah—perhaps thing is all right. How MUS Sig aa oy arnt eee RN x Pe A om, Seed - pale Renee rs ab nowa ; Fifty-five years 2g0, come fall, since . changed since then! , my man and I married! Times have eae! od ae “ eee Aci ede OE ee ol eet ee) So tat (os 7 gd es ore omg ) cH “ ra a = ~al es Ee Loneuerre et i Fe Se ae lle ah eae ai ler ee a ee centered eatin ta “on i nd ee ee ere 08 EO et aie a Sy . So ee a elie nee gree Man) A) JUDIE THE OBS'GCT RE 10 Wrserne 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 taken 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 said, and, indeed, often regarded her abuse in a humorous light. Sometimes his mood was more earnest, and 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. “I was never really stout enough for the stone trade, particularly the fixing. Moving the blocks al- ways used 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 had the opportunity. I could ac- cumulate ideas and impart them to others. I wonder if the Founders had such as I in their minds—a fellow good tor nothing else but that particular thing? . 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 mmfluence. I don’t know much about it. And it is too late, 490a Py inal paw =) wed % — Senetelsaeiane AT GHRISTMINSTER AGAIN and for how many worthier ones too late for me! Ah before me!” “How you keep a- -mumbling!” said Arabella. have thought youd have got over all that craze about books by this time. And so you would, if you'd had any sense to begin with, You are as bad now as when we were ' first married.” On one occasion while soliloquizing thu “Sue” unconsciously. “I wish you'd mind who you are : “Calling a respec table married woman > She remembered herself, and he = “1 should A s he called her o ae i na Sa ha a On a Oe talking to!” said Ara- bella, indignantly. by the name of that did not catch the word. But in the course of time, when she saw how things were going, and how very little she had to fear from Sue’s rivalry, she had a fit of generosity. I suppose you W ant to see your—Sue?” she said. “Well, I dont mind her coming. You can have her here if you like.” ‘T don’t wish to see her again.” Oh—that’s a change!” “And don’t tell her anything about me that I’m ill, o anything. She has chosen her course. Let her gol” One Flay) he received a surprise. Mrs. Edlin came to see him, quite on her own account. Jude's wife, whose feelings as to where his affections were centred had Poached absolute indifference by this time, went out, leav- ing the old woman alone with Jude. He impulsiv ely ae how Sue was, and then said, b yluntly, remembering what 1 only husb and Sue had told him: “I suppose they are stil ) and wife in name? , Mrs. Edlin hesitated. “Well, no— it’s She’s begun it quite | lately _—all of her own free-w rill.” “When did she begin?” he asked, quickly. 491 a - ms - ; # e- eS a hs ee wore es re as Cr ay eee ae te Te ae tpt ot ene ee Se | a OR ee eee Pern ate a een di ' fferent now. ee fifiedl ahi - etna patel Renee Sram) foe -- oi — a ee ae - } rl a Ai Fet-* _ | * on ae hee ee ere need Fe nee te LT he -- —_— OK, TP 4 rs = eee S aS von Ste ts Caan ee en SST at Tal AS Od oe ne i I es Fas a ee eee Catan J*UsD BOE BE iQBS:Ciui Rs f? “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 sex, that time and circumstance, which en- large the views of most men, narrow the views of women almost invariably. And now the ultimate horror has come | —her giving herself like this to what she loathes, in her enslavement to forms!—she, so sensitive, so shrinking, that the very wind seemed to-blow-on_her_with a fick of deference. . As for Sue and me, when 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, is how I go on to myself pontingelee as I lie here. I must be boring you awfully.” “Not at all, my aca boy. I could hearken to ’ee all day.” As Jude reflected more and more on her news, and 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 down-stairs. As nobody answered it, Mrs. Edlin herself went down. The visitor said, blandly, “The doctor.” The lanky form 492AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN was that 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 blaspeam terribly, since I let out some gossip by acci- dent—the more to my blame. But there—you must ex- cuse a man in suffering 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 shell be here soon.” Vilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto taken the medicines of that skilful practitioner with the greatest in- difference, whenever poured down his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay by events that he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician's face, and so forcibly, and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried down-stairs again. At the door he met Arabella, Mrs. Edlin having left. Arabella inquired how he thought her husband was now, and seeing that the doctor looked ruffled, asked him to take something. He assented. ‘Tll bring it to you here in the passage,” she said. “There’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 dear?” he asked, smacking his lips. “Oh, a drop of wine—and_ something in_it.” Laughing again, she said: “I poured your own love-philter into it, that you sold me at the Agricultural Show, dont you remember?” “‘T do, I do! Clever woman! But you must be prepared for the consequences. Putting his arm around her shoul- ders, he kissed her there and then. 493 a & ee ee Nate eR eT Te om ee as , = , , . CoN ee ee ee ee ee ORD TES ee 2 . a . aa “ rey x sceuteaeniaenememmn ar Oa ane nee ne adn nT ew = ee fan eee tt Pen) LE mmo g OPIN wg ld ame Sey h eh oom hte meJUDE THE OBSCURE “Don't, don’t,” she whispered, laughing good-humoredly. “My man will hear.” She let him out of the house, and as she went back she said to herself, “Well, weak women must provide fora tainy day. And if my poor fellow up-stairs do go off—as i suppose he will soon—it’s well to keep-chances-open.And | [can't pick and choose now as I could when I was younger. And one must take the old if one can’t get the young.” \ ” a Seana Eel ae eae? = am I] alate last pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader’s attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude’s bedroom when leafy summer -ame 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 position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him from lying down. Arabella, hatted. gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse. PNET LTT ee gn ent TELE tere Ee eee Pane a RS A eh or ee ene et “5% mg) : ae eee eee Pere Bilal ter aren Certain sounds from without-revealéd that. the town _ was_in festivity, though little of the festival. whatever it might have been, could be seen here. Bells began to ring, nad the notes came into the room through the open 4I4 BB rao ee en mete geAp @eRISTMINSTER AGAIN window, and travelled round Jude’s head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herself, “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, glancing at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still 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 other inmates long before. eee ages JHDE THEI OBSCURE As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed: “A little water, please.” coughed to exhaustion again—saying, still more feebly: “Water—some waterSue—Arabella!” The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped f again: “Throat water-CSue}darling—drop of water— please—oh, please!” i No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee's \_ hum, rolled in as before. While he remained, his face changing, shouts and hur- rahs 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 more; he whispered, slowly, , his lips scarcely moving: ‘Nothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and yar he “a Ra a ere BERT TL no me Se St at et Seren aes Be Gt f “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in iw wIwhich it was said, ‘There is a man child conceived. ” ee ~ ( Hurrah!”) | “Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it..Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.” (“Hurrah!” ) 2 “Why died I not from the womb? Why_did_L.not.give J upthe ghost when I came out of the belly? ._._. For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I_been at rest!” senate het heen aie te er Se Le ek ent mee tee | - = Tae mS p ( “Hurrah!” ) H “There the_prisoners rest together; they hear not the ; voice of the oppressor... . The small and_the great are Vere: and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore 496 = ro Daten eee fey oy =aT i AT GHERISTMINSTER AGAIN is light given to him that_is_in-misery, and life_unto the Vitter in soul?” — — a Meanwhile Arabella, on her journey to discover what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure 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 bunting. Wagon-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 the 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. “IT should not mind having a spin there with 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 dancing for me!” aap” k When she reached home she was met at the door by yw Stagg and one or two other of Jude’s fellow stone-workers. (¥ ve “We, are just going down to the river,” said the former, “to see the boat-bumping. But weve called round on our way to ask how your husband is.” “He’s sleeping nicely, thank you,” said 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,” 497 a Se ee tee ae ene Leet en ak eee me te ; — : Oa ee Pe} = a a om ota a eerie ie te ea ne ee a a a ee a _ _ hn ts Sere - lilt a & = el Le letieeblentie i toe ee te ee een ee! Ped — x apne bi peg = ie OC tre Po es a ee sy a <~ ee pea pe eee SAA CaP al Tn? Cadac i ea IT a Ca hee ear —s s eet emrsat Siete tthe Rae oes che Teal Ce har ab ah a be Pa inf ae de oe aes Se aoe Dee Ds tal ene ne ee ene ee ee = = = -_~ - ‘ JUDE THE OBSCURE “I should like to go,” said she. “I’ve never seen the boat-racing, and | hear it is good fun.” “Come along!” “How I wish I could!” She looked longingly down the street. “Wait a minute, then. Ill just run up and see how he is now. Father is with him, I believe, so I can most y jlikely come.” y They waited, and she entered. Down-stairs the inmates were absent as before, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river, where the procession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found that her father had not even now come. “Why couldn’t he have been here?” she said, impa- tiently. “He wants to 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 not in the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the bed. His face was quite white, 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 umping of near thirty years had ceased. After her first appalled sense of what had happened, x the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the a river reached her ears: and in a provoked tone she ex- “ pear “To think he should die just now! Why did he ) | die just now?” Then, meditating another moment _or two, o \ ‘She went to the door, so y closed it-as before,and again \;descended the stairs. . aguas 4 Bl “Here she is!” said one of the workmen. “We wondered ;ee a_ a =) AT GHRISTMINSTER AGAIN cnet i aa 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 away ee oe \ “Oh yes—sleeping quite sound....He..won‘t..wake..yet,- she said, hurriedly. 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 narrow slit down to the river-side 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 stream as they were lowered from the perpendicular. . “Oh, I say—how jolly! I'm glad I've come,” said Arabella (Ve \ “And—it can’t hurt my husband—my being away. +a On the opposite side of the river, on the crowded 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. Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with ladies, watching keenly for “our” boat, darted up and down. While she regarded _the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the ribs,.and,looking round, she saw_Vilbert. “That philter is operating,you knowl-he-s leer. “Shame_on ee to.wreck-a-heart sol” “T sha’n'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. 499 ° <. a ete Ce oe i Se teal tye be ea ~ as oa es NS = z ~ = e% 2-5 : Saad = os - a Sd Tene Ct en oe re Dee eer : ae el ee aid,with—a eee ait oe ee ee a ie OO an Poa y a NeCo Lea Ne a Care Fp tee seed Rae Ee lan SS, pee E. ‘ " q ot eS Oa ete a ere aaa er ae ee ee ee nee Ce a ce en it ioe OU DE Te Ee OnsSseu He 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 friends 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, statuesque_counte- | nance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a) 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!” cried 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 river-side path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass—Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Ara- bella exclaiming, “Dear, dear!” more and more impatiently for it had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were dis-> covered to have died alone an inquest might be deemegt necessary. ; 1 a “What a fidget you are, my love,” said the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no need 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 500| aS 2 ie Are CHRIST MINSTER AGAIN she got up into the street Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her farther that day. She did not go straight to her 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,” she said. “Can you come and lay him out?” Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages. ‘T must call at the sexton’s about the bell, too,” said Ara- bella. “It is just around here, isn’t it? I'll meet you at my door.” By ten o'clock that night Jude was lying on the bed- stead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the joyous 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. € window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a distance came voices, and an ap- parent noise of persons stamping. What's that?” murmured the old woman. Oh, that’s the doctors in the Theatre, conferring 501 ogee ae ene — = aio [aidan da eae ne a Ng Fn ee ed A ane) a ao ee eee oe -» ee ee a need ee eee eed —— cae ak ate Re Ne nT eat as a See ee i oe a 4 a ie =.— ee anew eee PL ) ~ mh hia 1. ES a % oe Laclede eee a ee et — iar er ST A er ere ee a fe Ne ee ae te _ tal (AS aS a or ee ng ara se . - on ee ee oe eres ; : Keen es OKbhair Aweterve JU DEMKTHE oO Bsc U RE Honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort. It’s Remembrance: Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men.” “Aye; young and strong-hinged! 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 Homer. and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighboring shelf, aad the few other 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 labors, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously; and their rever- | berations travelled round the bedroom. 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 stomach un, even now!” eee Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly (tiave 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 offered to send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was.” “Did he forgive her?” 502oo et oat A T a I § I N §” AGAIN “Not as ] know. 4 Sorat “\A7 i} m~r ° gs oe ¥ le + . . Well—poor littl ing, tis to be believed she’s found AYAL rorgiveness somewhere! She said she had found peace!” 4A She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross ‘ 4 »” shes hoarse, but it won’t be true! 2 Arabella shes never found peace si she left hi I and never ee ee eed Saal a SS Ae Aer! 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