They went quietly out of the house, Jude accompanying her to the station. As they departed along the street a head was softly thrust out of an upper window, and quickly withdrawn. Sue still seemed sorry for her rashness, and to wish she had not rebelled, telling him at parting that she would let him know as soon as she got readmitted to the Training-School. They stood rather miserably together on the platform, and it was apparent that he wanted to say more.
"I want to tell you something—two things," he said, hurriedly, as the train came up. One is a warm one, the other a cold one!"
"Jude," she said, "I know one of them. And you mustn't!"
"What?"
"You mustn't love me. You are to like me—that's all!"
Jude's face became so full of complicated glooms that hers was agitated in sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carriage window. And then the train moved on, and, waving her pretty hand to him, she vanished away.
Melchester was a dismal place enough for Jude that Sunday of her departure, and the Close so hateful that he did not go once to the Cathedral services. The next morning there came a letter from her, which, with her usual promptitude, she had written directly she had reached her friend's house. She told him of her safe arrival and comfortable quarters, and then added:
"What I really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at parting. You had been so very good and kind to me that when you were out of sight I felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman I was to say it, and it has reproached me ever since. If you want to love me, Jude, you may: I don't mind at all; and I'll never say again that you mustn't!
