Jude the Obscure

by Thomas Hardy

  Melchester was a dismal place enough for Jude that Sunday of herdeparture, and the Close so hateful that he did not go once to thecathedral services. The next morning there came a letter from her,which, with her usual promptitude, she had written directly she hadreached her friend's house. She told him of her safe arrival andcomfortable quarters, and then added:--

  What I really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at parting. You had been so very good and kind to me that when you were out of sight I felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman I was to say it, and it has reproached me ever since. IF YOU WANT TO LOVE ME, JUDE, YOU MAY: I don't mind at all; and I'll never say again that you mustn't!

  Now I won't write any more about that. You do forgive your thoughtless friend for her cruelty? and won't make her miserable by saying you don't?--Ever,

  SUE.

  It would be superfluous to say what his answer was; and how hethought what he would have done had he been free, which should haverendered a long residence with a female friend quite unnecessary forSue. He felt he might have been pretty sure of his own victory ifit had come to a conflict between Phillotson and himself for thepossession of her.

  Yet Jude was in danger of attaching more meaning to Sue's impulsivenote than it really was intended to bear.

  After the lapse of a few days he found himself hoping that she wouldwrite again. But he received no further communication; and in theintensity of his solicitude he sent another note, suggesting that heshould pay her a visit some Sunday, the distance being under eighteenmiles.

  He expected a reply on the second morning after despatching hismissive; but none came. The third morning arrived; the postman didnot stop. This was Saturday, and in a feverish state of anxietyabout her he sent off three brief lines stating that he was comingthe following day, for he felt sure something had happened.

  His first and natural thought had been that she was ill from herimmersion; but it soon occurred to him that somebody would havewritten for her in such a case. Conjectures were put an end to byhis arrival at the village school-house near Shaston on the brightmorning of Sunday, between eleven and twelve o'clock, when the parishwas as vacant as a desert, most of the inhabitants having gatheredinside the church, whence their voices could occasionally be heard inunison.

  A little girl opened the door. "Miss Bridehead is up-stairs," shesaid. "And will you please walk up to her?"

  "Is she ill?" asked Jude hastily.

  "Only a little--not very."

  Jude entered and ascended. On reaching the landing a voice told himwhich way to turn--the voice of Sue calling his name. He passed thedoorway, and found her lying in a little bed in a room a dozen feetsquare.

  "Oh, Sue!" he cried, sitting down beside her and taking her hand."How is this! You couldn't write?"

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

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

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

  "Well?"

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

  "What?"

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

  "Is it about us?"

  "Yes."

  "But do tell me!"

  "Well--somebody has sent them baseless reports about us, and theysay you and I ought to marry as soon as possible, for the sake of myreputation! ... There--now I have told you, and I wish I hadn't!"

  "Oh, poor Sue!"

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

  The speech seemed a little forced and unreal, and they regarded eachother with a mutual distress.

  "I was so blind at first!" she went on. "I didn't see what you feltat all. Oh, you have been unkind to me--you have--to look upon meas a sweetheart without saying a word, and leaving me to discover itmyself! Your attitude to me has become known; and naturally theythink we've been doing wrong! I'll never trust you again!"

  "Yes, Sue," he said simply; "I am to blame--more than you think. Iwas quite aware that you did not suspect till within the last meetingor two what I was feeling about you. I admit that our meeting asstrangers prevented a sense of relationship, and that it was a sortof subterfuge to avail myself of it. But don't you think I deserve alittle consideration for concealing my wrong, very wrong, sentiments,since I couldn't help having them?"

  She turned her eyes doubtfully towards him, and then looked away asif afraid she might forgive him.

  By every law of nature and sex a kiss was the only rejoinder thatfitted the mood and the moment, under the suasion of which Sue'sundemonstrative regard of him might not inconceivably have changedits temperature. Some men would have cast scruples to the winds,and ventured it, oblivious both of Sue's declaration of her neutralfeelings, and of the pair of autographs in the vestry chest ofArabella's parish church. Jude did not. He had, in fact, come inpart to tell his own fatal story. It was upon his lips; yet at thehour of this distress he could not disclose it. He preferred todwell upon the recognized barriers between them.

  "Of course--I know you don't--care about me in any particular way,"he sorrowed. "You ought not, and you are right. You belong to--Mr.Phillotson. I suppose he has been to see you?"

  "Yes," she said shortly, her face changing a little. "Though Ididn't ask him to come. You are glad, of course, that he has been!But I shouldn't care if he didn't come any more!"

  It was very perplexing to her lover that she should be piqued at hishonest acquiescence in his rival, if Jude's feelings of love weredeprecated by her. He went on to something else.

  "This will blow over, dear Sue," he said. "The training-schoolauthorities are not all the world. You can get to be a student insome other, no doubt."

  "I'll ask Mr. Phillotson," she said decisively.

  Sue's kind hostess now returned from church, and there was no moreintimate conversation. Jude left in the afternoon, hopelesslyunhappy. But he had seen her, and sat with her. Such intercourseas that would have to content him for the remainder of his life.The lesson of renunciation it was necessary and proper that he, asa parish priest, should learn.

  But the next morning when he awoke he felt rather vexed with her,and decided that she was rather unreasonable, not to say capricious.Then, in illustration of what he had begun to discern as one of herredeeming characteristics there came promptly a note, which she musthave written almost immediately he had gone from her:

  Forgive me for my petulance yesterday! I was horrid to you; I know it, and I feel perfectly miserable at my horridness. It was so dear of you not to be angry! Jude, please still keep me as your friend and associate, with all my faults. I'll try not to be like it again.

  I am coming to Melchester on Saturday, to get my things away from the T. S., &c. I could walk with you for half an hour, if you would like?--Your repentant

  SUE.

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