Jude the Obsure

There was no answer, and the carpenter who kept the lodgings said she

had not come in. Jude was puzzled, and became quite alarmed at her

absence, for the hour was growing late. The carpenter called his

wife, who conjectured that Sue might have gone to St. Silas' church,

as she often went there.

"Surely not at this time o' night?" said Jude. "It is shut."

"She knows somebody who keeps the key, and she has it whenever she

wants it."

"How long has she been going on with this?"

"Oh, some few weeks, I think."

Jude went vaguely in the direction of the church, which he had never

once approached since he lived out that way years before, when his

young opinions were more mystical than they were now. The spot was

deserted, but the door was certainly unfastened; he lifted the latch

without noise, and pushing to the door behind him, stood absolutely

still inside. The prevalent silence seemed to contain a faint sound,

explicable as a breathing, or a sobbing, which came from the other

end of the building. The floor-cloth deadened his footsteps as he

moved in that direction through the obscurity, which was broken only

by the faintest reflected night-light from without.

High overhead, above the chancel steps, Jude could discern a huge,

solidly constructed Latin cross--as large, probably, as the original

it was designed to commemorate. It seemed to be suspended in the

air by invisible wires; it was set with large jewels, which faintly

glimmered in some weak ray caught from outside, as the cross swayed

to and fro in a silent and scarcely perceptible motion. Underneath,

upon the floor, lay what appeared to be a heap of black clothes, and

from this was repeated the sobbing that he had heard before. It was

his Sue's form, prostrate on the paving.

"Sue!" he whispered.

Something white disclosed itself; she had turned up her face.

"What--do you want with me here, Jude?" she said almost sharply.

"You shouldn't come! I wanted to be alone! Why did you intrude

here?"

"How can you ask!" he retorted in quick reproach, for his full heart

was wounded to its centre at this attitude of hers towards him.

"Why do I come? Who has a right to come, I should like to know, if

I have not! I, who love you better than my own self--better--far

better--than you have loved me! What made you leave me to come here

alone?"

"Don't criticize me, Jude--I can't bear it!--I have often told

you so. You must take me as I am. I am a wretch--broken by my

distractions! I couldn't BEAR it when Arabella came--I felt so

utterly miserable I had to come away. She seems to be your wife

still, and Richard to be my husband!"