苏沉默下来，陷入深思，过了会儿又说：
“也许他们走了是件大好事——是呀，我看是这样，与其以后看着他们令人伤心地枯萎下去，倒不如趁着他们新鲜劲儿采摘下来还好些吧。”
“是这样啊。”裘德回答说。“有人说总有那么一天，长辈看着孩子在襁褓中死掉，心里会高兴呢。”
“但是他们实际不理解啊！……哦，我的宝贝儿，宝贝儿啊，你们这会儿活着够多好呀！你可以说大孩子想死，要不然他就不会干那样的事。他这样死不算情理之外，多少跟他治不好的天生悲观有关系，可怜的小东西！但是那两个呢——我自己生的孩子，也是你的孩子，那可不一样啊！”
苏又望着挂着的连衣裙，望着袜子和鞋，浑身哆嗦得像根弦。“我是个可怜虫啊！”她说。“天不留地不要啦！真把我逼疯啦！该怎么办哪！”她盯着裘德，紧紧握着他的手。
“没有办法啦。”他回答说。“命中注定，在劫难逃，也只能这样收场了。”
她停了一下。“不错！这话谁说的？”她难过地问。
“这话是《阿迦门农》合唱里的一句。打事情一出来，我就一直念叨着这句话。”
“我的可怜的裘德——你真是妙手空空啊——你比我还苦啊，因为我总算还有你哪！可怜你一无依傍，全靠苦读，学有所成，到头来还是穷愁潦倒，前途无望，真叫人想不通呀！”
谈话把她的悲苦心情暂时岔开了一会儿，可是她又猛然伤痛起来。
恰好验尸组如时到了，他们看了尸体，按规定验了尸；随后就到了凄惨的送葬的清晨。经过报上一传，爱看热闹的闲人都给引到了出事现场，他们站着没事，就数窗户上有多少块玻璃、墙上有多少块石头。裘德夫妇不明不白的关系更给他们的好奇心添油加醋。苏说过了，她要送两个小的到坟地，但是临走之前，她撑不住了，只好躺下来，趁这时候，他们把棺材悄悄抬出了房子。裘德一上运尸车，就把它赶走了。房东于是大大松了口气，眼下他只剩下苏和她的行李要处理掉，他希望到下半天房子就一切恢复原状。他老婆因为不走运，招进来这家子，这礼拜弄得他的房子声名狼藉，这下子完全可以洗清了。下午他偷偷跟房子的产权人商量了一番，两人都同意，要是因为房子里发生过惨剧，社会上对它有成见，敬而远之，他们就要想方设法把它的门牌号数换一个。
裘德看着两个小棺材——一个装小裘德，一个装两个小点的孩子——放到墓穴里，跟着赶快往回奔去看苏，她还在自己屋里躺着，他也就没惊动她。可是他老是放心不下，四点钟光景又回去了。房东太太还当她还在屋里，可是看了一下，就下来告诉裘德她不在屋里。她的帽子跟上衣也没了，这说明她出去了。裘德急忙跑到他住的那家客店，她也不在那儿。他琢磨可能发生的情况之后，就顺着大路，直奔公墓，一进门就横插过去，径直到棺材下葬的地方。那些因为出了惨剧而跟着来看热闹的人已经散了。一个人拿着铁锹正朝埋三个孩子的坟里填土，但是在填了一半的坑旁边，有个女人抓着他胳臂不放，求他别填。那正是苏。她根本就没想到把她的带颜色的衣服脱下来，换上裘德替她买的丧服，可是即便她跟一般丧失子女的人一样从俗换上丧服，那也不像她穿着现在这样的衣服把她的悲痛表现得如此之深。
“他要把他们埋了，这不行啊，我还要看我的孩子！”她一看见裘德就疯了似地哭喊着。“我要再看一遍。哦，裘德，开开恩吧，我要看他们。我不知道你趁我睡着了，就叫人把他们抬走啦！你说过，他们的棺材没上钉的时候，我还可以再看一遍，可你说话不算数，你把他们抬走啦！哦，裘德呀，你对我也忍心哪！”
“她要我把棺材再挖出来，让她撬开棺材。”拿铁锹的人说。“瞧她这样儿，你得把她弄回家才行。可怜的东西，她这简直是胡来嘛。太太，棺材可不能再挖出来。你还是跟你丈夫回家吧，忍着点吧，感谢上帝，你又快有孩子啦，那就别管多伤心也都冲掉啦。”
但是苏苦苦哀求没个完：“让我看一遍吧——就一遍哟，行不行啊？就那么一丁点工夫，裘德呀？没一会儿就行啦！那我也就安下心啦，裘德！裘德，你要是再让我看，我以后什么都好说好办，什么都听你的。一看了，我就跟没事儿一样回家啦，以后再也不想啦，行不行呀？干吗不行哪！”
她没完没了地央告，裘德心痛如割，他几乎要那个工人答应再把棺材起出来。但是那样一来，不单毫无好处，还可能叫她的情形更糟下去。他明白他得当机立断，先把她立刻弄回家。于是耐下心，劝她，哄她，温存体贴地跟她悄悄说话，抱着她，好让她有个依靠；后来她也闹不下去了，听他的话，离开了公墓。
他想找辆轻便马车送她，可是他们的境况如此之窘，她不许他这样。两个人就一路慢慢走回去，裘德一身黑，她一身褐加红。他们要在下午搬到新住处，但是裘德觉得眼下不大行得通，于是他们就不经意地走进了他们现在打心里憎恶的房子。苏立刻躺下来，裘德出去请大夫。
裘德整晚上都在楼下等着。很晚了，人家才告诉他，胎儿早产，成了死胎，是跟前面三个孩子一样的尸体。
Part 6 Chapter 3
SUE was convalescent, though she had hoped for death, and Jude had again obtained work at his old trade. They were in other lodgings now, in the direction of Beersheba, and not far from the Church of Ceremonies-- Saint Silas.
They would sit silent, more bodeful of the direct antagonism of things than of their insensate and stolid obstructiveness. Vague and quaint imaginings had haunted Sue in the days when her intellect scintillated like a star, that the world resembled a stanza or melody composed in a dream; it was wonderfully excellent to the half-aroused intelligence, but hopelessly absurd at the full waking; that the first cause worked automatically like a somnambulist, and not reflectively like a sage; that at the framing of the terrestrial conditions there seemed never to have been contemplated such a development of emotional perceptiveness among the creatures subject to those conditions as that reached by thinking and educated humanity. But affliction makes opposing forces loom anthropomorphous; and those ideas were now exchanged for a sense of Jude and herself fleeing from a persecutor.
"We must conform!" she said mournfully. "All the ancient wrath of the Power above us has been vented upon us. His poor creatures, and we must submit. There is no choice. We must. It is no use fighting against God!"
"It is only against man and senseless circumstance," said Jude.
"True!" she murmured. "What have I been thinking of! I am getting as superstitious as a savage! ... But whoever or whatever our foe may be, I am cowed into submission. I have no more fighting strength left; no more enterprise. I am beaten, beaten! ... 'We are made a spectacle unto the world, and to angels, and to men!' I am always saying that now."
"I feel the same!"
"What shall we do? You are in work now; but remember, it may only be because our history and relations are not absolutely known.... Possibly, if they knew our marriage had not been formalized they would turn you out of your job as they did at Aldbrickham!"
"I hardly know. Perhaps they would hardly do that. However, I think that we ought to make it legal now--as soon as you are able to go out."
"You think we ought?"
"Certainly."
And Jude fell into thought. "I have seemed to myself lately," he said, "to belong to that vast band of men shunned by the virtuous-- the men called seducers. It amazes me when I think of it! I have not been conscious of it, or of any wrongdoing towards you, whom I love more than myself. Yet I am one of those men! I wonder if any other of them are the same purblind, simple creatures as I? ... Yes, Sue--that's what I am. I seduced you.... You were a distinct type--a refined creature, intended by Nature to be left intact. But I couldn't leave you alone!"
"No, no, Jude!" she said quickly. "Don't reproach yourself with being what you are not. If anybody is to blame it is I."
"I supported you in your resolve to leave Phillotson; and without me perhaps you wouldn't have urged him to let you go."
"I should have, just the same. As to ourselves, the fact of our not having entered into a legal contract is the saving feature in our union. We have thereby avoided insulting, as it were, the solemnity of our first marriages."
"Solemnity?" Jude looked at her with some surprise, and grew conscious that she was not the Sue of their earlier time.
"Yes," she said, with a little quiver in her words, "I have had dreadful fears, a dreadful sense of my own insolence of action. I have thought--that I am still his wife!"
"Whose?"
"Richard's."
"Good God, dearest!--why?"
"Oh I can't explain! Only the thought comes to me."
"It is your weakness--a sick fancy, without reason or meaning! Don't let it trouble you."
Sue sighed uneasily.
As a set-off against such discussions as these there had come an improvement in their pecuniary position, which earlier in their experience would have made them cheerful. Jude had quite unexpectedly found good employment at his old trade almost directly he arrived, the summer weather suiting his fragile constitution; and outwardly his days went on with that monotonous uniformity which is in itself so grateful after vicissitude. People seemed to have forgotten that he had ever shown any awkward aberrancies: and he daily mounted to the parapets and copings of colleges he could never enter, and renewed the crumbling freestones of mullioned windows he would never look from, as if he had known no wish to do otherwise.
There was this change in him; that he did not often go to any service at the churches now. One thing troubled him more than any other; that Sue and himself had mentally travelled in opposite directions since the tragedy: events which had enlarged his own views of life, laws, customs, and dogmas, had not operated in the same manner on Sue's. She was no longer the same as in the independent days, when her intellect played like lambent lightning over conventions and formalities which he at that time respected, though he did not now.
On a particular Sunday evening he came in rather late. She was not at home, but she soon returned, when he found her silent and meditative.
"What are you thinking of, little woman?" he asked curiously.
"Oh I can't tell clearly! I have thought that we have been selfish, careless, even impious, in our courses, you and I. Our life has been a vain attempt at self-delight. But self-abnegation is the higher road. We should mortify the flesh--the terrible flesh--the curse of Adam!"
"Sue!" he murmured. "What has come over you?"
"We ought to be continually sacrificing ourselves on the altar of duty! But I have always striven to do what has pleased me. I well deserved the scourging I have got! I wish something would take the evil right out of me, and all my monstrous errors, and all my sinful ways!"
"Sue--my own too suffering dear!--there's no evil woman in you. Your natural instincts are perfectly healthy; not quite so impassioned, perhaps, as I could wish; but good, and dear, and pure. And as I have often said, you are absolutely the most ethereal, least sensual woman I ever knew to exist without inhuman sexlessness. Why do you talk in such a changed way? We have not been selfish, except when no one could profit by our being otherwise. You used to say that human nature was noble and long-suffering, not vile and corrupt, and at last I thought you spoke truly. And now you seem to take such a much lower view!"
"I want a humble heart; and a chastened mind; and I have never had them yet!"
"You have been fearless, both as a thinker and as a feeler, and you deserved more admiration than I gave. I was too full of narrow dogmas at that time to see it."
"Don't say that, Jude! I wish my every fearless word and thought could be rooted out of my history. Self-renunciation--that's everything! I cannot humiliate myself too much. I should like to prick myself all over with pins and bleed out the badness that's in me!"
"Hush!" he said, pressing her little face against his breast as if she were an infant. "It is bereavement that has brought you to this! Such remorse is not for you, my sensitive plant, but for the wicked ones of the earth--who never feel it!"
"I ought not to stay like this," she murmured, when she had remained in the position a long while.
"Why not?"
"It is indulgence."
"Still on the same tack! But is there anything better on earth than that we should love one another?"
"Yes. It depends on the sort of love; and yours--ours is the wrong."
"I won't have it, Sue! Come, when do you wish our marriage to be signed in a vestry?"
She paused, and looked up uneasily. "Never," she whispered.
Not knowing the whole of her meaning he took the objection serenely, and said nothing. Several minutes elapsed, and he thought she had fallen asleep; but he spoke softly, and found that she was wide awake all the time. She sat upright and sighed.
"There is a strange, indescribable perfume or atmosphere about you to-night, Sue," he said. "I mean not only mentally, but about your clothes, also. A sort of vegetable scent, which I seem to know, yet cannot remember."
"It is incense."
"Incense?"
"I have been to the service at St. Silas', and I was in the fumes of it."
"Oh--St. Silas'."
"Yes. I go there sometimes."
"Indeed. You go there!"
"You see, Jude, it is lonely here in the weekday mornings, when you are at work, and I think and think of--of my--" She stopped till she could control the lumpiness of her throat. "And I have taken to go in there, as it is so near."
"Oh well--of course, I say nothing against it. Only it is odd, for you. They little think what sort of chiel is amang them!"
"What do you mean, Jude?"
"Well--a sceptic, to be plain."
"How can you pain me so, dear Jude, in my trouble! Yet I know you didn't mean it. But you ought not to say that."
"I won't. But I am much surprised!"
"Well--I want to tell you something else, Jude. You won't be angry, will you? I have thought of it a good deal since my babies died. I don't think I ought to be your wife--or as your wife-- any longer."
"What? ... But you ARE!"
"From your point of view; but--"
"Of course we were afraid of the ceremony, and a good many others would have been in our places, with such strong reasons for fears. But experience has proved how we misjudged ourselves, and overrated our infirmities; and if you are beginning to respect rites and ceremonies, as you seem to be, I wonder you don't say it shall be carried out instantly? You certainly ARE my wife, Sue, in all but law. What do you mean by what you said?"
"I don't think I am!"
"Not? But suppose we HAD gone through the ceremony? Would you feel that you were then?"
"No. I should not feel even then that I was. I should feel worse than I do now."
"Why so--in the name of all that's perverse, my dear?"
"Because I am Richard's."
"Ah--you hinted that absurd fancy to me before!"
"It was only an impression with me then; I feel more and more convinced as time goes on that--I belong to him, or to nobody."
"My good heavens--how we are changing places!"
"Yes. Perhaps so."
Some few days later, in the dusk of the summer evening, they were sitting in the same small room down-stairs, when a knock came to the front door of the carpenter's house where they were lodging, and in a few moments there was a tap at the door of their room. Before they could open it the comer did so, and a woman's form appeared.
"Is Mr. Fawley here?"
Jude and Sue started as he mechanically replied in the affirmative, for the voice was Arabella's.
He formally requested her to come in, and she sat down in the window bench, where they could distinctly see her outline against the light; but no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general aspect and air. Yet something seemed to denote that she was not quite so comfortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly attired, as she had been during Cartlett's lifetime.
The three attempted an awkward conversation about the tragedy, of which Jude had felt it to be his duty to inform her immediately, though she had never replied to his letter.
"I have just come from the cemetery," she said. "I inquired and found the child's grave. I couldn't come to the funeral-- thank you for inviting me all the same. I read all about it in the papers, and I felt I wasn't wanted.... No--I couldn't come to the funeral," repeated Arabella, who, seeming utterly unable to reach the ideal of a catastrophic manner, fumbled with iterations. "But I am glad I found the grave. As 'tis your trade, Jude, you'll be able to put up a handsome stone to 'em."
"I shall put up a headstone," said Jude drearily.
"He was my child, and naturally I feel for him."
"I hope so. We all did."
"The others that weren't mine I didn't feel so much for, as was natural."
"Of course."
A sigh came from the dark corner where Sue sat.
"I had often wished I had mine with me," continued Mrs. Cartlett. "Perhaps 'twouldn't have happened then! But of course I didn't wish to take him away from your wife."
