"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?"
"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.