Jude the Obscure Thomas Hardy (read after .txt) 📖

be hypocrisy to pretend that it would be 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 anyhow but as she did appear; essentially large-minded and generous on reflection, despite a previous exercise 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, and wanted to be your wife, even if there had been no obstacle,” said Sue, with a gentle seriousness which did not reveal her mind. “And then we are cousins, and it is bad for cousins 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 round us would have made it unable to continue. Their views of the relations of man and woman are 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 before they 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 telling you rashly. One was what I have said; another, that it was always impressed upon me that I ought not to marry⁠—that I belonged to an odd and peculiar 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 a union between them, had such been possible, would have meant a terrible intensification of unfitness⁠—two bitters in one dish.

“O but there can’t be anything in it!” she said with nervous lightness. “Our family have been unlucky of late years in choosing mates⁠—that’s all.”

And then they pretended to persuade themselves that all that had happened was of no consequence, and that they could still be cousins and friends and warm correspondents, and have happy genial times when they met, even if they met less frequently than before. Their parting was in good friendship, and yet Jude’s last look into her eyes was tinged with inquiry, for he felt that he did not even now quite know her mind.

VII

Tidings from Sue a day or two after passed across Jude like a withering blast.

Before reading the letter he was led to suspect that its contents were of a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the signature⁠—which was in her full name, never used in her correspondence with him since her first note:

My dear Jude,⁠—I have something to tell you which perhaps you will not be surprised to hear, though certainly it may strike you as being accelerated (as the railway companies say of their trains). Mr. Phillotson and I are to be married quite soon⁠—in three or four weeks. We had intended, as you know, to wait till I had gone through my course of training and obtained my certificate, so as to assist him, if necessary, in the teaching. But he generously says he does not see any object in waiting, now I am not at the Training School. It is so good of him, because the awkwardness of my situation has really come about by my fault in getting expelled.

Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn’t refuse!⁠—Your affectionate cousin, Susanna Florence Mary Bridehead.

Jude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on drinking tea because his mouth was so dry. Then presently he went back to his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so confronted. Everything seemed turning to satire. And yet, what could the poor girl do? he asked himself: and felt worse than shedding tears.

“O Susanna Florence Mary!” he said as he worked. “You don’t know what marriage means!”

Could it be possible that his announcement of his own marriage had pricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in liquor may have pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to exist these other and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for her decision; but Sue was not a very practical or calculating person; and he was compelled to think that a pique at having his secret sprung upon her had moved her to give way to Phillotson’s probable representations, that the best course to prove how unfounded were the suspicions of the school authorities would be to marry him offhand, as in fulfilment of an ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awkward corner. Poor Sue!

He determined to play the Spartan; to make the best of it, and support her; but he could not write the requested good wishes for a day or two. Meanwhile there came another note from his impatient little dear:

Jude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could do it so conveniently as you, being the only married relation I have here on the spot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing, which he isn’t. I hope you won’t