Jude the Obsure

The day of the sale came on; and Sue for the last time cooked her

own, the child's, and Jude's breakfast in the little house he had

furnished. It chanced to be a wet day; moreover Sue was unwell, and

not wishing to desert her poor Jude in such gloomy circumstances,

for he was compelled to stay awhile, she acted on the suggestion of

the auctioneer's man, and ensconced herself in an upper room, which

could be emptied of its effects, and so kept closed to the bidders.

Here Jude discovered her; and with the child, and their few trunks,

baskets, and bundles, and two chairs and a table that were not in

the sale, the two sat in meditative talk.

Footsteps began stamping up and down the bare stairs, the comers

inspecting the goods, some of which were of so quaint and ancient a

make as to acquire an adventitious value as art. Their door was

tried once or twice, and to guard themselves against intrusion Jude

wrote "Private" on a scrap of paper, and stuck it upon the panel.

They soon found that, instead of the furniture, their own personal

histories and past conduct began to be discussed to an unexpected

and intolerable extent by the intending bidders. It was not till

now that they really discovered what a fools' paradise of supposed

unrecognition they had been living in of late. Sue silently took

her companion's hand, and with eyes on each other they heard these

passing remarks--the quaint and mysterious personality of Father

Time being a subject which formed a large ingredient in the hints and

innuendoes. At length the auction began in the room below, whence

they could hear each familiar article knocked down, the highly prized

ones cheaply, the unconsidered at an unexpected price.

"People don't understand us," he sighed heavily. "I am glad we have

decided to go."

"The question is, where to?"

"It ought to be to London. There one can live as one chooses."

"No--not London, dear! I know it well. We should be unhappy there."

"Why?"

"Can't you think?"

"Because Arabella is there?"

"That's the chief reason."

"But in the country I shall always be uneasy lest there should be

some more of our late experience. And I don't care to lessen it by

explaining, for one thing, all about the boy's history. To cut him

off from his past I have determined to keep silence. I am sickened

of ecclesiastical work now; and I shouldn't like to accept it, if

offered me!"