"What--marry him?"

"Yes."

"Regularly--legally--in church?"

"Yes. And lived with him till shortly before I left. It was stupid,

I know; but I did! There, now I've told you. Don't round upon me!

He talks of coming back to England, poor old chap. But if he does,

he won't be likely to find me."

Jude stood pale and fixed.

"Why the devil didn't you tell me last, night!" he said.

"Well--I didn't... Won't you make it up with me, then?"

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"So in talking of 'your husband' to the bar gentlemen you meant him,

of course--not me!"

"Of course... Come, don't fuss about it."

"I have nothing more to say!" replied Jude. "I have nothing at all

to say about the--crime--you've confessed to!"

"Crime! Pooh. They don't think much of such as that over there!

Lots of 'em do it... Well, if you take it like that I shall go back

to him! He was very fond of me, and we lived honourable enough, and

as respectable as any married couple in the colony! How did I know

where you were?"

"I won't go blaming you. I could say a good deal; but perhaps it

would be misplaced. What do you wish me to do?"

"Nothing. There was one thing more I wanted to tell you; but I fancy

we've seen enough of one another for the present! I shall think over

what you said about your circumstances, and let you know."

Thus they parted. Jude watched her disappear in the direction of

the hotel, and entered the railway station close by. Finding that

it wanted three-quarters of an hour of the time at which he could

get a train back to Alfredston, he strolled mechanically into the

city as far as to the Fourways, where he stood as he had so often

stood before, and surveyed Chief Street stretching ahead, with its

college after college, in picturesqueness unrivalled except by such

Continental vistas as the Street of Palaces in Genoa; the lines

of the buildings being as distinct in the morning air as in an

architectural drawing. But Jude was far from seeing or criticizing

these things; they were hidden by an indescribable consciousness of

Arabella's midnight contiguity, a sense of degradation at his revived

experiences with her, of her appearance as she lay asleep at dawn,

which set upon his motionless face a look as of one accurst. If he

could only have felt resentment towards her he would have been less

unhappy; but he pitied while he contemned her.




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