Jude the Obsure

The softer side of his nature, the desire to see Sue, made him unable

to resist the offer even now, provoked as he had been; and he replied

breathlessly: "Yes, I agree. Only send for her!"

In the evening he inquired if she had written.

"Yes," she said; "I wrote a note telling her you were ill, and asking

her to come to-morrow or the day after. I haven't posted it yet."

The next day Jude wondered if she really did post it, but would not

ask her; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a crumb, made him

restless with expectation. He knew the times of the possible trains,

and listened on each occasion for sounds of her.

She did not come; but Jude would not address Arabella again thereon.

He hoped and expected all the next day; but no Sue appeared; neither

was there any note of reply. Then Jude decided in the privacy of his

mind that Arabella had never posted hers, although she had written

it. There was something in her manner which told it. His physical

weakness was such that he shed tears at the disappointment when she

was not there to see. His suspicions were, in fact, well founded.

Arabella, like some other nurses, thought that your duty towards your

invalid was to pacify him by any means short of really acting upon

his fancies.

He never said another word to her about his wish or his conjecture.

A silent, undiscerned resolve grew up in him, which gave him, if not

strength, stability and calm. One midday when, after an absence of

two hours, she came into the room, she beheld the chair empty.

Down she flopped on the bed, and sitting, meditated. "Now where the

devil is my man gone to!" she said.

A driving rain from the north-east had been falling with more or less

intermission all the morning, and looking from the window at the

dripping spouts it seemed impossible to believe that any sick man

would have ventured out to almost certain death. Yet a conviction

possessed Arabella that he had gone out, and it became a certainty

when she had searched the house. "If he's such a fool, let him be!"

she said. "I can do no more."

Jude was at that moment in a railway train that was drawing near to

Alfredston, oddly swathed, pale as a monumental figure in alabaster,

and much stared at by other passengers. An hour later his thin form,

in the long great-coat and blanket he had come with, but without an

umbrella, could have been seen walking along the five-mile road to

Marygreen. On his face showed the determined purpose that alone

sustained him, but to which has weakness afforded a sorry foundation.

By the up-hill walk he was quite blown, but he pressed on; and at

half-past three o'clock stood by the familiar well at Marygreen.

The rain was keeping everybody indoors; Jude crossed the green to the

church without observation, and found the building open. Here he

stood, looking forth at the school, whence he could hear the usual

sing-song tones of the little voices that had not learnt Creation's

groan.