“I ought not to be born, ought I?” said the boy with misgiving.
Thoroughly tired at last Sue returned to the place where she was not welcome, but where at least she had temporary shelter. In her absence Jude had left his address; but knowing how weak he still was she adhered to her determination not to disturb him till the next day.
II
Sue sat looking at the bare floor of the room, the house being little more than an old intramural cottage, and then she regarded the scene outside the uncurtained window. At some distance opposite, the outer walls of Sarcophagus College—silent, black and windowless—threw their four centuries of gloom, bigotry, and decay into the little room she occupied, shutting out the moonlight by night and the sun by day. The outlines of Rubric College also were discernible beyond the other, and the tower of a third further off still. She thought of the strange operation of a simple-minded man’s ruling passion, that it should have led Jude, who loved her and the children so tenderly, to place them here in this depressing purlieu, because he was still haunted by his dream. Even now he did not distinctly hear the freezing negative that those scholared walls had echoed to his desire.
The failure to find another lodging, and the lack of room in this house for his father, had made a deep impression on the boy;—a brooding undemonstrative horror seemed to have seized him. The silence was broken by his saying: “Mother, what shall we do tomorrow!”
“I don’t know!” said Sue despondently. “I am afraid this will trouble your father.”
“I wish father was quite well, and there had been room for him! Then it wouldn’t matter so much! Poor father!”
“It wouldn’t!”
“Can I do anything?”
“No! All is trouble, adversity and suffering!”
“Father went away to give us children room, didn’t he?”
“Partly.”
“It would be better to be out o’ the world than in it, wouldn’t it?”
“It would almost, dear.”
“ ’Tis because of us children, too, isn’t it, that you can’t get a good lodging?”
“Well—people do object to children sometimes.”
“Then if children make so much trouble, why do people have ’em?”
“O—because it is a law of nature.”
“But we don’t ask to be born?”
“No indeed.”
“And what makes it worse with me is that you are not my real mother, and you needn’t have had me unless you liked. I oughtn’t to have come to ’ee—that’s the real truth! I troubled ’em in Australia, and I trouble folk here. I wish I hadn’t been born!”
“You couldn’t help it, my dear.”
“I think that whenever children be born that are not wanted they should be killed directly, before their souls come to ’em, and not allowed to grow big and walk about!”
Sue did not reply. She was doubtfully pondering how to treat this too reflective child.
She at last concluded that, so far as circumstances permitted, she would be honest and candid with one who entered into her difficulties like an aged friend.
“There is going to be another in our family soon,” she hesitatingly remarked.
“How?”
“There is going to be another baby.”
“What!” The boy jumped up wildly. “O God, mother, you’ve never a-sent for another; and such trouble with what you’ve got!”
“Yes, I have, I am sorry to say!” murmured Sue, her eyes glistening with suspended tears.
The boy burst out weeping. “O you don’t care, you don’t care!” he cried in bitter reproach. “How ever could you, mother, be so wicked and cruel as this, 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 tomorrow; and yet you be going to have another of us soon! … ’Tis done o’ purpose!—’tis—’tis!” He walked up and down sobbing.
“Y-you must forgive me, little Jude!” she pleaded, her bosom heaving now as much as the boy’s. “I can’t explain—I will when you are older. It does seem—as if I had done it on purpose, now we are in these difficulties! I can’t explain, dear! But it—is not quite on purpose—I can’t help it!”
“Yes it is—it must be! For nobody would interfere with us, like that, unless you agreed! I won’t forgive you, ever, ever! I’ll never believe you care for me, or father, or any of us any more!”
He got up, and went away into the closet 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 of yesterday.
She found Jude at breakfast in the obscure tavern he had chosen as a counterpoise to the expense of her lodging: and she explained to him her homelessness. He had been so anxious about her all night, he said. Somehow, now it was morning, the request to leave the lodgings did not seem such a depressing incident as it had
