Jude the Obscure (Oxford World's Classics)

Jude the Obscure
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barmaid for a brief term. She had no sooner opened the door of the
‘Private Bar’ than her eyes fell upon him––sitting in the shade at the
back of the compartment, with his eyes 
fixed on the floor in a blank
stare. He was drinking nothing stronger than ale just then. He did
not observe her, and she entered and sat beside him.
Jude looked up, and said without surprise: ‘You’ve come to have
something, Arabella? . . . I’m trying to forget her: that’s all. But I
can’t; and I am going home.’ She saw that he was a little way on in
liquor, but only a little as yet.
‘I’ve come entirely to look for you, dear boy. You are not well.
Now you must have something better than that.’ Arabella held up
her 
finger to the barmaid. ‘You shall have a liqueur––that’s better fit
for a man of education than beer. You shall have maraschino, or
curaçoa dry or sweet, or cherry brandy. I’ll treat you, poor chap.’
‘I don’t care which––say cherry brandy. . . . Sue has served me
badly, very badly. I didn’t expect it of Sue! I stuck to her, and she
ought to have stuck to me. I’d have sold my soul for her sake, but she
wouldn’t risk hers a jot for me. To save her own soul she lets mine go
damn! . . . But it isn’t her fault, poor little girl––I am sure it isn’t!’
How Arabella had obtained money did not appear but she ordered
a liqueur each, and paid for them. When they had drunk these
Arabella suggested another; and Jude had the pleasure of being as it
were personally conducted through the varieties of spirituous
delectation by one who knew the landmarks well. Arabella kept
very considerably in the rear of Jude; but though she only sipped
where he drank, she took as much as she could safely take without
losing her head––which was not a little, as the crimson upon her
countenance showed.
Her tone towards him to-night was uniformly soothing and cajol-
ing; and whenever he said ‘I don’t care what happens to me,’ a thing
he did continually, she replied, ‘But I do very much!’ The closing
hour came, and they were compelled to turn out; whereupon
Arabella put her arm round his waist, and guided his unsteady
footsteps.
When they were in the streets she said: ‘I don’t know what our
landlord will say to my bringing you home in this state. I expect we
are fastened out, so that he’ll have to come down and let us in.’
‘I don’t know––I don’t know.’
‘That’s the worst of not having a home of your own. I tell you,
At Christminster Again
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Jude, what we had best do. Come round to my father’s––I made it up
with him a bit to-day. I can let you in, and nobody will see you at all;
and by to-morrow morning you’ll be all right.’
‘Anything––anywhere,’ replied Jude. ‘What the devil does it mat-
ter to me.’
They went along together, like any other fuddling couple, her arm
still round his waist, and his, at last, round hers; though with no
amatory intent; but merely because he was weary, unstable, and in
need of support.
‘This––is th’ Martyrs’––burning-place,’ he stammered as they
dragged across a broad street. ‘I remember––in old Fuller’s Holy
State––and I am reminded of it––by our passing by here–– old Fuller
in his Holy State* says, that at the burning of Ridley, Doctor Smith––
preached sermon, and took as his text “Though I give my body to be
burned, and have not charity, it pro
fiteth me nothing.”*––Often think
of it as I pass here. Ridley was a——’
‘Yes. Exactly. Very thoughtful of you, deary, even though it hasn’t
much to do with our present business.’
‘Why, yes it has! I’m giving my body to be burned! But––ah––you
don’t understand!––it wants Sue to understand such things! And I
was her seducer––poor little girl! And she’s gone––and I don’t care
about myself ! Do what you like with me! . . . And yet she did it for
conscience’ sake, poor little Sue!’
‘Hang her!––I mean, I think she was right,’ hiccupped Arabella.
‘I’ve my feelings too, like her; and I feel I belong to you in Heaven’s
eye, and to nobody else, till death us do part! It is––hic––never too
late––hic––to mend.’
They had reached her father’s house, and she softly unfastened
the door, groping about for a light within.
The circumstances were not altogether unlike those of their entry
into the cottage at Cresscombe, such a long time before. Nor were
perhaps Arabella’s motives. But Jude did not think of that, though
she did.
‘I can’t 
find the matches, dear,’ she said when she had fastened up
the door. ‘But never mind––this way. As quiet as you can, please.’
‘It is as dark as pitch,’ said Jude.
‘Give me your hand, and I’ll lead you. That’s it. Just sit down
here, and I’ll pull o
ff your boots. I don’t want to wake him.’
‘Who?’