“I 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’ve been drinking than when you have not!”
“I must rest a moment,” he said; and as he paused, holding to the railings, he measured with his eye the height of a college front. “This is old Rubric. And that Sarcophagus; and up that lane Crozier and Tudor: and all down there is Cardinal with its long front, and its windows with lifted eyebrows, representing the polite surprise of the University at the efforts of such as I.”
“Come along, and I’ll treat you!”
“Very well. It will help me home, for I feel the chilly fog from the meadows of Cardinal as if death-claws were grabbing me through and through. As Antigone said, I am neither a dweller among men nor ghosts. But, Arabella, when I am dead, you’ll see my spirit flitting up and down here among these!”
“Pooh! You mayn’t die after all. You are tough enough yet, old man.”
It was night at Marygreen, and the rain of the afternoon showed no sign of abatement. About the time at which Jude and Arabella were walking the streets of Christminster homeward, the Widow Edlin crossed the green, and opened the back door of the schoolmaster’s dwelling, which she often did now before bedtime, to assist Sue in putting things away.
Sue was muddling helplessly in the kitchen, for she was not a good housewife, though she tried to be, and grew impatient of domestic details.
“Lord love ’ee, what do ye do that yourself for, when I’ve come o’ purpose! You knew I should come.”
“O—I don’t know—I forgot! No, I didn’t forget. I did it to discipline myself. I have scrubbed the stairs since eight o’clock. I must practise myself in my household duties. I’ve shamefully neglected them!”
“Why should ye? He’ll get a better school, perhaps be a parson, in time, and you’ll keep two servants. ’Tis a pity to spoil them pretty hands.”
“Don’t talk of my pretty hands, Mrs. Edlin. This pretty body of mine 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 tonight, my dear. Husband cross?”
“No. He never is. He’s gone to bed early.”
“Then what is it?”
“I cannot tell you. I have done wrong today. And I want to eradicate it. … Well—I will tell you this—Jude has been here this afternoon, and I find I still love him—O, grossly! I cannot tell you more.”
“Ah!” said the widow. “I told ’ee how ’twould be!”
“But it shan’t be! I have not told my husband of his visit; it is not necessary to trouble him about it, as I never mean to see Jude any more. But I am going to make my conscience right on my duty to Richard—by doing a penance—the ultimate thing. I must!”
“I wouldn’t—since he agrees to it being otherwise, and it has gone on three months very well as it is.”
“Yes—he agrees to my living as I choose; but I feel it is an indulgence I ought not to exact from him. It ought not to have been accepted by me. To reverse it will be terrible—but I must be more just to him. O why was I so unheroic!”
“What is it you don’t like in him?” asked Mrs. Edlin curiously.
“I cannot tell you. It is something … I cannot say. The mournful thing is, that nobody would admit it as a reason for feeling as I do; so that no excuse is left me.”
“Did you ever tell Jude what it was?”
“Never.”
“I’ve heard strange tales o’ husbands in my time,” observed the widow in a lowered voice. “They say that when the saints were upon the earth devils used to take husbands’ 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. … What a wind and rain it is tonight! Well—don’t be in a hurry to alter things, my dear. Think it over.”
“No, no! I’ve screwed my weak soul up to treating him more courteously—and it must be now—at once—before I break down!”
“I don’t think you ought to force your nature. No woman ought to be 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 terror.
“No, no—don’t go, Mrs. Edlin,” she implored, her eyes enlarged, and with a quick nervous look over her shoulder.
“But it is bedtime, child.”
“Yes, but—there’s the little spare room—my room that was. It is quite ready. Please stay, Mrs. Edlin!—I shall want you in the morning.”
“O 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. “I’ll go into my old room a moment by myself.”
Leaving the widow on the landing Sue turned to the chamber which had been hers exclusively since her arrival at Marygreen, and pushing to the door knelt down by the bed for a minute or two. She then arose, and taking her nightgown from the pillow undressed and came out to Mrs. Edlin. A man could be heard snoring in the room opposite. She wished Mrs. Edlin good night, and the widow entered the room that Sue had just vacated.
Sue unlatched the other chamber door, and, as if seized with faintness, sank down outside it. Getting up again she half opened the door, and said “Richard.” As the word 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 you in bed, Mrs. Edlin?” she asked.
“No, dear,” said the widow, opening the door. “I
