“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 go to Jude! … Ah—no—I forgot her—and God!”
“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.”
Sue had dragged herself back. “Mrs. Edlin, good night again! I am sorry I called you out.” The widow retreated a second time.
The strained, resigned look returned to Sue’s face when she was alone. “I must do it—I must! I must drink to the dregs!” she whispered. “Richard!” she said again.
“Hey—what? Is that you, Susanna?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want? Anything the matter? Wait a moment.” He pulled on some articles of clothing, and came to 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 I 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 today. I have exceeded my rights. I did not mean to tell you, but perhaps I ought. I sinned against you this afternoon.”
“How?”
“I met Jude! I didn’t know he was coming. And—”
“Well?”
“I kissed him, and let him kiss me.”
“O—the old story!”
“Richard, I didn’t know we were going to kiss each other till we did!”
“How many times?”
“A good many. I don’t know. I am horrified to look back on it, and the least I can do after it is to come to you like this.”
“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 satisfactory as his magnanimity or amative patience had anticipated.
“Yes, yes!”
“Perhaps you’ll 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 honour and obey, as I vowed, to let me in.”
“Think it over well. You know what it means. Having you back in the house was one thing—this another. So think again.”
“I have thought—I wish this!”
“That’s a complaisant spirit—and perhaps you are right. With a lover hanging about, a half-marriage should be completed. But I repeat my reminder this third and last time.”
“It is my wish! … O God!”
“What did you say O God for?”
“I don’t know!”
“Yes you do! But …” He gloomily considered her thin and fragile form a moment longer as she crouched before him in her nightclothes. “Well, I thought it might end like this,” he said presently. “I owe you nothing, after these signs; but I’ll take you in at your word, and forgive you.”
He put his arm round her to lift her up. Sue started back.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, speaking for the first time sternly. “You shrink from me again?—just as formerly!”
“No, Richard—I—I—was not thinking—”
“You wish to come in here?”
“Yes.”
“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 quick look of aversion passed over her face, but clenching her teeth she uttered no cry.
Mrs. Edlin had by this time undressed, and was about to get into bed when she said to herself: “Ah—perhaps I’d better go and see if the little thing is all right. How it do blow and rain!”
The widow went out on the landing, and saw that Sue had disappeared. “Ah! Poor soul! Weddings be funerals ’a b’lieve nowadays. Fifty-five years ago, come Fall, since my man and I married! Times have changed since then!”
X
Despite 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 always 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 accumulate ideas, and impart them to others. I wonder if the Founders had such as I in their minds—a fellow good for nothing else but that particular
