standard furniture apollo round dining table - Hallo friend furniture stands lover, At this time sharing furniture stands entitled standard furniture apollo round dining table, I have provided furniture stands ideas. hopefully content of posts that I wrote this home design, Furniture Decorating, interior, furniture stands can be useful. OK, following its coverage of furniture stands ideas..

About : standard furniture apollo round dining table
Title : standard furniture apollo round dining table

standard furniture apollo round dining table

part the second, chapter iiibut under the various deterrent influences jude's instinct was to approach her timidly,and the next sunday he went to the morning service in the cathedral church of cardinalcollege to gain a further view of her, for he had found that she frequently attendedthere. she did not come, and he awaited her in theafternoon, which was finer. he knew that if she came at all she wouldapproach the building along the eastern side of the great green quadrangle from which itwas accessible, and he stood in a corner while the bell was going.a few minutes before the hour for service she appeared as one of the figures walkingalong under the college walls, and at sight

of her he advanced up the side opposite, andfollowed her into the building, more than ever glad that he had not as yet revealedhimself. to see her, and to be himself unseen and unknown,was enough for him at present. he lingered awhile in the vestibule, and theservice was some way advanced when he was put into a seat.it was a louring, mournful, still afternoon, when a religion of some sort seems a necessityto ordinary practical men, and not only a luxury of the emotional and leisured classes.in the dim light and the baffling glare of the clerestory windows he could discern theopposite worshippers indistinctly only, but he saw that sue was among them.he had not long discovered the exact seat

that she occupied when the chanting of the119th psalm in which the choir was engaged reached its second part, _in quo corriget_,the organ changing to a pathetic gregorian tune as the singers gave forth:wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way?it was the very question that was engaging jude's attention at this moment.what a wicked worthless fellow he had been to give vent as he had done to an animal passionfor a woman, and allow it to lead to such disastrous consequences; then to think ofputting an end to himself; then to go recklessly and get drunk.the great waves of pedal music tumbled round the choir, and, nursed on the supernaturalas he had been, it is not wonderful that he

could hardly believe that the psalm was notspecially set by some regardful providence for this moment of his first entry into thesolemn building. and yet it was the ordinary psalm for thetwenty-fourth evening of the month. the girl for whom he was beginning to nourishan extraordinary tenderness was at this time ensphered by the same harmonies as those whichfloated into his ears; and the thought was a delight to him. she was probably a frequenterof this place, and, steeped body and soul in church sentiment as she must be by occupationand habit, had, no doubt, much in common with him.to an impressionable and lonely young man the consciousness of having at last foundanchorage for his thoughts, which promised

to supply both social and spiritual possibilities,was like the dew of hermon, and he remained throughout the service in a sustaining atmosphereof ecstasy. though he was loth to suspect it, some peoplemight have said to him that the atmosphere blew as distinctly from cyprus as from galilee.jude waited till she had left her seat and passed under the screen before he himselfmoved. she did not look towards him, and by the timehe reached the door she was half-way down the broad path. being dressed up in his sundaysuit he was inclined to follow her and reveal himself.but he was not quite ready; and, alas, ought he to do so with the kind of feeling thatwas awakening in him?

for though it had seemed to have an ecclesiasticalbasis during the service, and he had persuaded himself that such was the case, he could notaltogether be blind to the real nature of the magnetism. she was such a stranger thatthe kinship was affectation, and he said, "it can't be!i, a man with a wife, must not know her!" still sue was his own kin, and the fact ofhis having a wife, even though she was not in evidence in this hemisphere, might be ahelp in one sense. it would put all thought of a tender wishon his part out of sue's mind, and make her intercourse with him free and fearless. itwas with some heartache that he saw how little he cared for the freedom and fearlessnessthat would result in her from such knowledge.

some little time before the date of this servicein the cathedral the pretty, liquid-eyed, light-footed young woman sue bridehead hadan afternoon's holiday, and leaving the ecclesiastical establishment in which she not only assistedbut lodged, took a walk into the country with a book in her hand.it was one of those cloudless days which sometimes occur in wessex and elsewhere between daysof cold and wet, as if intercalated by caprice of the weather-god.she went along for a mile or two until she came to much higher ground than that of thecity she had left behind her. the road passed between green fields, andcoming to a stile sue paused there, to finish the page she was reading, and then lookedback at the towers and domes and pinnacles

new and old.on the other side of the stile, in the footpath, she beheld a foreigner with black hair anda sallow face, sitting on the grass beside a large square board whereon were fixed, asclosely as they could stand, a number of plaster statuettes, some of them bronzed, which hewas re-arranging before proceeding with them on his way. they were in the main reducedcopies of ancient marbles, and comprised divinities of a very different character from those thegirl was accustomed to see portrayed, among them being a venus of standard pattern, adiana, and, of the other sex, apollo, bacchus, and mars.though the figures were many yards away from her the south-west sun brought them out sobrilliantly against the green herbage that

she could discern their contours with luminousdistinctness; and being almost in a line between herself and the church towers of the citythey awoke in her an oddly foreign and contrasting set of ideas by comparison.the man rose, and, seeing her, politely took off his cap, and cried "i-i-i-mages!" in anaccent that agreed with his appearance. in a moment he dexterously lifted upon hisknee the great board with its assembled notabilities divine and human, and raised it to the topof his head, bringing them on to her and resting the board on the stile.first he offered her his smaller wares—the busts of kings and queens, then a minstrel,then a winged cupid. she shook her head."how much are these two?" she said, touching

with her finger the venus and the apollo—thelargest figures on the tray. he said she should have them for ten shillings."i cannot afford that," said sue. she offered considerably less, and to hersurprise the image-man drew them from their wire stay and handed them over the stile.she clasped them as treasures. when they were paid for, and the man had gone,she began to be concerned as to what she should do with them.they seemed so very large now that they were in her possession, and so very naked. beingof a nervous temperament she trembled at her enterprise. when she handled them the whitepipeclay came off on her gloves and jacket. after carrying them along a little way openlyan idea came to her, and, pulling some huge

burdock leaves, parsley, and other rank growthsfrom the hedge, she wrapped up her burden as well as she could in these, so that whatshe carried appeared to be an enormous armful of green stuff gathered by a zealous loverof nature. "well, anything is better than those everlastingchurch fallals!" she said. but she was still in a trembling state, andseemed almost to wish she had not bought the figures.occasionally peeping inside the leaves to see that venus's arm was not broken, she enteredwith her heathen load into the most christian city in the country by an obscure street runningparallel to the main one, and round a corner to the side door of the establishment to whichshe was attached.

her purchases were taken straight up to herown chamber, and she at once attempted to lock them in a box that was her very own property;but finding them too cumbersome she wrapped them in large sheets of brown paper, and stoodthem on the floor in a corner. the mistress of the house, miss fontover,was an elderly lady in spectacles, dressed almost like an abbess; a dab at ritual, asbecome one of her business, and a worshipper at the ceremonial church of st. silas, inthe suburb of beersheba before-mentioned, which jude also had begun to attend.she was the daughter of a clergyman in reduced circumstances, and at his death, which hadoccurred several years before this date, she boldly avoided penury by taking over a littleshop of church requisites and developing it

to its present creditable proportions.she wore a cross and beads round her neck as her only ornament, and knew the christianyear by heart. she now came to call sue to tea, and, findingthat the girl did not respond for a moment, entered the room just as the other was hastilyputting a string round each parcel. "something you have been buying, miss bridehead?"she asked, regarding the enwrapped objects. "yes—just something to ornament my room,"said sue. "well, i should have thought i had put enoughhere already," said miss fontover, looking round at the gothic-framed prints of saints,the church-text scrolls, and other articles which, having become too stale to sell, hadbeen used to furnish this obscure chamber.

"what is it?how bulky!" she tore a little hole, about as big as awafer, in the brown paper, and tried to peep in."why, statuary? two figures?where did you get them?" "oh—i bought them of a travelling man whosells casts—" "two saints?""yes." "what ones?""st. peter and st.—st. mary magdalen." "well—now come down to tea, and go and finishthat organ-text, if there's light enough afterwards." these little obstacles to the indulgence ofwhat had been the merest passing fancy created

in sue a great zest for unpacking her objectsand looking at them; and at bedtime, when she was sure of being undisturbed, she unrobedthe divinities in comfort. placing the pair of figures on the chest ofdrawers, a candle on each side of them, she withdrew to the bed, flung herself down thereon,and began reading a book she had taken from her box, which miss fontover knew nothingof. it was a volume of gibbon, and she read thechapter dealing with the reign of julian the apostate.occasionally she looked up at the statuettes, which appeared strange and out of place, therehappening to be a calvary print hanging between them, and, as if the scene suggested the action,she at length jumped up and withdrew another

book from her box—a volume of verse—andturned to the familiar poem— thou hast conquered, o pale galilean: theworld has grown grey from thy breath! which she read to the end.presently she put out the candles, undressed, and finally extinguished her own light.she was of an age which usually sleeps soundly, yet to-night she kept waking up, and everytime she opened her eyes there was enough diffused light from the street to show herthe white plaster figures, standing on the chest of drawers in odd contrast to theirenvironment of text and martyr, and the gothic-framed crucifix-picture that was only discerniblenow as a latin cross, the figure thereon being obscured by the shades.on one of these occasions the church clocks

struck some small hour. it fell upon the earsof another person who sat bending over his books at a not very distant spot in the samecity. being saturday night the morrow was one onwhich jude had not set his alarm-clock to call him at his usually early time, and hencehe had stayed up, as was his custom, two or three hours later than he could afford todo on any other day of the week. just then he was earnestly reading from hisgriesbach's text. at the very time that sue was tossing andstaring at her figures, the policeman and belated citizens passing along under his windowmight have heard, if they had stood still, strange syllables mumbled with fervour within—wordsthat had for jude an indescribable enchantment:

inexplicable sounds something like these:—"_all hemin heis theos ho pater, ex hou ta panta, kai hemeis eis auton:_"till the sounds rolled with reverent loudness, as a book was heard to close:—"_kai heis kurios iesous christos, di hou ta panta kai hemeis di autou!_" ivhe was a handy man at his trade, an all-round man, as artizans in country-towns are aptto be. in london the man who carves the boss or knobof leafage declines to cut the fragment of moulding which merges in that leafage, asif it were a degradation to do the second half of one whole.when there was not much gothic moulding for

jude to run, or much window-tracery on thebankers, he would go out lettering monuments or tombstones, and take a pleasure in thechange of handiwork. the next time that he saw her was when hewas on a ladder executing a job of this sort inside one of the churches.there was a short morning service, and when the parson entered jude came down from hisladder, and sat with the half-dozen people forming the congregation, till the prayershould be ended, and he could resume his tapping. he did not observe till the service was halfover that one of the women was sue, who had perforce accompanied the elderly miss fontoverthither. jude sat watching her pretty shoulders, hereasy, curiously nonchalant risings and sittings,

and her perfunctory genuflexions, and thoughtwhat a help such an anglican would have been to him in happier circumstances.it was not so much his anxiety to get on with his work that made him go up to it immediatelythe worshipers began to take their leave: it was that he dared not, in this holy spot,confront the woman who was beginning to influence him in such an indescribable manner.those three enormous reasons why he must not attempt intimate acquaintance with sue bridehead,now that his interest in her had shown itself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind, loomedas stubbornly as ever. but it was also obvious that man could notlive by work alone; that the particular man jude, at any rate, wanted something to love.some men would have rushed incontinently to

her, snatched the pleasure of easy friendshipwhich she could hardly refuse, and have left the rest to chance.not so jude—at first. but as the days, and still more particularlythe lonely evenings, dragged along, he found himself, to his moral consternation, to bethinking more of her instead of thinking less of her, and experiencing a fearful bliss indoing what was erratic, informal, and unexpected. surrounded by her influence all day, walkingpast the spots she frequented, he was always thinking of her, and was obliged to own tohimself that his conscience was likely to be the loser in this battle.to be sure she was almost an ideality to him still.perhaps to know her would be to cure himself

of this unexpected and unauthorized passion.a voice whispered that, though he desired to know her, he did not desire to be cured.there was not the least doubt that from his own orthodox point of view the situation wasgrowing immoral. for sue to be the loved one of a man who waslicensed by the laws of his country to love arabella and none other unto his life's end,was a pretty bad second beginning when the man was bent on such a course as jude purposed.this conviction was so real with him that one day when, as was frequent, he was at workin a neighbouring village church alone, he felt it to be his duty to pray against hisweakness. but much as he wished to be an exemplar inthese things he could not get on.

it was quite impossible, he found, to askto be delivered from temptation when your heart's desire was to be tempted unto seventytimes seven. so he excused himself."after all," he said, "it is not altogether an _erotolepsy_ that is the matter with me,as at that first time. i can see that she is exceptionally bright; and it is partlya wish for intellectual sympathy, and a craving for loving-kindness in my solitude."thus he went on adoring her, fearing to realize that it was human perversity.for whatever sue's virtues, talents, or ecclesiastical saturation, it was certain that those itemswere not at all the cause of his affection for her.on an afternoon at this time a young girl

entered the stone-mason's yard with some hesitation,and, lifting her skirts to avoid draggling them in the white dust, crossed towards theoffice. "that's a nice girl," said one of the menknown as uncle joe. "who is she?" asked another."i don't know—i've seen her about here and there.why, yes, she's the daughter of that clever chap bridehead who did all the wrought ironworkat st. silas' ten years ago, and went away to london afterwards.i don't know what he's doing now—not much i fancy—as she's come back here."meanwhile the young woman had knocked at the office door and asked if mr. jude fawley wasat work in the yard.

it so happened that jude had gone out somewhereor other that afternoon, which information she received with a look of disappointment,and went away immediately. when jude returned they told him, and described her, whereuponhe exclaimed, "why—that's my cousin sue!" he looked along the street after her, butshe was out of sight. he had no longer any thought of a conscientiousavoidance of her, and resolved to call upon her that very evening.and when he reached his lodging he found a note from her—a first note—one of thosedocuments which, simple and commonplace in themselves, are seen retrospectively to havebeen pregnant with impassioned consequences. the very unconsciousness of a looming dramawhich is shown in such innocent first epistles

from women to men, or _vice versa_, makesthem, when such a drama follows, and they are read over by the purple or lurid lightof it, all the more impressive, solemn, and in cases, terrible.sue's was of the most artless and natural kind.she addressed him as her dear cousin jude; said she had only just learnt by the merestaccident that he was living in christminster, and reproached him with not letting her know.they might have had such nice times together, she said, for she was thrown much upon herself,and had hardly any congenial friend. but now there was every probability of hersoon going away, so that the chance of companionship would be lost perhaps for ever.a cold sweat overspread jude at the news that

she was going away. that was a contingencyhe had never thought of, and it spurred him to write all the more quickly to her.he would meet her that very evening, he said, one hour from the time of writing, at thecross in the pavement which marked the spot of the martyrdoms.when he had despatched the note by a boy he regretted that in his hurry he should havesuggested to her to meet him out of doors, when he might have said he would call uponher. it was, in fact, the country custom to meetthus, and nothing else had occurred to him. arabella had been met in the same way, unfortunately,and it might not seem respectable to a dear girl like sue.however, it could not be helped now, and he

moved towards the point a few minutes beforethe hour, under the glimmer of the newly lighted lamps.the broad street was silent, and almost deserted, although it was not late.he saw a figure on the other side, which turned out to be hers, and they both converged towardsthe crossmark at the same moment. before either had reached it she called outto him: "i am not going to meet you just there, forthe first time in my life! come further on."the voice, though positive and silvery, had been tremulous.they walked on in parallel lines, and, waiting her pleasure, jude watched till she showedsigns of closing in, when he did likewise,

the place being where the carriers' cartsstood in the daytime, though there was none on the spot then."i am sorry that i asked you to meet me, and didn't call," began jude with the bashfulnessof a lover. "but i thought it would save time if we weregoing to walk." "oh—i don't mind that," she said with thefreedom of a friend. "i have really no place to ask anybody into. what i meant was that the place you chosewas so horrid—i suppose i ought not to say horrid—i mean gloomy and inauspicious inits associations... but isn't it funny to begin like this, wheni don't know you yet?"

she looked him up and down curiously, thoughjude did not look much at her. "you seem to know me more than i know you,"she added. "yes—i have seen you now and then.""and you knew who i was, and didn't speak? and now i am going away!""yes. that's unfortunate.i have hardly any other friend. i have, indeed, one very old friend here somewhere,but i don't quite like to call on him just yet.i wonder if you know anything of him—mr. phillotson?a parson somewhere about the county i think he is.""no—i only know of one mr. phillotson.

he lives a little way out in the country,at lumsdon. he's a village schoolmaster.""ah! i wonder if he's the same.surely it is impossible! only a schoolmaster still!do you know his christian name—is it richard?" "yes—it is; i've directed books to him,though i've never seen him." "then he couldn't do it!"jude's countenance fell, for how could he succeed in an enterprise wherein the greatphillotson had failed? he would have had a day of despair if thenews had not arrived during his sweet sue's presence, but even at this moment he had visionsof how phillotson's failure in the grand university

scheme would depress him when she had gone."as we are going to take a walk, suppose we go and call upon him?" said jude suddenly."it is not late." she agreed, and they went along up a hill,and through some prettily wooded country. presently the embattled tower and square turretof the church rose into the sky, and then the school-house. they inquired of a personin the street if mr. phillotson was likely to be at home, and were informed that he wasalways at home. a knock brought him to the school-house door,with a candle in his hand and a look of inquiry on his face, which had grown thin and carewornsince jude last set eyes on him. that after all these years the meeting withmr. phillotson should be of this homely complexion

destroyed at one stroke the halo which hadsurrounded the school-master's figure in jude's imagination ever since their parting.it created in him at the same time a sympathy with phillotson as an obviously much chastenedand disappointed man. jude told him his name, and said he had come to see him as an oldfriend who had been kind to him in his youthful days."i don't remember you in the least," said the school-master thoughtfully."you were one of my pupils, you say? yes, no doubt; but they number so many thousandsby this time of my life, and have naturally changed so much, that i remember very fewexcept the quite recent ones." "it was out at marygreen," said jude, wishinghe had not come.

"yes.i was there a short time. and is this an old pupil, too?""no—that's my cousin... i wrote to you for some grammars, if you recollect,and you sent them?" "ah—yes!—i do dimly recall that incident.""it was very kind of you to do it. and it was you who first started me on thatcourse. on the morning you left marygreen, when yourgoods were on the waggon, you wished me good-bye, and said your scheme was to be a universityman and enter the church—that a degree was the necessary hall-mark of one who wantedto do anything as a theologian or teacher." "i remember i thought all that privately;but i wonder i did not keep my own counsel.

the idea was given up years ago.""i have never forgotten it. it was that which brought me to this partof the country, and out here to see you to-night." "come in," said phillotson."and your cousin, too." they entered the parlour of the school-house,where there was a lamp with a paper shade, which threw the light down on three or fourbooks. phillotson took it off, so that they couldsee each other better, and the rays fell on the nervous little face and vivacious darkeyes and hair of sue, on the earnest features of her cousin, and on the schoolmaster's ownmaturer face and figure, showing him to be a spare and thoughtful personage of five-and-forty,with a thin-lipped, somewhat refined mouth,

a slightly stooping habit, and a black frockcoat, which from continued frictions shone a little at the shoulder-blades, the middleof the back, and the elbows. the old friendship was imperceptibly renewed,the schoolmaster speaking of his experiences, and the cousins of theirs.he told them that he still thought of the church sometimes, and that though he couldnot enter it as he had intended to do in former years he might enter it as a licentiate.meanwhile, he said, he was comfortable in his present position, though he was in wantof a pupil-teacher. they did not stay to supper, sue having tobe indoors before it grew late, and the road was retraced to christminster.though they had talked of nothing more than

general subjects, jude was surprised to findwhat a revelation of woman his cousin was to him.she was so vibrant that everything she did seemed to have its source in feeling. an excitingthought would make her walk ahead so fast that he could hardly keep up with her; andher sensitiveness on some points was such that it might have been misread as vanity.it was with heart-sickness he perceived that, while her sentiments towards him were thoseof the frankest friendliness only, he loved her more than before becoming acquainted withher; and the gloom of the walk home lay not in the night overhead, but in the thoughtof her departure. "why must you leave christminster?" he saidregretfully.

"how can you do otherwise than cling to acity in whose history such men as newman, pusey, ward, keble, loom so large!""yes—they do. though how large do they loom in the historyof the world? ... what a funny reason for caring to stay!i should never have thought of it!" she laughed."well—i must go," she continued. "miss fontover, one of the partners whom iserve, is offended with me, and i with her; and it is best to go.""how did that happen?" "she broke some statuary of mine.""oh? wilfully?""yes.

she found it in my room, and though it wasmy property she threw it on the floor and stamped on it, because it was not accordingto her taste, and ground the arms and the head of one of the figures all to bits withher heel—a horrid thing!" "too catholic-apostolic for her, i suppose?no doubt she called them popish images and talked of the invocation of saints.""no... no, she didn't do that.she saw the matter quite differently." "ah!then i am surprised!" "yes.it was for quite some other reason that she didn't like my patron-saints.so i was led to retort upon her; and the end

of it was that i resolved not to stay, butto get into an occupation in which i shall be more independent.""why don't you try teaching again? you once did, i heard.""i never thought of resuming it; for i was getting on as an art-designer.""do let me ask mr. phillotson to let you try your hand in his school?if you like it, and go to a training college, and become a first-class certificated mistress,you get twice as large an income as any designer or church artist, and twice as much freedom.""well—ask him. now i must go in.good-bye, dear jude! i am so glad we have met at last.we needn't quarrel because our parents did,

need we?"jude did not like to let her see quite how much he agreed with her, and went his wayto the remote street in which he had his lodging. to keep sue bridehead near him was now a desirewhich operated without regard of consequences, and the next evening he again set out forlumsdon, fearing to trust to the persuasive effects of a note only.the school-master was unprepared for such a proposal."what i rather wanted was a second year's transfer, as it is called," he said."of course your cousin would do, personally; but she has had no experience.oh—she has, has she? does she really think of adopting teachingas a profession?"

jude said she was disposed to do so, he thought,and his ingenious arguments on her natural fitness for assisting mr. phillotson, of whichjude knew nothing whatever, so influenced the schoolmaster that he said he would engageher, assuring jude as a friend that unless his cousin really meant to follow on in thesame course, and regarded this step as the first stage of an apprenticeship, of whichher training in a normal school would be the second stage, her time would be wasted quite,the salary being merely nominal. the day after this visit phillotson receiveda letter from jude, containing the information that he had again consulted his cousin, whotook more and more warmly to the idea of tuition; and that she had agreed to come.it did not occur for a moment to the schoolmaster

and recluse that jude's ardour in promotingthe arrangement arose from any other feelings towards sue than the instinct of co-operationcommon among members of the same family. vthe schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school, both being modernerections; and he looked across the way at the old house in which his teacher sue hada lodging. the arrangement had been concluded very quickly.a pupil-teacher who was to have been transferred to mr. phillotson's school had failed him,and sue had been taken as stop-gap. all such provisional arrangements as thesecould only last till the next annual visit of h.m. inspector, whose approval was necessaryto make them permanent.

having taught for some two years in london,though she had abandoned that vocation of late, miss bridehead was not exactly a novice,and phillotson thought there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he alreadywished to do, though she had only been with him three or four weeks.he had found her quite as bright as jude had described her; and what master-tradesman doesnot wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half his labour?it was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he was waiting to see hercross the road to the school, when he would follow.at twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed on her head; and he watchedher as a curiosity.

a new emanation, which had nothing to do withher skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this morning.he went to the school also, and sue remained governing her class at the other end of theroom, all day under his eye. she certainly was an excellent teacher.it was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and some article inthe code made it necessary that a respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessonswhen the teacher and the taught were of different sexes.richard phillotson thought of the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he wasold enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat down withher in a room where mrs. hawes, the widow

at whose house sue lodged, occupied herselfwith sewing. the regulation was, indeed, not easy to evade,for there was no other sitting-room in the dwelling.sometimes as she figured—it was arithmetic that they were working at—she would involuntarilyglance up with a little inquiring smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master,he must perceive all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong.phillotson was not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novelway which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor.perhaps she knew that he was thinking of her thus.for a few weeks their work had gone on with

a monotony which in itself was a delight tohim. then it happened that the children were tobe taken to christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of a model of jerusalem,to which schools were admitted at a penny a head in the interests of education.they marched along the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade,her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and phillotson behind in his long danglingcoat, handling his walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over himsince her arrival. the afternoon was one of sun and dust, andwhen they entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves. the modelof the ancient city stood in the middle of

the apartment, and the proprietor, with afine religious philanthropy written on his features, walked round it with a pointer inhis hand, showing the young people the various quarters and places known to them by namefrom reading their bibles; mount moriah, the valley of jehoshaphat, the city of zion, thewalls and the gates, outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, andon the mound a little white cross. the spot, he said, was calvary."i think," said sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a little in the background,"that this model, elaborate as it is, is a very imaginary production.how does anybody know that jerusalem was like this in the time of christ?i am sure this man doesn't."

"it is made after the best conjectural maps,based on actual visits to the city as it now exists.""i fancy we have had enough of jerusalem," she said, "considering we are not descendedfrom the jews. there was nothing first-rate about the place,or people, after all—as there was about athens, rome, alexandria, and other old cities.""but my dear girl, consider what it is to us!"she was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived behind the group of childrenclustered round the model a young man in a white flannel jacket, his form being bentso low in his intent inspection of the valley of jehoshaphat that his face was almost hiddenfrom view by the mount of olives.

"look at your cousin jude," continued theschoolmaster. "he doesn't think we have had enough of jerusalem!""ah—i didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice. "jude—how seriouslyyou are going into it!" jude started up from his reverie, and sawher. "oh—sue!" he said, with a glad flush ofembarrassment. "these are your school-children, of course!i saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and thought you might come; but i got so deeplyinterested that i didn't remember where i was.how it carries one back, doesn't it! i could examine it for hours, but i have onlya few minutes, unfortunately; for i am in

the middle of a job out here.""your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it unmercifully," said phillotson,with good-humoured satire. "she is quite sceptical as to its correctness.""no, mr. phillotson, i am not—altogether! i hate to be what is called a clever girl—thereare too many of that sort now!" answered sue sensitively."i only meant—i don't know what i meant—except that it was what you don't understand!""_i_ know your meaning," said jude ardently (although he did not). "and i think you arequite right." "that's a good jude—i know you believe inme!" she impulsively seized his hand, and leavinga reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned

away to jude, her voice revealing a tremorwhich she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle.she had not the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this momentaryrevelation of feeling, and what a complication she was building up thereby in the futuresof both. the model wore too much of an educationalaspect for the children not to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoonthey were all marched back to lumsdon, jude returning to his work.he watched the juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the streettowards the country beside phillotson and sue, and a sad, dissatisfied sense of beingout of the scheme of the latters' lives had

possession of him.phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them on friday evening, when there wouldbe no lessons to give to sue, and jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the opportunity.meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next day, on looking onthe blackboard in sue's class, phillotson was surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawnin chalk, a perspective view of jerusalem, with every building shown in its place."i thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at it?" he said."i hardly did," said she, "but i remembered that much of it.""it is more than i had remembered myself." her majesty's school-inspector was at thattime paying "surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood

to test the teaching unawares; and two dayslater, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of the door was softly lifted, andin walked my gentleman, the king of terrors—to pupil-teachers.to mr. phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the story he had been playedthat trick too many times to be unprepared. but sue's class was at the further end ofthe room, and her back was towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behindher and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of his presence.she turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment had come.the effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of fright.phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude

quite beyond his control, was at her sidejust in time to prevent her falling from faintness. she soon recovered herself, and laughed; butwhen the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was so white that phillotson tookher into his room, and gave her some brandy to bring her round.she found him holding her hand. "you ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly,"that one of the inspector's surprise-visits was imminent!oh, what shall i do! now he'll write and tell the managers thati am no good, and i shall be disgraced for ever!""he won't do that, my dear little girl. you are the best teacher ever i had!"he looked so gently at her that she was moved,

and regretted that she had upbraided him.when she was better she went home. jude in the meantime had been waiting impatientlyfor friday. on both wednesday and thursday he had beenso much under the influence of his desire to see her that he walked after dark somedistance along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to his roomto read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind on the page.on friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought sue would like to see him, andmade a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet.the trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressinghim with forebodings—illogical forebodings;

for though he knew that he loved her he alsoknew that he could not be more to her than he was.on turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that greeted his eyes wasthat of two figures under one umbrella coming out of the vicarage gate.he was too far back for them to notice him, but he knew in a moment that they were sueand phillotson. the latter was holding the umbrella over herhead, and they had evidently been paying a visit to the vicar—probably on some businessconnected with the school work. and as they walked along the wet and desertedlane jude saw phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist; whereupon she gently removedit; but he replaced it; and she let it remain,

looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving.she did not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see jude, who sank intothe hedge like one struck with a blight. there he remained hidden till they had reachedsue's cottage and she had passed in, phillotson going on to the school hard by."oh, he's too old for her—too old!" cried jude in all the terrible sickness of hopeless,handicapped love. he could not interfere.was he not arabella's? he was unable to go on further, and retracedhis steps towards christminster. every tread of his feet seemed to say to himthat he must on no account stand in the schoolmaster's way with sue.phillotson was perhaps twenty years her senior,

but many a happy marriage had been made insuch conditions of age. the ironical clinch to his sorrow was givenby the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the schoolmaster had been broughtabout entirely by himself. vijude's old and embittered aunt lay unwell at marygreen, and on the following sundayhe went to see her—a visit which was the result of a victorious struggle against hisinclination to turn aside to the village of lumsdon and obtain a miserable interview withhis cousin, in which the word nearest his heart could not be spoken, and the sight whichhad tortured him could not be revealed. his aunt was now unable to leave her bed,and a great part of jude's short day was occupied

in making arrangements for her comfort.the little bakery business had been sold to a neighbour, and with the proceeds of thisand her savings she was comfortably supplied with necessaries and more, a widow of thesame village living with her and ministering to her wants.it was not till the time had nearly come for him to leave that he obtained a quiet talkwith her, and his words tended insensibly towards his cousin."was sue born here?" "she was—in this room.they were living here at that time. what made 'ee ask that?""oh—i wanted to know." "now you've been seeing her!" said the harshold woman.

"and what did i tell 'ee?""well—that i was not to see her." "have you gossiped with her?""yes." "then don't keep it up.she was brought up by her father to hate her mother's family; and she'll look with no favourupon a working chap like you—a townish girl as she's become by now.i never cared much about her. a pert little thing, that's what she was toooften, with her tight-strained nerves. many's the time i've smacked her for her impertinence.why, one day when she was walking into the pond with her shoes and stockings off, andher petticoats pulled above her knees, afore i could cry out for shame, she said: 'moveon, aunty! this is no sight for modest eyes!'"

"she was a little child then.""she was twelve if a day." "well—of course.but now she's older she's of a thoughtful, quivering, tender nature, and as sensitiveas—" "jude!" cried his aunt, springing up in bed."don't you be a fool about her!" "no, no, of course not.""your marrying that woman arabella was about as bad a thing as a man could possibly dofor himself by trying hard. but she's gone to the other side of the world,and med never trouble you again. and there'll be a worse thing if you, tiedand bound as you be, should have a fancy for sue.if your cousin is civil to you, take her civility

for what it is worth.but anything more than a relation's good wishes it is stark madness for 'ee to give her.if she's townish and wanton it med bring 'ee to ruin.""don't say anything against her, aunt! don't, please!"a relief was afforded to him by the entry of the companion and nurse of his aunt, whomust have been listening to the conversation, for she began a commentary on past years,introducing sue bridehead as a character in her recollections.she described what an odd little maid sue had been when a pupil at the village schoolacross the green opposite, before her father went to london—how, when the vicar arrangedreadings and recitations, she appeared on

the platform, the smallest of them all, "inher little white frock, and shoes, and pink sash"; how she recited "excelsior,""there was a sound of revelry by night," and "the raven"; how during the delivery she wouldknit her little brows and glare round tragically, and say to the empty air, as if some realcreature stood there— "ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wanderingfrom the nightly shore, tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!""she'd bring up the nasty carrion bird that clear," corroborated the sick woman reluctantly,"as she stood there in her little sash and things, that you could see un a'most beforeyour very eyes. you too, jude, had the same trick as a childof seeming to see things in the air."

the neighbour told also of sue's accomplishmentsin other kinds: "she was not exactly a tomboy, you know; butshe could do things that only boys do, as a rule.i've seen her hit in and steer down the long slide on yonder pond, with her little curlsblowing, one of a file of twenty moving along against the sky like shapes painted on glass,and up the back slide without stopping. all boys except herself; and then they'd cheerher, and then she'd say, 'don't be saucy, boys,' and suddenly run indoors.they'd try to coax her out again. but 'a wouldn't come."these retrospective visions of sue only made jude the more miserable that he was unableto woo her, and he left the cottage of his

aunt that day with a heavy heart.he would fain have glanced into the school to see the room in which sue's little figurehad so glorified itself; but he checked his desire and went on.it being sunday evening some villagers who had known him during his residence here werestanding in a group in their best clothes. jude was startled by a salute from one ofthem: "ye've got there right enough, then!"jude showed that he did not understand. "why, to the seat of l'arning—the 'cityof light' you used to talk to us about as a little boy!is it all you expected of it?" "yes; more!" cried jude."when i was there once for an hour i didn't

see much in it for my part; auld crumblingbuildings, half church, half almshouse, and not much going on at that.""you are wrong, john; there is more going on than meets the eye of a man walking throughthe streets. it is a unique centre of thought and religion—theintellectual and spiritual granary of this country. all that silence and absence of goings-onis the stillness of infinite motion—the sleep of the spinning-top, to borrow the simileof a well-known writer." "oh, well, it med be all that, or it med not.as i say, i didn't see nothing of it the hour or two i was there; so i went in and had apot o' beer, and a penny loaf, and a ha'porth o' cheese, and waited till it was time tocome along home.

you've j'ined a college by this time, i suppose?""ah, no!" said jude. "i am almost as far off that as ever.""how so?" jude slapped his pocket."just what we thought! such places be not for such as you—onlyfor them with plenty o' money." "there you are wrong," said jude, with somebitterness. "they are for such ones!"still, the remark was sufficient to withdraw jude's attention from the imaginative worldhe had lately inhabited, in which an abstract figure, more or less himself, was steepinghis mind in a sublimation of the arts and sciences, and making his calling and electionsure to a seat in the paradise of the learned.

he was set regarding his prospects in a coldnorthern light. he had lately felt that he could not quitesatisfy himself in his greek—in the greek of the dramatists particularly.so fatigued was he sometimes after his day's work that he could not maintain the criticalattention necessary for thorough application. he felt that he wanted a coach—a friendat his elbow to tell him in a moment what sometimes would occupy him a weary month inextracting from unanticipative, clumsy books. it was decidedly necessary to consider factsa little more closely than he had done of late.what was the good, after all, of using up his spare hours in a vague labour called "privatestudy" without giving an outlook on practicabilities?

"i ought to have thought of this before,"he said, as he journeyed back. "it would have been better never to have embarkedin the scheme at all than to do it without seeing clearly where i am going, or what iam aiming at... this hovering outside the walls of the colleges,as if expecting some arm to be stretched out from them to lift me inside, won't do!i must get special information." the next week accordingly he sought it.what at first seemed an opportunity occurred one afternoon when he saw an elderly gentleman,who had been pointed out as the head of a particular college, walking in the publicpath of a parklike enclosure near the spot at which jude chanced to be sitting.the gentleman came nearer, and jude looked

anxiously at his face.it seemed benign, considerate, yet rather reserved.on second thoughts jude felt that he could not go up and address him; but he was sufficientlyinfluenced by the incident to think what a wise thing it would be for him to state hisdifficulties by letter to some of the best and most judicious of these old masters, andobtain their advice. during the next week or two he accordinglyplaced himself in such positions about the city as would afford him glimpses of severalof the most distinguished among the provosts, wardens, and other heads of houses; and fromthose he ultimately selected five whose physiognomies seemed to say to him that they were appreciativeand far-seeing men.

to these five he addressed letters, brieflystating his difficulties, and asking their opinion on his stranded situation.when the letters were posted jude mentally began to criticize them; he wished they hadnot been sent. "it is just one of those intrusive, vulgar,pushing, applications which are so common in these days," he thought."why couldn't i know better than address utter strangers in such a way?i may be an impostor, an idle scamp, a man with a bad character, for all that they knowto the contrary... perhaps that's what i am!" nevertheless, he found himself clinging tothe hope of some reply as to his one last chance of redemption.he waited day after day, saying that it was

perfectly absurd to expect, yet expecting.while he waited he was suddenly stirred by news about phillotson. phillotson was givingup the school near christminster, for a larger one further south, in mid-wessex.what this meant; how it would affect his cousin; whether, as seemed possible, it was a practicalmove of the schoolmaster's towards a larger income, in view of a provision for two insteadof one, he would not allow himself to say. and the tender relations between phillotsonand the young girl of whom jude was passionately enamoured effectually made it repugnant tojude's tastes to apply to phillotson for advice on his own scheme.meanwhile the academic dignitaries to whom jude had written vouchsafed no answer, andthe young man was thus thrown back entirely

on himself, as formerly, with the added gloomof a weakened hope. by indirect inquiries he soon perceived clearlywhat he had long uneasily suspected, that to qualify himself for certain open scholarshipsand exhibitions was the only brilliant course. but to do this a good deal of coaching wouldbe necessary, and much natural ability. it was next to impossible that a man readingon his own system, however widely and thoroughly, even over the prolonged period of ten years,should be able to compete with those who had passed their lives under trained teachersand had worked to ordained lines. the other course, that of buying himself in,so to speak, seemed the only one really open to men like him, the difficulty being simplyof a material kind.

with the help of his information he beganto reckon the extent of this material obstacle, and ascertained, to his dismay, that, at therate at which, with the best of fortune, he would be able to save money, fifteen yearsmust elapse before he could be in a position to forward testimonials to the head of a collegeand advance to a matriculation examination. the undertaking was hopeless.he saw what a curious and cunning glamour the neighbourhood of the place had exercisedover him. to get there and live there, to move amongthe churches and halls and become imbued with the _genius loci_, had seemed to his dreamingyouth, as the spot shaped its charms to him from its halo on the horizon, the obviousand ideal thing to do.

"let me only get there," he had said withthe fatuousness of crusoe over his big boat, "and the rest is but a matter of time andenergy." it would have been far better for him in everyway if he had never come within sight and sound of the delusive precincts, had goneto some busy commercial town with the sole object of making money by his wits, and thencesurveyed his plan in true perspective. well, all that was clear to him amounted tothis, that the whole scheme had burst up, like an iridescent soap-bubble, under thetouch of a reasoned inquiry. he looked back at himself along the vistaof his past years, and his thought was akin to heine's:above the youth's inspired and flashing eyes

i see the motley mocking fool's-cap rise!fortunately he had not been allowed to bring his disappointment into his dear sue's lifeby involving her in this collapse. and the painful details of his awakening toa sense of his limitations should now be spared her as far as possible.after all, she had only known a little part of the miserable struggle in which he hadbeen engaged thus unequipped, poor, and unforeseeing. he always remembered the appearance of theafternoon on which he awoke from his dream. not quite knowing what to do with himself,he went up to an octagonal chamber in the lantern of a singularly built theatre thatwas set amidst this quaint and singular city. it had windows all round, from which an outlookover the whole town and its edifices could

be gained.jude's eyes swept all the views in succession, meditatively, mournfully, yet sturdily.those buildings and their associations and privileges were not for him.from the looming roof of the great library, into which he hardly ever had time to enter,his gaze travelled on to the varied spires, halls, gables, streets, chapels, gardens,quadrangles, which composed the ensemble of this unrivalled panorama.he saw that his destiny lay not with these, but among the manual toilers in the shabbypurlieu which he himself occupied, unrecognized as part of the city at all by its visitorsand panegyrists, yet without whose denizens the hard readers could not read nor the highthinkers live.

he looked over the town into the country beyond,to the trees which screened her whose presence had at first been the support of his heart,and whose loss was now a maddening torture. but for this blow he might have borne withhis fate. with sue as companion he could have renouncedhis ambitions with a smile. without her it was inevitable that the reactionfrom the long strain to which he had subjected himself should affect him disastrously.phillotson had no doubt passed through a similar intellectual disappointment to that whichnow enveloped him. but the schoolmaster had been since blestwith the consolation of sweet sue, while for him there was no consoler.descending to the streets, he went listlessly

along till he arrived at an inn, and enteredit. here he drank several glasses of beer in rapidsuccession, and when he came out it was night. by the light of the flickering lamps he rambledhome to supper, and had not long been sitting at table when his landlady brought up a letterthat had just arrived for him. she laid it down as if impressed with a senseof its possible importance, and on looking at it jude perceived that it bore the embossedstamp of one of the colleges whose heads he had addressed."one—at last!" cried jude. the communication was brief, and not exactlywhat he had expected; though it really was from the master in person.it ran thus:

biblioll college.sir,—i have read your letter with interest; and, judging from your description of yourselfas a working-man, i venture to think that you will have a much better chance of successin life by remaining in your own sphere and sticking to your trade than by adopting anyother course. that, therefore, is what i advise you to do.yours faithfully, t. tetuphenay.to mr. j. fawley, stone-mason. this terribly sensible advice exasperatedjude. he had known all that before.he knew it was true. yet it seemed a hard slap after ten yearsof labour, and its effect upon him just now

was to make him rise recklessly from the table,and, instead of reading as usual, to go downstairs and into the street.he stood at a bar and tossed off two or three glasses, then unconsciously sauntered alongtill he came to a spot called the fourways in the middle of the city, gazing abstractedlyat the groups of people like one in a trance, till, coming to himself, he began talkingto the policeman fixed there. that officer yawned, stretched out his elbows,elevated himself an inch and a half on the balls of his toes, smiled, and looking humorouslyat jude, said, "you've had a wet, young man." "no; i've only begun," he replied cynically.whatever his wetness, his brains were dry enough.he only heard in part the policeman's further

remarks, having fallen into thought on whatstruggling people like himself had stood at that crossway, whom nobody ever thought ofnow. it had more history than the oldest collegein the city. it was literally teeming, stratified, withthe shades of human groups, who had met there for tragedy, comedy, farce; real enactmentsof the intensest kind. at fourways men had stood and talked of napoleon,the loss of america, the execution of king charles, the burning of the martyrs, the crusades,the norman conquest, possibly of the arrival of caesar.here the two sexes had met for loving, hating, coupling, parting; had waited, had suffered,for each other; had triumphed over each other;

cursed each other in jealousy, blessed eachother in forgiveness. he began to see that the town life was a bookof humanity infinitely more palpitating, varied, and compendious than the gown life. thesestruggling men and women before him were the reality of christminster, though they knewlittle of christ or minster. that was one of the humours of things.the floating population of students and teachers, who did know both in a way, were not christminsterin a local sense at all. he looked at his watch, and, in pursuit ofthis idea, he went on till he came to a public hall, where a promenade concert was in progress.jude entered, and found the room full of shop youths and girls, soldiers, apprentices, boysof eleven smoking cigarettes, and light women

of the more respectable and amateur class.he had tapped the real christminster life. a band was playing, and the crowd walked aboutand jostled each other, and every now and then a man got upon a platform and sang acomic song. the spirit of sue seemed to hover round himand prevent his flirting and drinking with the frolicsome girls who made advances—wistfulto gain a little joy. at ten o'clock he came away, choosing a circuitousroute homeward to pass the gates of the college whose head had just sent him the note.the gates were shut, and, by an impulse, he took from his pocket the lump of chalk whichas a workman he usually carried there, and wrote along the wall:"_i have understanding as well as you; i am

not inferior to you: yea, who knoweth notsuch things as these?_"—job xii. 3. viithe stroke of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning he laughed at his self-conceit.but the laugh was not a healthy one. he re-read the letter from the master, and the wisdomin its lines, which had at first exasperated him, chilled and depressed him now. he sawhimself as a fool indeed. deprived of the objects of both intellectand emotion, he could not proceed to his work. whenever he felt reconciled to his fate asa student, there came to disturb his calm his hopeless relations with sue.that the one affined soul he had ever met was lost to him through his marriage returnedupon him with cruel persistency, till, unable

to bear it longer, he again rushed for distractionto the real christminster life. he now sought it out in an obscure and low-ceiledtavern up a court which was well known to certain worthies of the place, and in brightertimes would have interested him simply by its quaintness.here he sat more or less all the day, convinced that he was at bottom a vicious character,of whom it was hopeless to expect anything. in the evening the frequenters of the housedropped in one by one, jude still retaining his seat in the corner, though his money wasall spent, and he had not eaten anything the whole day except a biscuit. he surveyed hisgathering companions with all the equanimity and philosophy of a man who has been drinkinglong and slowly, and made friends with several:

to wit, tinker taylor, a decayed church-ironmongerwho appeared to have been of a religious turn in earlier years, but was somewhat blasphemousnow; also a red-nosed auctioneer; also two gothic masons like himself, called uncle jimand uncle joe. there were present, too, some clerks, anda gown- and surplice-maker's assistant; two ladies who sported moral characters of variousdepths of shade, according to their company, nicknamed "bower o' bliss" and "freckles";some horsey men "in the know" of betting circles; a travelling actor from the theatre, and twodevil-may-care young men who proved to be gownless undergraduates; they had slippedin by stealth to meet a man about bull-pups, and stayed to drink and smoke short pipeswith the racing gents aforesaid, looking at

their watches every now and then.the conversation waxed general. christminster society was criticized, thedons, magistrates, and other people in authority being sincerely pitied for their shortcomings,while opinions on how they ought to conduct themselves and their affairs to be properlyrespected, were exchanged in a large-minded and disinterested manner.jude fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery, and _aplomb_ of a strong-brained fellow inliquor, threw in his remarks somewhat peremptorily; and his aims having been what they were forso many years, everything the others said turned upon his tongue, by a sort of mechanicalcraze, to the subject of scholarship and study, the extent of his own learning being dweltupon with an insistence that would have appeared

pitiable to himself in his sane hours."i don't care a damn," he was saying, "for any provost, warden, principal, fellow, orcursed master of arts in the university! what i know is that i'd lick 'em on theirown ground if they'd give me a chance, and show 'em a few things they are not up to yet!""hear, hear!" said the undergraduates from the corner, where they were talking privatelyabout the pups. "you always was fond o' books, i've heard,"said tinker taylor, "and i don't doubt what you state.now with me 'twas different. i always saw there was more to be learnt outsidea book than in; and i took my steps accordingly, or i shouldn't have been the man i am.""you aim at the church, i believe?" said uncle

joe."if you are such a scholar as to pitch yer hopes so high as that, why not give us a specimenof your scholarship? canst say the creed in latin, man? that washow they once put it to a chap down in my country.""i should think so!" said jude haughtily. "not he!like his conceit!" screamed one of the ladies. "just you shut up, bower o' bliss!" said oneof the undergraduates. "silence!" he drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rappedwith it on the counter, and announced, "the gentleman in the corner is going to rehearsethe articles of his belief, in the latin tongue, for the edification of the company.""i won't!" said jude.

"yes—have a try!" said the surplice-maker."you can't!" said uncle joe. "yes, he can!" said tinker taylor."i'll swear i can!" said jude. "well, come now, stand me a small scotch cold,and i'll do it straight off." "that's a fair offer," said the undergraduate,throwing down the money for the whisky. the barmaid concocted the mixture with thebearing of a person compelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species, and the glasswas handed across to jude, who, having drunk the contents, stood up and began rhetorically,without hesitation: "_credo in unum deum, patrem omnipotentem,factorem coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium._""good!

excellent latin!" cried one of the undergraduates,who, however, had not the slightest conception of a single word.a silence reigned among the rest in the bar, and the maid stood still, jude's voice echoingsonorously into the inner parlour, where the landlord was dozing, and bringing him outto see what was going on. jude had declaimed steadily ahead, and wascontinuing: "_crucifixus etiam pro nobis: sub pontio pilatopassus, et sepultus est. et resurrexit tertia die, secundum scripturas._""that's the nicene," sneered the second undergraduate. "and we wanted the apostles'!""you didn't say so! and every fool knows, except you, that thenicene is the most historic creed!"

"let un go on, let un go on!" said the auctioneer.but jude's mind seemed to grow confused soon, and he could not get on.he put his hand to his forehead, and his face assumed an expression of pain."give him another glass—then he'll fetch up and get through it," said tinker taylor.somebody threw down threepence, the glass was handed, jude stretched out his arm forit without looking, and having swallowed the liquor, went on in a moment in a revived voice,raising it as he neared the end with the manner of a priest leading a congregation:"_et in spiritum sanctum, dominum et vivificantem, qui ex patre filioque procedit.qui cum patre et filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur. qui locutus est per prophetas."et unam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam.

confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum.et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum. et vitam venturi saeculi.amen._" "well done!" said several, enjoying the lastword, as being the first and only one they had recognized.then jude seemed to shake the fumes from his brain, as he stared round upon them."you pack of fools!" he cried. "which one of you knows whether i have saidit or no? it might have been the ratcatcher's daughterin double dutch for all that your besotted heads can tell!see what i have brought myself to—the crew i have come among!"the landlord, who had already had his license

endorsed for harbouring queer characters,feared a riot, and came outside the counter; but jude, in his sudden flash of reason, hadturned in disgust and left the scene, the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.he hastened down the lane and round into the straight broad street, which he followed tillit merged in the highway, and all sound of his late companions had been left behind.onward he still went, under the influence of a childlike yearning for the one beingin the world to whom it seemed possible to fly—an unreasoning desire, whose ill judgementwas not apparent to him now. in the course of an hour, when it was betweenten and eleven o'clock, he entered the village of lumsdon, and reaching the cottage, sawthat a light was burning in a downstairs room,

which he assumed, rightly as it happened,to be hers. jude stepped close to the wall, and tappedwith his finger on the pane, saying impatiently, "sue, sue!"she must have recognized his voice, for the light disappeared from the apartment, andin a second or two the door was unlocked and opened, and sue appeared with a candle inher hand. "is it jude?yes, it is! my dear, dear cousin, what's the matter?""oh, i am—i couldn't help coming, sue!" said he, sinking down upon the doorstep."i am so wicked, sue—my heart is nearly broken, and i could not bear my life as itwas!

so i have been drinking, and blaspheming,or next door to it, and saying holy things in disreputable quarters—repeating in idlebravado words which ought never to be uttered but reverently!oh, do anything with me, sue—kill me—i don't care!only don't hate me and despise me like all the rest of the world!""you are ill, poor dear! no, i won't despise you; of course i won't!come in and rest, and let me see what i can do for you.now lean on me, and don't mind." with one hand holding the candle and the othersupporting him, she led him indoors, and placed him in the only easy chair the meagrely furnishedhouse afforded, stretching his feet upon another,

and pulling off his boots.jude, now getting towards his sober senses, could only say, "dear, dear sue!" in a voicebroken by grief and contrition. she asked him if he wanted anything to eat,but he shook his head. then telling him to go to sleep, and that she would come downearly in the morning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night and ascended the stairs.almost immediately he fell into a heavy slumber, and did not wake till dawn.at first he did not know where he was, but by degrees his situation cleared to him, andhe beheld it in all the ghastliness of a right mind.she knew the worst of him—the very worst. how could he face her now?she would soon be coming down to see about

breakfast, as she had said, and there wouldhe be in all his shame confronting her. he could not bear the thought, and softlydrawing on his boots, and taking his hat from the nail on which she had hung it, he slippednoiselessly out of the house. his fixed idea was to get away to some obscurespot and hide, and perhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him was marygreen.he called at his lodging in christminster, where he found awaiting him a note of dismissalfrom his employer; and having packed up he turned his back upon the city that had beensuch a thorn in his side, and struck southward into wessex.he had no money left in his pocket, his small savings, deposited at one of the banks inchristminster, having fortunately been left

untouched.to get to marygreen, therefore, his only course was walking; and the distance being nearlytwenty miles, he had ample time to complete on the way the sobering process begun in him.at some hour of the evening he reached alfredston. here he pawned his waistcoat, and having goneout of the town a mile or two, slept under a rick that night.at dawn he rose, shook off the hayseeds and stems from his clothes, and started again,breasting the long white road up the hill to the downs, which had been visible to hima long way off, and passing the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved his hopesyears ago. he reached the ancient hamlet while the peoplewere at breakfast. weary and mud-bespattered,

but quite possessed of his ordinary clearnessof brain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did so what a poor christ he made.seeing a trough of water near he bathed his face, and went on to the cottage of his great-aunt,whom he found breakfasting in bed, attended by the woman who lived with her."what—out o' work?" asked his relative, regarding him through eyes sunken deep, underlids heavy as pot-covers, no other cause for his tumbled appearance suggesting itself toone whose whole life had been a struggle with material things."yes," said jude heavily. "i think i must have a little rest."refreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his old room and lay down in his shirt-sleeves,after the manner of the artizan.

he fell asleep for a short while, and whenhe awoke it was as if he had awakened in hell. it was hell—"the hell of conscious failure,"both in ambition and in love. he thought of that previous abyss into whichhe had fallen before leaving this part of the country; the deepest deep he had supposedit then; but it was not so deep as this. that had been the breaking in of the outer bulwarksof his hope: this was of his second line. if he had been a woman he must have screamedunder the nervous tension which he was now undergoing.but that relief being denied to his virility, he clenched his teeth in misery, bringinglines about his mouth like those in the laocoã¶n, and corrugations between his brows.a mournful wind blew through the trees, and

sounded in the chimney like the pedal notesof an organ. each ivy leaf overgrowing the wall of thechurchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned, pecked its neighbour smartly, and the vaneon the new victorian-gothic church in the new spot had already begun to creak.yet apparently it was not always the outdoor wind that made the deep murmurs; it was avoice. he guessed its origin in a moment or two; the curate was praying with his auntin the adjoining room. he remembered her speaking of him. presentlythe sounds ceased, and a step seemed to cross the landing. jude sat up, and shouted "hoi!"the step made for his door, which was open, and a man looked in. it was a young clergyman."i think you are mr. highridge," said jude.

"my aunt has mentioned you more than once.well, here i am, just come home; a fellow gone to the bad; though i had the best intentionsin the world at one time. now i am melancholy mad, what with drinkingand one thing and another." slowly jude unfolded to the curate his lateplans and movements, by an unconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual and ambitiousside of his dream, and more upon the theological, though this had, up till now, been merelya portion of the general plan of advancement. "now i know i have been a fool, and that follyis with me," added jude in conclusion. "and i don't regret the collapse of my universityhopes one jot. i wouldn't begin again if i were sure to succeed.i don't care for social success any more at

all.but i do feel i should like to do some good thing; and i bitterly regret the church, andthe loss of my chance of being her ordained minister."the curate, who was a new man to this neighbourhood, had grown deeply interested, and at last hesaid: "if you feel a real call to the ministry, and i won't say from your conversation thatyou do not, for it is that of a thoughtful and educated man, you might enter the churchas a licentiate. only you must make up your mind to avoid strongdrink." "i could avoid that easily enough, if i hadany kind of hope to support me!" part thirdat melchester

"for there was no other girl, o bridegroom,like her!"—sappho (h. t. wharton). iit was a new idea—the ecclesiastical and altruistic life as distinct from the intellectualand emulative life. a man could preach and do good to his fellow-creatureswithout taking double-firsts in the schools of christminster, or having anything but ordinaryknowledge. the old fancy which had led on to the culminating vision of the bishoprichad not been an ethical or theological enthusiasm at all, but a mundane ambition masqueradingin a surplice. he feared that his whole scheme had degeneratedto, even though it might not have originated in, a social unrest which had no foundationin the nobler instincts; which was purely

an artificial product of civilization. therewere thousands of young men on the same self-seeking track at the present moment.the sensual hind who ate, drank, and lived carelessly with his wife through the daysof his vanity was a more likable being than he.but to enter the church in such an unscholarly way that he could not in any probability riseto a higher grade through all his career than that of the humble curate wearing his lifeout in an obscure village or city slum—that might have a touch of goodness and greatnessin it; that might be true religion, and a purgatorial course worthy of being followedby a remorseful man. the favourable light in which this new thoughtshowed itself by contrast with his foregone

intentions cheered jude, as he sat there,shabby and lonely; and it may be said to have given, during the next few days, the _coupde grã¢ce_ to his intellectual career—a career which had extended over the greaterpart of a dozen years. he did nothing, however, for some long stagnanttime to advance his new desire, occupying himself with little local jobs in puttingup and lettering headstones about the neighbouring villages, and submitting to be regarded asa social failure, a returned purchase, by the half-dozen or so of farmers and othercountry-people who condescended to nod to him.the human interest of the new intention—and a human interest is indispensable to the mostspiritual and self-sacrificing—was created

by a letter from sue, bearing a fresh postmark.she evidently wrote with anxiety, and told very little about her own doings, more thanthat she had passed some sort of examination for a queen's scholarship, and was going toenter a training college at melchester to complete herself for the vocation she hadchosen, partly by his influence. there was a theological college at melchester;melchester was a quiet and soothing place, almost entirely ecclesiastical in its tone;a spot where worldly learning and intellectual smartness had no establishment; where thealtruistic feeling that he did possess would perhaps be more highly estimated than a brilliancywhich he did not. as it would be necessary that he should continuefor a time to work at his trade while reading

up divinity, which he had neglected at christminsterfor the ordinary classical grind, what better course for him than to get employment at thefurther city, and pursue this plan of reading? that his excessive human interest in the newplace was entirely of sue's making, while at the same time sue was to be regarded evenless than formerly as proper to create it, had an ethical contradictoriness to whichhe was not blind. but that much he conceded to human frailty,and hoped to learn to love her only as a friend and kinswoman.he considered that he might so mark out his coming years as to begin his ministry at theage of thirty—an age which much attracted him as being that of his exemplar when hefirst began to teach in galilee. this would

allow him plenty of time for deliberate study,and for acquiring capital by his trade to help his aftercourse of keeping the necessaryterms at a theological college. christmas had come and passed, and sue hadgone to the melchester normal school. the time was just the worst in the year forjude to get into new employment, and he had written suggesting to her that he should postponehis arrival for a month or so, till the days had lengthened.she had acquiesced so readily that he wished he had not proposed it—she evidently didnot much care about him, though she had never once reproached him for his strange conductin coming to her that night, and his silent disappearance.neither had she ever said a word about her

relations with mr. phillotson.suddenly, however, quite a passionate letter arrived from sue. she was quite lonely andmiserable, she told him. she hated the place she was in; it was worsethan the ecclesiastical designer's; worse than anywhere.she felt utterly friendless; could he come immediately?—though when he did come shewould only be able to see him at limited times, the rules of the establishment she found herselfin being strict to a degree. it was mr. phillotson who had advised herto come there, and she wished she had never listened to him.phillotson's suit was not exactly prospering, evidently; and jude felt unreasonably glad.he packed up his things and went to melchester

with a lighter heart than he had known formonths. this being the turning over a new leaf heduly looked about for a temperance hotel, and found a little establishment of that descriptionin the street leading from the station. when he had had something to eat he walkedout into the dull winter light over the town bridge, and turned the corner towards theclose. the day was foggy, and standing under thewalls of the most graceful architectural pile in england he paused and looked up.the lofty building was visible as far as the roofridge; above, the dwindling spire rosemore and more remotely, till its apex was quite lost in the mist drifting across it.the lamps now began to be lighted, and turning

to the west front he walked round.he took it as a good omen that numerous blocks of stone were lying about, which signifiedthat the cathedral was undergoing restoration or repair to a considerable extent.it seemed to him, full of the superstitions of his beliefs, that this was an exerciseof forethought on the part of a ruling power, that he might find plenty to do in the arthe practised while waiting for a call to higher labours.then a wave of warmth came over him as he thought how near he now stood to the bright-eyedvivacious girl with the broad forehead and pile of dark hair above it; the girl withthe kindling glance, daringly soft at times—something like that of the girls he had seen in engravingsfrom paintings of the spanish school.

she was here—actually in this close—inone of the houses confronting this very west faã§ade.he went down the broad gravel path towards the building.it was an ancient edifice of the fifteenth century, once a palace, now a training-school,with mullioned and transomed windows, and a courtyard in front shut in from the roadby a wall. jude opened the gate and went up to the doorthrough which, on inquiring for his cousin, he was gingerly admitted to a waiting-room,and in a few minutes she came. though she had been here such a short while,she was not as he had seen her last. all her bounding manner was gone; her curvesof motion had become subdued lines.

the screens and subtleties of convention hadlikewise disappeared. yet neither was she quite the woman who hadwritten the letter that summoned him. that had plainly been dashed off in an impulsewhich second thoughts had somewhat regretted; thoughts that were possibly of his recentself-disgrace. jude was quite overcome with emotion."you don't—think me a demoralized wretch—for coming to you as i was—and going so shamefully,sue?" "oh, i have tried not to!you said enough to let me know what had caused it.i hope i shall never have any doubt of your worthiness, my poor jude!and i am glad you have come!"

she wore a murrey-coloured gown with a littlelace collar. it was made quite plain, and hung about herslight figure with clinging gracefulness. her hair, which formerly she had worn accordingto the custom of the day was now twisted up tightly, and she had altogether the air ofa woman clipped and pruned by severe discipline, an under-brightness shining through from thedepths which that discipline had not yet been able to reach.she had come forward prettily, but jude felt that she had hardly expected him to kiss her,as he was burning to do, under other colours than those of cousinship.he could not perceive the least sign that sue regarded him as a lover, or ever woulddo so, now that she knew the worst of him,

even if he had the right to behave as one;and this helped on his growing resolve to tell her of his matrimonial entanglement,which he had put off doing from time to time in sheer dread of losing the bliss of hercompany. sue came out into the town with him, and theywalked and talked with tongues centred only on the passing moments.jude said he would like to buy her a little present of some sort, and then she confessed,with something of shame, that she was dreadfully hungry.they were kept on very short allowances in the college, and a dinner, tea, and supperall in one was the present she most desired in the world. jude thereupon took her to aninn and ordered whatever the house afforded,

which was not much.the place, however, gave them a delightful opportunity for a _tãªte-ã -tãªte_, nobodyelse being in the room, and they talked freely. she told him about the school as it was atthat date, and the rough living, and the mixed character of her fellow-students, gatheredtogether from all parts of the diocese, and how she had to get up and work by gas-lightin the early morning, with all the bitterness of a young person to whom restraint was new.to all this he listened; but it was not what he wanted especially to know—her relationswith phillotson. that was what she did not tell.when they had sat and eaten, jude impulsively placed his hand upon hers; she looked up andsmiled, and took his quite freely into her

own little soft one, dividing his fingersand coolly examining them, as if they were the fingers of a glove she was purchasing."your hands are rather rough, jude, aren't they?" she said."yes. so would yours be if they held a mallet andchisel all day." "i don't dislike it, you know.i think it is noble to see a man's hands subdued to what he works in...well, i'm rather glad i came to this training-school, after all.see how independent i shall be after the two years' training!i shall pass pretty high, i expect, and mr. phillotson will use his influence to get mea big school."

she had touched the subject at last."i had a suspicion, a fear," said jude, "that he—cared about you rather warmly, and perhapswanted to marry you." "now don't be such a silly boy!""he has said something about it, i expect." "if he had, what would it matter?an old man like him!" "oh, come, sue; he's not so very old.and i know what i saw him doing—" "not kissing me—that i'm certain!""no. but putting his arm round your waist." "ah—i remember.but i didn't know he was going to." "you are wriggling out if it, sue, and itisn't quite kind!" her ever-sensitive lip began to quiver, andher eye to blink, at something this reproof

was deciding her to say."i know you'll be angry if i tell you everything, and that's why i don't want to!""very well, then, dear," he said soothingly. "i have no real right to ask you, and i don'twish to know." "i shall tell you!" said she, with the perversenessthat was part of her. "this is what i have done: i have promised—ihave promised—that i will marry him when i come out of the training-school two yearshence, and have got my certificate; his plan being that we shall then take a large doubleschool in a great town—he the boys' and i the girls'—as married school-teachersoften do, and make a good income between us." "oh, sue! ...but of course it is right—you couldn't have

done better!"he glanced at her and their eyes met, the reproach in his own belying his words.then he drew his hand quite away from hers, and turned his face in estrangement from herto the window. sue regarded him passively without moving."i knew you would be angry!" she said with an air of no emotion whatever."very well—i am wrong, i suppose! i ought not to have let you come to see me!we had better not meet again; and we'll only correspond at long intervals, on purely businessmatters!" this was just the one thing he would not beable to bear, as she probably knew, and it brought him round at once."oh yes, we will," he said quickly.

"your being engaged can make no differenceto me whatever. i have a perfect right to see you when i wantto; and i shall!" "then don't let us talk of it any more.it is quite spoiling our evening together. what does it matter about what one is goingto do two years hence!" she was something of a riddle to him, andhe let the subject drift away. "shall we go and sit in the cathedral?" heasked, when their meal was finished. "cathedral?yes. though i think i'd rather sit in the railwaystation," she answered, a remnant of vexation still in her voice. "that's the centre ofthe town life now.

the cathedral has had its day!""how modern you are!" "so would you be if you had lived so muchin the middle ages as i have done these last few years!the cathedral was a very good place four or five centuries ago; but it is played out now...i am not modern, either. i am more ancient than mediã¦valism, if youonly knew." jude looked distressed."there—i won't say any more of that!" she cried."only you don't know how bad i am, from your point of view, or you wouldn't think so muchof me, or care whether i was engaged or not. now there's just time for us to walk roundthe close, then i must go in, or i shall be

locked out for the night."he took her to the gate and they parted. jude had a conviction that his unhappy visitto her on that sad night had precipitated this marriage engagement, and it did anythingbut add to his happiness. her reproach had taken that shape, then, and not the shapeof words. however, next day he set about seeking employment, which it was not so easy to getas at christminster, there being, as a rule, less stone-cutting in progress in this quietcity, and hands being mostly permanent. but he edged himself in by degrees.his first work was some carving at the cemetery on the hill; and ultimately he became engagedon the labour he most desired—the cathedral repairs, which were very extensive, the wholeinterior stonework having been overhauled,

to be largely replaced by new.it might be a labour of years to get it all done, and he had confidence enough in hisown skill with the mallet and chisel to feel that it would be a matter of choice with himselfhow long he would stay. the lodgings he took near the close gate wouldnot have disgraced a curate, the rent representing a higher percentage on his wages than mechanicsof any sort usually care to pay. his combined bed and sitting-room was furnishedwith framed photographs of the rectories and deaneries at which his landlady had livedas trusted servant in her time, and the parlour downstairs bore a clock on the mantelpieceinscribed to the effect that it was presented to the same serious-minded woman by her fellow-servantson the occasion of her marriage.

jude added to the furniture of his room byunpacking photographs of the ecclesiastical carvings and monuments that he had executedwith his own hands; and he was deemed a satisfactory acquisition as tenant of the vacant apartment.he found an ample supply of theological books in the city book-shops, and with these hisstudies were recommenced in a different spirit and direction from his former course.as a relaxation from the fathers, and such stock works as paley and butler, he read newman,pusey, and many other modern lights. he hired a harmonium, set it up in his lodging,and practised chants thereon, single and double. ii"to-morrow is our grand day, you know. where shall we go?""i have leave from three till nine.

wherever we can get to and come back fromin that time. not ruins, jude—i don't care for them.""well—wardour castle. and then we can do fonthill if we like—allin the same afternoon." "wardour is gothic ruins—and i hate gothic!""no. quite otherwise.it is a classic building—corinthian, i think; with a lot of pictures.""ah—that will do. i like the sound of corinthian.we'll go." their conversation had run thus some few weekslater, and next morning they prepared to start. every detail of the outing was a facet reflectinga sparkle to jude, and he did not venture

to meditate on the life of inconsistency hewas leading. his sue's conduct was one lovely conundrumto him; he could say no more. there duly came the charm of calling at thecollege door for her; her emergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that was rather enforcedthan desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porters' "b'your leave!," the screamingof the trains—everything formed the basis of a beautiful crystallization.nobody stared at sue, because she was so plainly dressed, which comforted jude in the thoughtthat only himself knew the charms those habiliments subdued.a matter of ten pounds spent in a drapery-shop, which had no connection with her real lifeor her real self, would have set all melchester

staring.the guard of the train thought they were lovers, and put them into a compartment all by themselves."that's a good intention wasted!" said she. jude did not respond.he thought the remark unnecessarily cruel, and partly untrue.they reached the park and castle and wandered through the picture-galleries, jude stoppingby preference in front of the devotional pictures by del sarto, guido reni, spagnoletto, sassoferrato,carlo dolci, and others. sue paused patiently beside him, and stolecritical looks into his face as, regarding the virgins, holy families, and saints, itgrew reverent and abstracted. when she had thoroughly estimated him at this, she wouldmove on and wait for him before a lely or

reynolds.it was evident that her cousin deeply interested her, as one might be interested in a man puzzlingout his way along a labyrinth from which one had one's self escaped.when they came out a long time still remained to them and jude proposed that as soon asthey had had something to eat they should walk across the high country to the northof their present position, and intercept the train of another railway leading back to melchester,at a station about seven miles off. sue, who was inclined for any adventure thatwould intensify the sense of her day's freedom, readily agreed; and away they went, leavingthe adjoining station behind them. it was indeed open country, wide and high.they talked and bounded on, jude cutting from

a little covert a long walking-stick for sueas tall as herself, with a great crook, which made her look like a shepherdess.about half-way on their journey they crossed a main road running due east and west—theold road from london to land's end. they paused, and looked up and down it fora moment, and remarked upon the desolation which had come over this once lively thoroughfare,while the wind dipped to earth and scooped straws and hay-stems from the ground.they crossed the road and passed on, but during the next half-mile sue seemed to grow tired,and jude began to be distressed for her. they had walked a good distance altogether, andif they could not reach the other station it would be rather awkward.for a long time there was no cottage visible

on the wide expanse of down and turnip-land;but presently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the shepherd, pitching hurdles.he told them that the only house near was his mother's and his, pointing to a littledip ahead from which a faint blue smoke arose, and recommended them to go on and rest there.this they did, and entered the house, admitted by an old woman without a single tooth, towhom they were as civil as strangers can be when their only chance of rest and shelterlies in the favour of the householder. "a nice little cottage," said jude."oh, i don't know about the niceness. i shall have to thatch it soon, and wherethe thatch is to come from i can't tell, for straw do get that dear, that 'twill soon becheaper to cover your house wi' chainey plates

than thatch."they sat resting, and the shepherd came in. "don't 'ee mind i," he said with a deprecatingwave of the hand; "bide here as long as ye will.but mid you be thinking o' getting back to melchester to-night by train?because you'll never do it in this world, since you don't know the lie of the country.i don't mind going with ye some o' the ways, but even then the train mid be gone."they started up. "you can bide here, you know, over the night—can't'em, mother? the place is welcome to ye. 'tis hard lying, rather, but volk may do worse."he turned to jude and asked privately: "be you a married couple?""hsh—no!" said jude.

"oh—i meant nothing ba'dy—not i!well then, she can go into mother's room, and you and i can lie in the outer chimmerafter they've gone through. i can call ye soon enough to catch the firsttrain back. you've lost this one now."on consideration they decided to close with this offer, and drew up and shared with theshepherd and his mother the boiled bacon and greens for supper."i rather like this," said sue, while their entertainers were clearing away the dishes."outside all laws except gravitation and germination." "you only think you like it; you don't: youare quite a product of civilization," said jude, a recollection of her engagement revivinghis soreness a little.

"indeed i am not, jude.i like reading and all that, but i crave to get back to the life of my infancy and itsfreedom." "do you remember it so well?you seem to me to have nothing unconventional at all about you.""oh, haven't i! you don't know what's inside me.""what?" "the ishmaelite.""an urban miss is what you are." she looked severe disagreement, and turnedaway. the shepherd aroused them the next morning,as he had said. it was bright and clear, and the four milesto the train were accomplished pleasantly.

when they had reached melchester, and walkedto the close, and the gables of the old building in which she was again to be immured rosebefore sue's eyes, she looked a little scared. "i expect i shall catch it!" she murmured.they rang the great bell and waited. "oh, i bought something for you, which i hadnearly forgotten," she said quickly, searching her pocket."it is a new little photograph of me. would you like it?""would i!" he took it gladly, and the porter came.there seemed to be an ominous glance on his face when he opened the gate.she passed in, looking back at jude, and waving her hand.

iiithe seventy young women, of ages varying in the main from nineteen to one-and-twenty,though several were older, who at this date filled the species of nunnery known as thetraining-school at melchester, formed a very mixed community, which included the daughtersof mechanics, curates, surgeons, shopkeepers, farmers, dairy-men, soldiers, sailors, andvillagers. they sat in the large school-room of the establishmenton the evening previously described, and word was passed round that sue bridehead had notcome in at closing-time. "she went out with her young man," said asecond-year's student, who knew about young men."and miss traceley saw her at the station

with him.she'll have it hot when she does come." "she said he was her cousin," observed a youthfulnew girl. "that excuse has been made a little too oftenin this school to be effectual in saving our souls," said the head girl of the year, drily.the fact was that, only twelve months before, there had occurred a lamentable seductionof one of the pupils who had made the same statement in order to gain meetings with herlover. the affair had created a scandal, and themanagement had consequently been rough on cousins ever since.at nine o'clock the names were called, sue's being pronounced three times sonorously bymiss traceley without eliciting an answer.

at a quarter past nine the seventy stood upto sing the "evening hymn," and then knelt down to prayers.after prayers they went in to supper, and every girl's thought was, where is sue bridehead?some of the students, who had seen jude from the window, felt that they would not mindrisking her punishment for the pleasure of being kissed by such a kindly-faced youngmen. hardly one among them believed in the cousinship.half an hour later they all lay in their cubicles, their tender feminine faces upturned to theflaring gas-jets which at intervals stretched down the long dormitories, every face bearingthe legend "the weaker" upon it, as the penalty of the sex wherein they were moulded, whichby no possible exertion of their willing hearts

and abilities could be made strong while theinexorable laws of nature remain what they are.they formed a pretty, suggestive, pathetic sight, of whose pathos and beauty they werethemselves unconscious, and would not discover till, amid the storms and strains of after-years,with their injustice, loneliness, child-bearing, and bereavement, their minds would revertto this experience as to something which had been allowed to slip past them insufficientlyregarded. one of the mistresses came in to turn outthe lights, and before doing so gave a final glance at sue's cot, which remained empty,and at her little dressing-table at the foot, which, like all the rest, was ornamented withvarious girlish trifles, framed photographs

being not the least conspicuous among them.sue's table had a moderate show, two men in their filigree and velvet frames standingtogether beside her looking-glass. "who are these men—did she ever say?" askedthe mistress. "strictly speaking, relations' portraits onlyare allowed on these tables, you know." "one—the middle-aged man," said a studentin the next bed—"is the schoolmaster she served under—mr. phillotson.""and the other—this undergraduate in cap and gown—who is he?""he is a friend, or was. she has never told his name.""was it either of these two who came for her?" "no.""you are sure 'twas not the undergraduate?"

"quite.he was a young man with a black beard." the lights were promptly extinguished, andtill they fell asleep the girls indulged in conjectures about sue, and wondered what gamesshe had carried on in london and at christminster before she came here, some of the more restlessones getting out of bed and looking from the mullioned windows at the vast west front ofthe cathedral opposite, and the spire rising behind it.when they awoke the next morning they glanced into sue's nook, to find it still withouta tenant. after the early lessons by gas-light, in half-toilet,and when they had come up to dress for breakfast, the bell of the entrance gate was heard toring loudly. the mistress of the dormitory

went away, and presently came back to saythat the principal's orders were that nobody was to speak to bridehead without permission.when, accordingly, sue came into the dormitory to hastily tidy herself, looking flushed andtired, she went to her cubicle in silence, none of them coming out to greet her or tomake inquiry. when they had gone downstairs they found that she did not follow them intothe dining-hall to breakfast, and they then learnt that she had been severely reprimanded,and ordered to a solitary room for a week, there to be confined, and take her meals,and do all her reading. at this the seventy murmured, the sentencebeing, they thought, too severe. a round robin was prepared and sent in tothe principal, asking for a remission of sue's

punishment.no notice was taken. towards evening, when the geography mistress began dictating hersubject, the girls in the class sat with folded arms."you mean that you are not going to work?" said the mistress at last. "i may as welltell you that it has been ascertained that the young man bridehead stayed out with wasnot her cousin, for the very good reason that she has no such relative.we have written to christminster to ascertain." "we are willing to take her word," said thehead girl. "this young man was discharged from his workat christminster for drunkenness and blasphemy in public-houses, and he has come here tolive, entirely to be near her."

however, they remained stolid and motionless,and the mistress left the room to inquire from her superiors what was to be done.presently, towards dusk, the pupils, as they sat, heard exclamations from the first-year'sgirls in an adjoining classroom, and one rushed in to say that sue bridehead had got out ofthe back window of the room in which she had been confined, escaped in the dark acrossthe lawn, and disappeared. how she had managed to get out of the gardennobody could tell, as it was bounded by the river at the bottom, and the side door waslocked. they went and looked at the empty room, thecasement between the middle mullions of which stood open.the lawn was again searched with a lantern,

every bush and shrub being examined, but shewas nowhere hidden. then the porter of the front gate was interrogated,and on reflection he said that he remembered hearing a sort of splashing in the streamat the back, but he had taken no notice, thinking some ducks had come down the river from above."she must have walked through the river!" said a mistress."or drownded herself," said the porter. the mind of the matron was horrified—notso much at the possible death of sue as at the possible half-column detailing that eventin all the newspapers, which, added to the scandal of the year before, would give thecollege an unenviable notoriety for many months to come.more lanterns were procured, and the river

examined; and then, at last, on the oppositeshore, which was open to the fields, some little boot-tracks were discerned in the mud,which left no doubt that the too excitable girl had waded through a depth of water reachingnearly to her shoulders—for this was the chief river of the county, and was mentionedin all the geography books with respect. as sue had not brought disgrace upon the schoolby drowning herself, the matron began to speak superciliously of her, and to express gladnessthat she was gone. on the self-same evening jude sat in his lodgingsby the close gate. often at this hour after dusk he would enter the silent close, andstand opposite the house that contained sue, and watch the shadows of the girls' headspassing to and fro upon the blinds, and wish

he had nothing else to do but to sit readingand learning all day what many of the thoughtless inmates despised.but to-night, having finished tea and brushed himself up, he was deep in the perusal ofthe twenty-ninth volume of pusey's library of the fathers, a set of books which he hadpurchased of a second-hand dealer at a price that seemed to him to be one of miraculouscheapness for that invaluable work. he fancied he heard something rattle lightly againsthis window; then he heard it again. certainly somebody had thrown gravel.he rose and gently lifted the sash. "jude!" (from below)."sue!" "yes—it is!can i come up without being seen?"

"oh yes!""then don't come down. shut the window."jude waited, knowing that she could enter easily enough, the front door being openedmerely by a knob which anybody could turn, as in most old country towns.he palpitated at the thought that she had fled to him in her trouble as he had fledto her in his. what counterparts they were! he unlatched the door of his room, heard astealthy rustle on the dark stairs, and in a moment she appeared in the light of hislamp. he went up to seize her hand, and found shewas clammy as a marine deity, and that her clothes clung to her like the robes upon thefigures in the parthenon frieze.

"i'm so cold!" she said through her chatteringteeth. "can i come by your fire, jude?"she crossed to his little grate and very little fire, but as the water dripped from her asshe moved, the idea of drying herself was absurd."whatever have you done, darling?" he asked, with alarm, the tender epithet slipping outunawares. "walked through the largest river in the county—that'swhat i've done! they locked me up for being out with you;and it seemed so unjust that i couldn't bear it, so i got out of the window and escapedacross the stream!" she had begun the explanation in her usualslightly independent tones, but before she

had finished the thin pink lips trembled,and she could hardly refrain from crying. "dear sue!" he said."you must take off all your things! and let me see—you must borrow some fromthe landlady. i'll ask her." "no, no!don't let her know, for god's sake! we are so near the school that they'll comeafter me!" "then you must put on mine.you don't mind?" "oh no.""my sunday suit, you know. it is close here."in fact, everything was close and handy in jude's single chamber, because there was notroom for it to be otherwise.

he opened a drawer, took out his best darksuit, and giving the garments a shake, said, "now, how long shall i give you?""ten minutes." jude left the room and went into the street,where he walked up and down. a clock struck half-past seven, and he returned.sitting in his only arm-chair he saw a slim and fragile being masquerading as himselfon a sunday, so pathetic in her defencelessness that his heart felt big with the sense ofit. on two other chairs before the fire were herwet garments. she blushed as he sat down beside her, but only for a moment."i suppose, jude, it is odd that you should see me like this and all my things hangingthere?

yet what nonsense!they are only a woman's clothes—sexless cloth and linen...i wish i didn't feel so ill and sick! will you dry my clothes now?please do, jude, and i'll get a lodging by and by.it is not late yet." "no, you shan't, if you are ill.you must stay here. dear, dear sue, what can i get for you?""i don't know! i can't help shivering.i wish i could get warm." jude put on her his great-coat in addition, and then ran outto the nearest public-house, whence he returned with a little bottle in his hand."here's six of best brandy," he said.

"now you drink it, dear; all of it.""i can't out of the bottle, can i?" jude fetched the glass from the dressing-table,and administered the spirit in some water. she gasped a little, but gulped it down, andlay back in the armchair. she then began to relate circumstantiallyher experiences since they had parted; but in the middle of her story her voice faltered,her head nodded, and she ceased. she was in a sound sleep.jude, dying of anxiety lest she should have caught a chill which might permanently injureher, was glad to hear the regular breathing. he softly went nearer to her, and observedthat a warm flush now rosed her hitherto blue cheeks, and felt that her hanging hand wasno longer cold.

then he stood with his back to the fire regardingher, and saw in her almost a divinity. ivjude's reverie was interrupted by the creak of footsteps ascending the stairs.he whisked sue's clothing from the chair where it was drying, thrust it under the bed, andsat down to his book. somebody knocked and opened the door immediately.it was the landlady. "oh, i didn't know whether you was in or not,mr. fawley. i wanted to know if you would require supper.i see you've a young gentleman—" "yes, ma'am. but i think i won't come downto-night. will you bring supper up on a tray, and i'll have a cup of tea as well."it was jude's custom to go downstairs to the

kitchen, and eat his meals with the family,to save trouble. his landlady brought up the supper, however,on this occasion, and he took it from her at the door.when she had descended he set the teapot on the hob, and drew out sue's clothes anew;but they were far from dry. a thick woollen gown, he found, held a dealof water. so he hung them up again, and enlarged hisfire and mused as the steam from the garments went up the chimney.suddenly she said, "jude!" "yes.all right. how do you feel now?""better.

quite well.why, i fell asleep, didn't i? what time is it?not late surely?" "it is past ten.""is it really? what shall i do!" she said, starting up."stay where you are." "yes; that's what i want to do.but i don't know what they would say! and what will you do?""i am going to sit here by the fire all night, and read.to-morrow is sunday, and i haven't to go out anywhere.perhaps you will be saved a severe illness by resting there.don't be frightened.

i'm all right.look here, what i have got for you. some supper."when she had sat upright she breathed plaintively and said, "i do feel rather weak still.i thought i was well; and i ought not to be here, ought i?"but the supper fortified her somewhat, and when she had had some tea and had lain backagain she was bright and cheerful. the tea must have been green, or too longdrawn, for she seemed preternaturally wakeful afterwards, though jude, who had not takenany, began to feel heavy; till her conversation fixed his attention."you called me a creature of civilization, or something, didn't you?" she said, breakinga silence.

"it was very odd you should have done that.""why?" "well, because it is provokingly wrong.i am a sort of negation of it." "you are very philosophical.'a negation' is profound talking." "is it?do i strike you as being learned?" she asked, with a touch of raillery."no—not learned. only you don't talk quite like a girl—well,a girl who has had no advantages." "i have had advantages.i don't know latin and greek, though i know the grammars of those tongues.but i know most of the greek and latin classics through translations, and other books too.i read lempriã¨re, catullus, martial, juvenal,

lucian, beaumont and fletcher, boccaccio,scarron, de brantã´me, sterne, de foe, smollett, fielding, shakespeare, the bible, and othersuch; and found that all interest in the unwholesome part of those books ended with its mystery.""you have read more than i," he said with a sigh."how came you to read some of those queerer ones?""well," she said thoughtfully, "it was by accident.my life has been entirely shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me.i have no fear of men, as such, nor of their books. i have mixed with them—one or twoof them particularly—almost as one of their own sex.i mean i have not felt about them as most

women are taught to feel—to be on theirguard against attacks on their virtue; for no average man—no man short of a sensualsavage—will molest a woman by day or night, at home or abroad, unless she invites him.until she says by a look 'come on' he is always afraid to, and if you never say it, or lookit, he never comes. however, what i was going to say is that wheni was eighteen i formed a friendly intimacy with an undergraduate at christminster, andhe taught me a great deal, and lent me books which i should never have got hold of otherwise.""is your friendship broken off?" "oh yes.he died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had taken his degree and left christminster.""you saw a good deal of him, i suppose?"

"yes.we used to go about together—on walking tours, reading tours, and things of that sort—liketwo men almost. he asked me to live with him, and i agreedto by letter. but when i joined him in london i found hemeant a different thing from what i meant. he wanted me to be his mistress, in fact,but i wasn't in love with him—and on my saying i should go away if he didn't agreeto my plan, he did so. we shared a sitting-room for fifteen months;and he became a leader-writer for one of the great london dailies; till he was taken ill,and had to go abroad. he said i was breaking his heart by holdingout against him so long at such close quarters;

he could never have believed it of woman.i might play that game once too often, he said.he came home merely to die. his death caused a terrible remorse in mefor my cruelty—though i hope he died of consumption and not of me entirely.i went down to sandbourne to his funeral, and was his only mourner.he left me a little money—because i broke his heart, i suppose.that's how men are—so much better than women!" "good heavens!—what did you do then?""ah—now you are angry with me!" she said, a contralto note of tragedy coming suddenlyinto her silvery voice. "i wouldn't have told you if i had known!""no, i am not.

tell me all.""well, i invested his money, poor fellow, in a bubble scheme, and lost it.i lived about london by myself for some time, and then i returned to christminster, as myfather— who was also in london, and had started as an art metal-worker near long-acre—wouldn'thave me back; and i got that occupation in the artist-shop where you found me...i said you didn't know how bad i was!" jude looked round upon the arm-chair and itsoccupant, as if to read more carefully the creature he had given shelter to.his voice trembled as he said: "however you have lived, sue, i believe you are as innocentas you are unconventional!" "i am not particularly innocent, as you see,now that i have

'twitched the robe from that blank lay-figureyour fancy draped,'" said she, with an ostensible sneer, thoughhe could hear that she was brimming with tears. "but i have never yielded myself to any lover,if that's what you mean! i have remained as i began.""i quite believe you. but some women would not have remained asthey began." "perhaps not.better women would not. people say i must be cold-natured—sexless—onaccount of it. but i won't have it! some of the most passionatelyerotic poets have been the most self-contained in their daily lives.""have you told mr. phillotson about this university

scholar friend?""yes—long ago. i have never made any secret of it to anybody.""what did he say?" "he did not pass any criticism—only saidi was everything to him, whatever i did; and things like that."jude felt much depressed; she seemed to get further and further away from him with herstrange ways and curious unconsciousness of gender."aren't you really vexed with me, dear jude?" she suddenly asked, in a voice of such extraordinarytenderness that it hardly seemed to come from the same woman who had just told her storyso lightly. "i would rather offend anybody in the worldthan you, i think!"

"i don't know whether i am vexed or not.i know i care very much about you!" "i care as much for you as for anybody i evermet." "you don't care more!there, i ought not to say that. don't answer it!"there was another long silence. he felt that she was treating him cruelly,though he could not quite say in what way. her very helplessness seemed to make her somuch stronger than he. "i am awfully ignorant on general matters,although i have worked so hard," he said, to turn the subject."i am absorbed in theology, you know. and what do you think i should be doing justabout now, if you weren't here?

i should be saying my evening prayers.i suppose you wouldn't like—" "oh no, no," she answered, "i would rathernot, if you don't mind. i should seem so—such a hypocrite.""i thought you wouldn't join, so i didn't propose it.you must remember that i hope to be a useful minister some day.""to be ordained, i think you said?" "yes.""then you haven't given up the idea?—i thought that perhaps you had by this time.""of course not. i fondly thought at first that you felt asi do about that, as you were so mixed up in christminster anglicanism. and mr. phillotson—""i have no respect for christminster whatever,

except, in a qualified degree, on its intellectualside," said sue bridehead earnestly. "my friend i spoke of took that out of me.he was the most irreligious man i ever knew, and the most moral.and intellect at christminster is new wine in old bottles.the mediã¦valism of christminster must go, be sloughed off, or christminster itself willhave to go. to be sure, at times one couldn't help havinga sneaking liking for the traditions of the old faith, as preserved by a section of thethinkers there in touching and simple sincerity; but when i was in my saddest, rightest mindi always felt, 'o ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs ofgibbeted gods!'"...

"sue, you are not a good friend of mine totalk like that!" "then i won't, dear jude!"the emotional throat-note had come back, and she turned her face away."i still think christminster has much that is glorious; though i was resentful becausei couldn't get there." he spoke gently, and resisted his impulseto pique her on to tears. "it is an ignorant place, except as to thetownspeople, artizans, drunkards, and paupers," she said, perverse still at his differingfrom her. "they see life as it is, of course; but fewof the people in the colleges do. you prove it in your own person.you are one of the very men christminster

was intended for when the colleges were founded;a man with a passion for learning, but no money, or opportunities, or friends.but you were elbowed off the pavement by the millionaires' sons.""well, i can do without what it confers. i care for something higher.""and i for something broader, truer," she insisted."at present intellect in christminster is pushing one way, and religion the other; andso they stand stock-still, like two rams butting each other.""what would mr. phillotson—" "it is a place full of fetishists and ghost-seers!"he noticed that whenever he tried to speak of the schoolmaster she turned the conversationto some generalizations about the offending

university.jude was extremely, morbidly, curious about her life as phillotson's _protã©gã©e_ andbetrothed; yet she would not enlighten him. "well, that's just what i am, too," he said."i am fearful of life, spectre-seeing always." "but you are good and dear!" she murmured.his heart bumped, and he made no reply. "you are in the tractarian stage just now,are you not?" she added, putting on flippancy to hide real feeling, a common trick withher. "let me see—when was i there? in the year eighteen hundred and—""there's a sarcasm in that which is rather unpleasant to me, sue. now will you do whati want you to? at this time i read a chapter, and then sayprayers, as i told you.

now will you concentrate your attention onany book of these you like, and sit with your back to me, and leave me to my custom?you are sure you won't join me?" "i'll look at you.""no. don't tease, sue!" "very well—i'll do just as you bid me, andi won't vex you, jude," she replied, in the tone of a child who was going to be good forever after, turning her back upon him accordingly. a small bible other than the one he was usinglay near her, and during his retreat she took it up, and turned over the leaves."jude," she said brightly, when he had finished and come back to her; "will you let me makeyou a new new testament, like the one i made for myself at christminster?""oh yes.

how was that made?""i altered my old one by cutting up all the epistles and gospels into separate _brochures_,and rearranging them in chronological order as written, beginning the book with thessalonians,following on with the epistles, and putting the gospels much further on.then i had the volume rebound. my university friend mr.—but never mindhis name, poor boy—said it was an excellent idea.i know that reading it afterwards made it twice as interesting as before, and twiceas understandable." "h'm!" said jude, with a sense of sacrilege."and what a literary enormity this is," she said, as she glanced into the pages of solomon'ssong.

"i mean the synopsis at the head of each chapter,explaining away the real nature of that rhapsody. you needn't be alarmed: nobody claims inspirationfor the chapter headings. indeed, many divines treat them with contempt.it seems the drollest thing to think of the four-and-twenty elders, or bishops, or whatevernumber they were, sitting with long faces and writing down such stuff."jude looked pained. "you are quite voltairean!" he murmured."indeed? then i won't say any more, except that peoplehave no right to falsify the bible! i hate such hum-bug as could attempt to plasterover with ecclesiastical abstractions such ecstatic, natural, human love as lies in thatgreat and passionate song!"

her speech had grown spirited, and almostpetulant at his rebuke, and her eyes moist. "i wish i had a friend here to support me;but nobody is ever on my side!" "but my dear sue, my very dear sue, i am notagainst you!" he said, taking her hand, and surprised at her introducing personal feelinginto mere argument. "yes you are, yes you are!" she cried, turningaway her face that he might not see her brimming eyes."you are on the side of the people in the training-school—at least you seem almostto be! what i insist on is, that to explain suchverses as this: 'whither is thy beloved gone, o thou fairest among women?' by the note:'_the church professeth her faith_,' is supremely

ridiculous!""well then, let it be! you make such a personal matter of everything!i am—only too inclined just now to apply the words profanely.you know you are fairest among women to me, come to that!""but you are not to say it now!" sue replied, her voice changing to its softestnote of severity. then their eyes met, and they shook handslike cronies in a tavern, and jude saw the absurdity of quarrelling on such a hypotheticalsubject, and she the silliness of crying about what was written in an old book like the bible."i won't disturb your convictions—i really won't!" she went on soothingly, for now hewas rather more ruffled than she.

"but i did want and long to ennoble some manto high aims; and when i saw you, and knew you wanted to be my comrade, i—shall i confessit?—thought that man might be you. but you take so much tradition on trust thati don't know what to say." "well, dear; i suppose one must take somethings on trust. life isn't long enough to work out everythingin euclid problems before you believe it. i take christianity.""well, perhaps you might take something worse." "indeed i might.perhaps i have done so!" he thought of arabella."i won't ask what, because we are going to be very nice with each other, aren't we, andnever, never, vex each other any more?"

she looked up trustfully, and her voice seemedtrying to nestle in his breast. "i shall always care for you!" said jude."and i for you. because you are single-hearted, and forgivingto your faulty and tiresome little sue!" he looked away, for that epicene tendernessof hers was too harrowing. was it that which had broken the heart ofthe poor leader-writer; and was he to be the next one? ...but sue was so dear! ... if he could only get over the sense of hersex, as she seemed to be able to do so easily of his, what a comrade she would make; fortheir difference of opinion on conjectural subjects only drew them closer together onmatters of daily human experience.

she was nearer to him than any other womanhe had ever met, and he could scarcely believe that time, creed, or absence, would ever dividehim from her. but his grief at her incredulities returned.they sat on till she fell asleep again, and he nodded in his chair likewise.whenever he aroused himself he turned her things, and made up the fire anew. about sixo'clock he awoke completely, and lighting a candle, found that her clothes were dry.her chair being a far more comfortable one than his she still slept on inside his great-coat,looking warm as a new bun and boyish as a ganymede.placing the garments by her and touching her on the shoulder he went downstairs, and washedhimself by starlight in the yard.

vwhen he returned she was dressed as usual. "now could i get out without anybody seeingme?" she asked. "the town is not yet astir.""but you have had no breakfast." "oh, i don't want any!i fear i ought not to have run away from that school!things seem so different in the cold light of morning, don't they?what mr. phillotson will say i don't know! it was quite by his wish that i went there.he is the only man in the world for whom i have any respect or fear.i hope he'll forgive me; but he'll scold me dreadfully, i expect!""i'll go to him and explain—" began jude.

"oh no, you shan't. i don't care for him!he may think what he likes—i shall do just as i choose!""but you just this moment said—" "well, if i did, i shall do as i like forall him! i have thought of what i shall do—go tothe sister of one of my fellow-students in the training-school, who has asked me to visither. she has a school near shaston, about eighteenmiles from here—and i shall stay there till this has blown over, and i get back to thetraining-school again." at the last moment he persuaded her to lethim make her a cup of coffee, in a portable apparatus he kept in his room for use on risingto go to his work every day before the household

was astir."now a dew-bit to eat with it," he said; "and off we go.you can have a regular breakfast when you get there."they went quietly out of the house, jude accompanying her to the station.as they departed along the street a head was thrust out of an upper window of his lodgingand quickly withdrawn. sue still seemed sorry for her rashness, andto wish she had not rebelled; telling him at parting that she would let him know assoon as she got re-admitted to the training-school. they stood rather miserably together on theplatform; and it was apparent that he wanted to say more."i want to tell you something—two things,"

he said hurriedly as the train came up."one is a warm one, the other a cold one!" "jude," she said."i know one of them. and you mustn't!""what?" "you mustn't love me.you are to like me—that's all!" jude's face became so full of complicatedglooms that hers was agitated in sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carriagewindow. and then the train moved on, and waving herpretty hand to him she vanished away. melchester was a dismal place enough for judethat sunday of her departure, and the close so hateful that he did not go once to thecathedral services.

the next morning there came a letter fromher, which, with her usual promptitude, she had written directly she had reached her friend'shouse. she told him of her safe arrival and comfortablequarters, and then added:— what i really write about, dear jude, is somethingi said to you at parting. you had been so very good and kind to me thatwhen you were out of sight i felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman i was to say it, andit has reproached me ever since. if you want to love me, jude, you may: i don'tmind at all; and i'll never say again that you mustn't!now i won't write any more about that. you do forgive your thoughtless friend forher cruelty? and won't make her miserable

by saying you don't?—ever,sue. it would be superfluous to say what his answerwas; and how he thought what he would have done had he been free, which should have rendereda long residence with a female friend quite unnecessary for sue.he felt he might have been pretty sure of his own victory if it had come to a conflictbetween phillotson and himself for the possession of her.yet jude was in danger of attaching more meaning to sue's impulsive note than it really wasintended to bear. after the lapse of a few days he found himselfhoping that she would write again. but he received no further communication;and in the intensity of his solicitude he

sent another note, suggesting that he shouldpay her a visit some sunday, the distance being under eighteen miles.he expected a reply on the second morning after despatching his missive; but none came.the third morning arrived; the postman did not stop.this was saturday, and in a feverish state of anxiety about her he sent off three brieflines stating that he was coming the following day, for he felt sure something had happened.his first and natural thought had been that she was ill from her immersion; but it soonoccurred to him that somebody would have written for her in such a case.conjectures were put an end to by his arrival at the village school-house near shaston onthe bright morning of sunday, between eleven

and twelve o'clock, when the parish was asvacant as a desert, most of the inhabitants having gathered inside the church, whencetheir voices could occasionally be heard in unison.a little girl opened the door. "miss bridehead is up-stairs," she said."and will you please walk up to her?" "is she ill?" asked jude hastily."only a little—not very." jude entered and ascended.on reaching the landing a voice told him which way to turn—the voice of sue calling hisname. he passed the doorway, and found her lyingin a little bed in a room a dozen feet square. "oh, sue!" he cried, sitting down beside herand taking her hand. "how is this!

you couldn't write?""no—it wasn't that!" she answered. "i did catch a bad cold—but i could havewritten. only i wouldn't!""why not?—frightening me like this!" "yes—that was what i was afraid of!but i had decided not to write to you any more.they won't have me back at the school—that's why i couldn't write.not the fact, but the reason!" "well?""they not only won't have me, but they gave me a parting piece of advice—""what?" she did not answer directly."i vowed i never would tell you, jude—it

is so vulgar and distressing!""is it about us?" "yes.""but do tell me!" "well—somebody has sent them baseless reportsabout us, and they say you and i ought to marry as soon as possible, for the sake ofmy reputation! ... there—now i have told you, and i wish ihadn't!" "oh, poor sue!""i don't think of you like that means! it did just occur to me to regard you in theway they think i do, but i hadn't begun to. i have recognized that the cousinship wasmerely nominal, since we met as total strangers. but my marrying you, dear jude—why, of course,if i had reckoned upon marrying you i shouldn't

have come to you so often!and i never supposed you thought of such a thing as marrying me till the other evening;when i began to fancy you did love me a little. perhaps i ought not to have been so intimatewith you. it is all my fault.everything is my fault always!" the speech seemed a little forced and unreal,and they regarded each other with a mutual distress."i was so blind at first!" she went on. "i didn't see what you felt at all.oh, you have been unkind to me—you have—to look upon me as a sweetheart without sayinga word, and leaving me to discover it myself! your attitude to me has become known; andnaturally they think we've been doing wrong!

i'll never trust you again!""yes, sue," he said simply; "i am to blame—more than you think.i was quite aware that you did not suspect till within the last meeting or two what iwas feeling about you. i admit that our meeting as strangers preventeda sense of relationship, and that it was a sort of subterfuge to avail myself of it.but don't you think i deserve a little consideration for concealing my wrong, very wrong, sentiments,since i couldn't help having them?" she turned her eyes doubtfully towards him,and then looked away as if afraid she might forgive him.by every law of nature and sex a kiss was the only rejoinder that fitted the mood andthe moment, under the suasion of which sue's

undemonstrative regard of him might not inconceivablyhave changed its temperature. some men would have cast scruples to the winds,and ventured it, oblivious both of sue's declaration of her neutral feelings, and of the pair ofautographs in the vestry chest of arabella's parish church.jude did not. he had, in fact, come in part to tell hisown fatal story. it was upon his lips; yet at the hour of thisdistress he could not disclose it. he preferred to dwell upon the recognizedbarriers between them. "of course—i know you don't—care aboutme in any particular way," he sorrowed. "you ought not, and you are right.you belong to—mr. phillotson.

i suppose he has been to see you?""yes," she said shortly, her face changing a little."though i didn't ask him to come. you are glad, of course, that he has been!but i shouldn't care if he didn't come any more!"it was very perplexing to her lover that she should be piqued at his honest acquiescencein his rival, if jude's feelings of love were deprecated by her.he went on to something else. "this will blow over, dear sue," he said."the training-school authorities are not all the world.you can get to be a student in some other, no doubt.""i'll ask mr. phillotson," she said decisively.

sue's kind hostess now returned from church,and there was no more intimate conversation. jude left in the afternoon, hopelessly unhappy.but he had seen her, and sat with her. such intercourse as that would have to contenthim for the remainder of his life. the lesson of renunciation it was necessary and properthat he, as a parish priest, should learn. but the next morning when he awoke he feltrather vexed with her, and decided that she was rather unreasonable, not to say capricious.then, in illustration of what he had begun to discern as one of her redeeming characteristicsthere came promptly a note, which she must have written almost immediately he had gonefrom her: forgive me for my petulance yesterday!i was horrid to you; i know it, and i feel

perfectly miserable at my horridness.it was so dear of you not to be angry! jude, please still keep me as your friendand associate, with all my faults. i'll try not to be like it again.i am coming to melchester on saturday, to get my things away from the t. s., &c.i could walk with you for half an hour, if you would like?—your repentantsue. jude forgave her straightway, and asked herto call for him at the cathedral works when she came. vimeanwhile a middle-aged man was dreaming a dream of great beauty concerning the writerof the above letter.

he was richard phillotson, who had recentlyremoved from the mixed village school at lumsdon near christminster, to undertake a large boys'school in his native town of shaston, which stood on a hill sixty miles to the south-westas the crow flies. a glance at the place and its accessorieswas almost enough to reveal that the schoolmaster's plans and dreams so long indulged in had beenabandoned for some new dream with which neither the church nor literature had much in common.essentially an unpractical man, he was now bent on making and saving money for a practicalpurpose—that of keeping a wife, who, if she chose, might conduct one of the girls'schools adjoining his own; for which purpose he had advised her to go into training, sinceshe would not marry him offhand.

about the time that jude was removing frommarygreen to melchester, and entering on adventures at the latter place with sue, the schoolmasterwas settling down in the new school-house at shaston. all the furniture being fixed,the books shelved, and the nails driven, he had begun to sit in his parlour during thedark winter nights and re-attempt some of his old studies—one branch of which hadincluded roman-britannic antiquities—an unremunerative labour for a national school-masterbut a subject, that, after his abandonment of the university scheme, had interested himas being a comparatively unworked mine; practicable to those who, like himself, had lived in lonelyspots where these remains were abundant, and were seen to compel inferences in startlingcontrast to accepted views on the civilization

of that time.a resumption of this investigation was the outward and apparent hobby of phillotson atpresent—his ostensible reason for going alone into fields where causeways, dykes,and tumuli abounded, or shutting himself up in his house with a few urns, tiles, and mosaicshe had collected, instead of calling round upon his new neighbours, who for their parthad showed themselves willing enough to be friendly with him.but it was not the real, or the whole, reason, after all. thus on a particular evening inthe month, when it had grown quite late—to near midnight, indeed—and the light of hislamp, shining from his window at a salient angle of the hill-top town over infinite milesof valley westward, announced as by words

a place and person given over to study, hewas not exactly studying. the interior of the room—the books, thefurniture, the schoolmaster's loose coat, his attitude at the table, even the flickeringof the fire, bespoke the same dignified tale of undistracted research—more than creditableto a man who had had no advantages beyond those of his own making.and yet the tale, true enough till latterly, was not true now.what he was regarding was not history. they were historic notes, written in a boldwomanly hand at his dictation some months before, and it was the clerical renderingof word after word that absorbed him. he presently took from a drawer a carefullytied bundle of letters, few, very few, as

correspondence counts nowadays.each was in its envelope just as it had arrived, and the handwriting was of the same womanlycharacter as the historic notes. he unfolded them one by one and read themmusingly. at first sight there seemed in these small documents to be absolutely nothing tomuse over. they were straightforward, frank letters,signed "sue b—"; just such ones as would be written during short absences, with noother thought than their speedy destruction, and chiefly concerning books in reading andother experiences of a training school, forgotten doubtless by the writer with the passing ofthe day of their inditing. in one of them—quite a recent note—theyoung woman said that she had received his

considerate letter, and that it was honourableand generous of him to say he would not come to see her oftener than she desired (the schoolbeing such an awkward place for callers, and because of her strong wish that her engagementto him should not be known, which it would infallibly be if he visited her often). overthese phrases the school-master pored. what precise shade of satisfaction was tobe gathered from a woman's gratitude that the man who loved her had not been often tosee her? the problem occupied him, distracted him.he opened another drawer, and found therein an envelope, from which he drew a photographof sue as a child, long before he had known her, standing under trellis-work with a littlebasket in her hand.

there was another of her as a young woman,her dark eyes and hair making a very distinct and attractive picture of her, which justdisclosed, too, the thoughtfulness that lay behind her lighter moods.it was a duplicate of the one she had given jude, and would have given to any man.phillotson brought it half-way to his lips, but withdrew it in doubt at her perplexingphrases: ultimately kissing the dead pasteboard with all the passionateness, and more thanall the devotion, of a young man of eighteen. the schoolmaster's was an unhealthy-looking,old-fashioned face, rendered more old-fashioned by his style of shaving.a certain gentlemanliness had been imparted to it by nature, suggesting an inherent wishto do rightly by all.

his speech was a little slow, but his toneswere sincere enough to make his hesitation no defect. his greying hair was curly, andradiated from a point in the middle of his crown.there were four lines across his forehead, and he only wore spectacles when reading atnight. it was almost certainly a renunciation forcedupon him by his academic purpose, rather than a distaste for women, which had hitherto kepthim from closing with one of the sex in matrimony. such silent proceedings as those of this eveningwere repeated many and oft times when he was not under the eye of the boys, whose quickand penetrating regard would frequently become almost intolerable to the self-conscious masterin his present anxious care for sue, making

him, in the grey hours of morning, dread tomeet anew the gimlet glances, lest they should read what the dream within him was.he had honourably acquiesced in sue's announced wish that he was not often to visit her atthe training school; but at length, his patience being sorely tried, he set out one saturdayafternoon to pay her an unexpected call. there the news of her departure—expulsionas it might almost have been considered—was flashed upon him without warning or mitigationas he stood at the door expecting in a few minutes to behold her face; and when he turnedaway he could hardly see the road before him. sue had, in fact, never written a line toher suitor on the subject, although it was fourteen days old.a short reflection told him that this proved

nothing, a natural delicacy being as amplea reason for silence as any degree of blameworthiness. they had informed him at the school whereshe was living, and having no immediate anxiety about her comfort his thoughts took the directionof a burning indignation against the training school committee.in his bewilderment phillotson entered the adjacent cathedral, just now in a direly dismantledstate by reason of the repairs. he sat down on a block of freestone, regardlessof the dusty imprint it made on his breeches; and his listless eyes following the movementsof the workmen he presently became aware that the reputed culprit, sue's lover jude, wasone amongst them. jude had never spoken to his former hero sincethe meeting by the model of jerusalem.

having inadvertently witnessed phillotson'stentative courtship of sue in the lane there had grown up in the younger man's mind a curiousdislike to think of the elder, to meet him, to communicate in any way with him; and sincephillotson's success in obtaining at least her promise had become known to jude, he hadfrankly recognized that he did not wish to see or hear of his senior any more, learnanything of his pursuits, or even imagine again what excellencies might appertain tohis character. on this very day of the schoolmaster's visitjude was expecting sue, as she had promised; and when therefore he saw the schoolmasterin the nave of the building, saw, moreover, that he was coming to speak to him, he feltno little embarrassment; which phillotson's

own embarrassment prevented his observing.jude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the spot where phillotsonhad been sitting. jude offered him a piece of sackcloth fora cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the bare block."yes; yes," said phillotson abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his eyes resting onthe ground as if he were trying to remember where he was."i won't keep you long. it was merely that i have heard that you haveseen my little friend sue recently. it occurred to me to speak to you on thataccount. i merely want to ask—about her.""i think i know what!"

jude hurriedly said."about her escaping from the training school, and her coming to me?""yes." "well"—jude for a moment felt an unprincipledand fiendish wish to annihilate his rival at all cost.by the exercise of that treachery which love for the same woman renders possible to menthe most honourable in every other relation of life, he could send off phillotson in agonyand defeat by saying that the scandal was true, and that sue had irretrievably committedherself with him. but his action did not respond for a momentto his animal instinct; and what he said was, "i am glad of your kindness in coming to talkplainly to me about it.

you know what they say?—that i ought tomarry her." "what!""and i wish with all my soul i could!" phillotson trembled, and his naturally paleface acquired a corpselike sharpness in its lines."i had no idea that it was of this nature! god forbid!""no, no!" said jude aghast. "i thought you understood?i mean that were i in a position to marry her, or someone, and settle down, insteadof living in lodgings here and there, i should be glad!"what he had really meant was simply that he loved her."but—since this painful matter has been

opened up—what really happened?" asked phillotson,with the firmness of a man who felt that a sharp smart now was better than a long agonyof suspense hereafter. "cases arise, and this is one, when even ungenerous questions mustbe put to make false assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal."jude explained readily; giving the whole series of adventures, including the night at theshepherd's, her wet arrival at his lodging, her indisposition from her immersion, theirvigil of discussion, and his seeing her off next morning."well now," said phillotson at the conclusion, "i take it as your final word, and i knowi can believe you, that the suspicion which led to her rustication is an absolutely baselessone?"

"it is," said jude solemnly."absolutely. so help me god!"the schoolmaster rose. each of the twain felt that the interviewcould not comfortably merge in a friendly discussion of their recent experiences, afterthe manner of friends; and when jude had taken him round, and shown him some features ofthe renovation which the old cathedral was undergoing, phillotson bade the young mangood-day and went away. this visit took place about eleven o'clockin the morning; but no sue appeared. when jude went to his dinner at one he sawhis beloved ahead of him in the street leading up from the north gate, walking as if no waylooking for him.

speedily overtaking her he remarked that hehad asked her to come to him at the cathedral, and she had promised."i have been to get my things from the college," she said—an observation which he was expectedto take as an answer, though it was not one. finding her to be in this evasive mood hefelt inclined to give her the information so long withheld."you have not seen mr. phillotson to-day?" he ventured to inquire."i have not. but i am not going to be cross-examined abouthim; and if you ask anything more i won't answer!""it is very odd that—" he stopped, regarding her."what?"

"that you are often not so nice in your realpresence as you are in your letters!" "does it really seem so to you?" said she,smiling with quick curiosity. "well, that's strange; but i feel just thesame about you, jude. when you are gone away i seem such a coldhearted—"as she knew his sentiment towards her jude saw that they were getting upon dangerousground. it was now, he thought, that he must speakas an honest man. but he did not speak, and she continued: "itwas that which made me write and say—i didn't mind your loving me—if you wanted to, much!"the exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to imply, was nullifiedby his intention, and he rested rigid till

he began: "i have never told you—""yes you have," murmured she. "i mean, i have never told you my history—allof it." "but i guess it.i know nearly." jude looked up.could she possibly know of that morning performance of his with arabella; which in a few monthshad ceased to be a marriage more completely than by death?he saw that she did not. "i can't quite tell you here in the street,"he went on with a gloomy tongue. "and you had better not come to my lodgings.let us go in here." the building by which they stood was the market-house;it was the only place available; and they

entered, the market being over, and the stallsand areas empty. he would have preferred a more congenial spot,but, as usually happens, in place of a romantic field or solemn aisle for his tale, it wastold while they walked up and down over a floor littered with rotten cabbage-leaves,and amid all the usual squalors of decayed vegetable matter and unsaleable refuse.he began and finished his brief narrative, which merely led up to the information thathe had married a wife some years earlier, and that his wife was living still.almost before her countenance had time to change she hurried out the words,"why didn't you tell me before!" "i couldn't. it seemed so cruel to tell it.""to yourself, jude.

so it was better to be cruel to me!""no, dear darling!" cried jude passionately. he tried to take her hand, but she withdrewit. their old relations of confidence seemed suddenlyto have ended, and the antagonisms of sex to sex were left without any counter-poisingpredilections. she was his comrade, friend, unconscious sweetheartno longer; and her eyes regarded him in estranged silence."i was ashamed of the episode in my life which brought about the marriage," he continued."i can't explain it precisely now. i could have done it if you had taken it differently!""but how can i?" she burst out. "here i have been saying, or writing, that—thatyou might love me, or something of the sort!—just

out of charity—and all the time—oh, itis perfectly damnable how things are!" she said, stamping her foot in a nervous quiver."you take me wrong, sue! i never thought you cared for me at all, tillquite lately; so i felt it did not matter! do you care for me, sue?—you know how imean?—i don't like 'out of charity' at all!" it was a question which in the circumstancessue did not choose to answer. "i suppose she—your wife—is—a very prettywoman, even if she's wicked?" she asked quickly. "she's pretty enough, as far as that goes.""prettier than i am, no doubt!" "you are not the least alike.and i have never seen her for years... but she's sure to come back—they alwaysdo!"

"how strange of you to stay apart from herlike this!" said sue, her trembling lip and lumpy throat belying her irony."you, such a religious man. how will the demi-gods in your pantheon—imean those legendary persons you call saints—intercede for you after this? now if i had done sucha thing it would have been different, and not remarkable, for i at least don't regardmarriage as a sacrament. your theories are not so advanced as your practice!""sue, you are terribly cutting when you like to be—a perfect voltaire!but you must treat me as you will!" when she saw how wretched he was she softened,and trying to blink away her sympathetic tears said with all the winning reproachfulnessof a heart-hurt woman: "ah—you should have

told me before you gave me that idea thatyou wanted to be allowed to love me! i had no feeling before that moment at therailway-station, except—" for once sue was as miserable as he, in herattempts to keep herself free from emotion, and her less than half-success."don't cry, dear!" he implored. "i am—not crying—because i meant to—loveyou; but because of your want of—confidence!" they were quite screened from the market-squarewithout, and he could not help putting out his arm towards her waist.his momentary desire was the means of her rallying."no, no!" she said, drawing back stringently, and wiping her eyes."of course not!

it would be hypocrisy to pretend that it wouldbe meant as from my cousin; and it can't be in any other way."they moved on a dozen paces, and she showed herself recovered.it was distracting to jude, and his heart would have ached less had she appeared anyhowbut as she did appear; essentially large-minded and generous on reflection, despite a previousexercise of those narrow womanly humours on impulse that were necessary to give her sex."i don't blame you for what you couldn't help," she said, smiling. "how should i be so foolish?i do blame you a little bit for not telling me before.but, after all, it doesn't matter. we should have had to keep apart, you see,even if this had not been in your life."

"no, we shouldn't, sue!this is the only obstacle." "you forget that i must have loved you, andwanted to be your wife, even if there had been no obstacle," said sue, with a gentleseriousness which did not reveal her mind. "and then we are cousins, and it is bad forcousins to marry. and—i am engaged to somebody else.as to our going on together as we were going, in a sort of friendly way, the people roundus would have made it unable to continue. their views of the relations of man and womanare limited, as is proved by their expelling me from the school.their philosophy only recognizes relations based on animal desire.the wide field of strong attachment where

desire plays, at least, only a secondary part,is ignored by them—the part of—who is it?—venus urania."her being able to talk learnedly showed that she was mistress of herself again; and beforethey parted she had almost regained her vivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner,and her second-thought attitude of critical largeness towards others of her age and sex.he could speak more freely now. "there were several reasons against my tellingyou rashly. one was what i have said; another, that itwas always impressed upon me that i ought not to marry—that i belonged to an odd andpeculiar family—the wrong breed for marriage." "ah—who used to say that to you?""my great-aunt. she said it always ended badly

with us fawleys.""that's strange. my father used to say the same to me!"they stood possessed by the same thought, ugly enough, even as an assumption: that aunion between them, had such been possible, would have meant a terrible intensificationof unfitness—two bitters in one dish. "oh, but there can't be anything in it!" shesaid with nervous lightness. "our family have been unlucky of late yearsin choosing mates—that's all." and then they pretended to persuade themselvesthat all that had happened was of no consequence, and that they could still be cousins and friendsand warm correspondents, and have happy genial times when they met, even if they met lessfrequently than before.

their parting was in good friendship, andyet jude's last look into her eyes was tinged with inquiry, for he felt that he did noteven now quite know her mind. end of chapter vi

Thus articles standard furniture apollo round dining table

A few standard furniture apollo round dining table, hopefully can provide benefits to all of you. Okay, so this time the post furniture stands..

You're reading an article standard furniture apollo round dining table and this article is a url permalink https://furniturestands.blogspot.com/2017/03/standard-furniture-apollo-round-dining.html Hopefully this article This could be useful.

Tweet