Jude the Obsure

"Leave my books alone!" he said. "You might have thrown them

aside if you had liked, but as to soiling them like that, it is

disgusting!" In the operation of making lard Arabella's hands had

become smeared with the hot grease, and her fingers consequently

left very perceptible imprints on the book-covers. She continued

deliberately to toss the books severally upon the floor, till Jude,

incensed beyond bearing, caught her by the arms to make her leave

off. Somehow, in going so, he loosened the fastening of her hair,

and it rolled about her ears.

"Let me go!" she said.

"Promise to leave the books alone."

She hesitated. "Let me go!" she repeated.

"Promise!"

After a pause: "I do."

Jude relinquished his hold, and she crossed the room to the door,

out of which she went with a set face, and into the highway. Here

she began to saunter up and down, perversely pulling her hair into a

worse disorder than he had caused, and unfastening several buttons of

her gown. It was a fine Sunday morning, dry, clear and frosty, and

the bells of Alfredston Church could be heard on the breeze from the

north. People were going along the road, dressed in their holiday

clothes; they were mainly lovers--such pairs as Jude and Arabella

had been when they sported along the same track some months earlier.

These pedestrians turned to stare at the extraordinary spectacle she

now presented, bonnetless, her dishevelled hair blowing in the wind,

her bodice apart, her sleeves rolled above her elbows for her work,

and her hands reeking with melted fat. One of the passers said in

mock terror: "Good Lord deliver us!"

"See how he's served me!" she cried. "Making me work Sunday mornings

when I ought to be going to my church, and tearing my hair off my

head, and my gown off my back!"

Jude was exasperated, and went out to drag her in by main force.

Then he suddenly lost his heat. Illuminated with the sense that all

was over between them, and that it mattered not what she did, or he,

her husband stood still, regarding her. Their lives were ruined, he

thought; ruined by the fundamental error of their matrimonial union:

that of having based a permanent contract on a temporary feeling

which had no necessary connection with affinities that alone render

a lifelong comradeship tolerable.

"Going to ill-use me on principle, as your father ill-used your

mother, and your father's sister ill-used her husband?" she asked.

"All you be a queer lot as husbands and wives!"