III
SUE'S distressful confession recurred to Jude's mind all the night as being
a sorrow indeed.
The morning after, when it was time for her to go, the neighbours
saw her companion and herself disappearing on foot down the hill
path which led into the lonely road to Alfredston. An hour
passed before he returned along the same route, and in his face
there was a look of exaltation not unmixed with recklessness.
An incident had occurred.
They had stood parting in the silent highway, and their tense
and passionate moods had led to bewildered inquiries of each
other on how far their intimacy ought to go; till they had
almost quarrelled, and she said tearfully that it was hardly
proper of him as a parson in embryo to think of such a thing
as kissing her even in farewell as he now wished to do.
Then she had conceded that the fact of the kiss would be nothing:
all would depend upon the spirit of it. If given in
the spirit of a cousin and a friend she saw no objection:
if in the spirit of a lover she could not permit it.
"Will you swear that it will not be in that spirit?"
she had said.
No: he would not. And then they had turned from each other
in estrangement, and gone their several ways, till at a distance
of twenty or thirty yards both had looked round simultaneously.
That look behind was fatal to the reserve hitherto more
or less maintained. They had quickly run back, and met,
and embracing most unpremeditatedly, kissed close and long.
When they parted for good it was with flushed cheeks on her side,
and a beating heart on his.
The kiss was a turning-point in Jude's career. Back again
in the cottage, and left to reflection, he saw one thing:
that though his kiss of that aerial being had seemed the purest
moment of his faultful life, as long as he nourished this
unlicensed tenderness it was glaringly inconsistent for him to
pursue the idea of becoming the soldier and servant of a religion
in which sexual love was regarded as at its best a frailty,
and at its worst damnation. What Sue had said in warmth
was really the cold truth. When to defend his affection
tooth and nail, to persist with headlong force in impassioned
attentions to her, was all he thought of, he was condemned
IPSO FACTO as a professor of the accepted school of morals.
He was as unfit, obviously, by nature, as he had been
by social position, to fill the part of a propounder of
accredited dogma.
Strange that his first aspiration--towards academical proficiency--
had been checked by a woman, and that his second aspiration--
towards apostleship--had also been checked by a woman. "Is it,"
he said, "that the women are to blame; or is it the artificial system
of things, under which the normal sex-impulses are turned into devilish
domestic gins and springs to noose and hold back those who want
to progress?"
It had been his standing desire to become a prophet, however humble,
to his struggling fellow-creatures, without any thought of personal gain.
Yet with a wife living away from him with another husband, and himself
in love erratically, the loved one's revolt against her state being
possibly on his account, he had sunk to be barely respectable according to
regulation views.
It was not for him to consider further: he had only to confront the obvious,
which was that he had made himself quite an impostor as a law-abiding
religious teacher.
At dusk that evening he went into the garden and dug a shallow hole, to which
he brought out all the theological and ethical works that he possessed,
and had stored here. He knew that, in this country of true believers,
most of them were not saleable at a much higher price than waste-paper value,
and preferred to get rid of them in his own way, even if he should sacrifice
a little money to the sentiment of thus destroying them. Lighting some loose
pamphlets to begin with, he cut the volumes into pieces as well as he could,
and with a three-pronged fork shook them over the flames. They kindled,
and lighted up the back of the house, the pigsty, and his own face, till they
were more or less consumed.
Though he was almost a stranger here now, passing cottagers
talked to him over the garden hedge.
"Burning up your awld aunt's rubbidge, I suppose? Ay; a lot gets heaped up
in nooks and corners when you've lived eighty years in one house."
It was nearly one o'clock in the morning before the leaves, covers,
and binding of Jeremy Taylor, Butler, Doddridge, Paley, Pusey, Newman and
the rest had gone to ashes, but the night was quiet, and as he turned
and turned the paper shreds with the fork, the sense of being no longer
a hypocrite to himself afforded his mind a relief which gave him calm.
He might go on believing as before, but he professed nothing, and no
longer owned and exhibited engines of faith which, as their proprietor,
he might naturally be supposed to exercise on himself first of all.
In his passion for Sue he could not stand as an ordinary sinner, and not
as a whited sepulchre.
Meanwhile Sue, after parting from him earlier in the day, had gone along to
the station, with tears in her eyes for having run back and let him kiss her.
Jude ought not to have pretended that he was not a lover, and made her give
way to an impulse to act unconventionally, if not wrongly. She was inclined
to call it the latter; for Sue's logic was extraordinarily compounded,
and seemed to maintain that before a thing was done it might be right to do,
but that being done it became wrong; or, in other words, that things which
were right in theory were wrong in practice.
"I have been too weak, I think!" she jerked out as she pranced on,
shaking down tear-drops now and then. "It was burning,
like a lover's--oh, it was! And I won't write to him any more,
or at least for a long time, to impress him with my dignity!
And I hope it will hurt him very much--expecting a letter
to-morrow morning, and the next, and the next, and no letter coming.
He'll suffer then with suspense--won't he, that's all!--and I am
very glad of it!"--Tears of pity for Jude's approaching sufferings
at her hands mingled with those which had surged up in pity
for herself.
Then the slim little wife or a husband whose person was disagreeable to her,
the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl, quite unfitted by temperament and
instinct to fulfil the conditions of the matrimonial relation with Phillotson,
possibly with scarce any man, walked fitfully along, and panted, and brought
weariness into her eyes by gazing and worrying hopelessly.
Phillotson met her at the arrival station, and, seeing that she
was troubled, thought it must be owing to the depressing effect
of her aunt's death and funeral. He began telling her of his
day's doings, and how his friend Gillingham, a neighbouring
schoolmaster whom he had not seen for years, had called upon him.
While ascending to the town, seated on the top of the omnibus
beside him, she said suddenly and with an air of self-chastisement,
regarding the white road and its bordering bushes of hazel:
"Richard--I let Mr. Fawley hold my hand a long while.
I don't know whether you think it wrong?"
He, waking apparently from thoughts of far different mould,
said vaguely, "Oh, did you? What did you do that for?"
"I don't know. He wanted to, and I let him."
"I hope it pleased him. I should think it was hardly a novelty."
They lapsed into silence. Had this been a case in the court of an
omniscient judge, he might have entered on his notes the curious
fact that Sue had placed the minor for the major indiscretion,
and had not said a word about the kiss.
After tea that evening Phillotson sat balancing the school registers.
She remained in an unusually silent, tense, and restless condition,
and at last, saying she was tired, went to bed early. When Phillotson
arrived upstairs, weary with the drudgery of the attendance-numbers, it
was a quarter to twelve o'clock. Entering their chamber, which by day
commanded a view of some thirty or forty miles over the Vale of Blackmoor,
and even into Outer Wessex, he went to the window, and, pressing his face
against the pane, gazed with hard-breathing fixity into the mysterious
darkness which now covered the far-reaching scene. He was musing, "I think,"
he said at last, without turning his head, "that I must get the committee
to change the school-stationer. All the copybooks are sent wrong
this time."
There was no reply. Thinking Sue was dozing he went on:
"And there must be a rearrangement of that ventilator in the class-room. The
wind blows down upon my head unmercifully and gives me the ear-ache."
As the silence seemed more absolute than ordinarily he turned round.
The heavy, gloomy oak wainscot, which extended over the walls
upstairs and down in the dilapidated "Old-Grove Place,"
and the massive chimney-piece reaching to the ceiling,
stood in odd contrast to the new and shining brass bedstead,
and the new suite of birch furniture that he had bought for her,
the two styles seeming to nod to each other across three centuries
upon the shaking floor.
"Soo!" he said (this being the way in which he pronounced her name).
She was not in the bed, though she had apparently been there--
the clothes on her side being flung back. Thinking she
might have forgotten some kitchen detail and gone downstairs
for a moment to see to it, he pulled off his coat and idled
quietly enough for a few minutes, when, finding she did not come,
he went out upon the landing, candle in hand, and said
again "Soo!"
"Yes!" came back to him in her voice, from the distant kitchen quarter.
"What are you doing down there at midnight--tiring yourself out for nothing!"
"I am not sleepy; I am reading; and there is a larger fire here."
He went to bed. Some time in the night he awoke. She was not there,
even now. Lighting a candle he hastily stepped out upon the landing,
and again called her name.
She answered "Yes!" as before, but the tones were small and confined,
and whence they came he could not at first understand.
Under the staircase was a large clothes-closet, without a window;
they seemed to come from it. The door was shut, but there was no
lock or other fastening. Phillotson, alarmed, went towards it,
wondering if she had suddenly become deranged.
"What are you doing in there?" he asked.
"Not to disturb you I came here, as it was so late."
"But there's no bed, is there? And no ventilation! Why, you'll be suffocated
if you stay all night!"
"Oh no, I think not. Don't trouble about me."
"But--" Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door.
She had fastened it inside with a piece of string, which broke
at his pull. There being no bedstead she had flung down some rugs
and made a little nest for herself in the very cramped quarters
the closet afforded.
When he looked in upon her she sprang out of her lair,
great-eyed and trembling.
"You ought not to have pulled open the door!" she cried excitedly.
"It is not becoming in you! Oh, will you go away; please will you!"
She looked so pitiful and pleading in her white nightgown
against the shadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried.
She continued to beseech him not to disturb her.
He said: "I've been kind to you, and given you every liberty;
and it is monstrous that you should feel in this way!"
"Yes," said she, weeping. "I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me,
I suppose! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am
to blame!"
"Who is then? Am l?"
"No--I don't know! The universe, I suppose--things in general,
because they are so horrid and cruel!"
"Well, it is no use talking like that. Making a man's house so
unseemly at this time o' night! Eliza will hear if we don't mind."
(He meant the servant.) "Just think if either of the parsons in this
town was to see us now! I hate such eccentricities, Sue. There's no
order or regularity in your sentiments! ... But I won't intrude on
you further; only I would advise you not to shut the door too tight,
or I shall find you stifled to-morrow."
On rising the next morning he immediately looked into the closet,
but Sue had already gone downstairs. There was a little nest
where she had lain, and spiders' webs hung overhead. "What must
a woman's aversion be when it is stronger than her fear of spiders!"
he said bitterly.
He found her sitting at the breakfast-table, and the meal began
almost in silence, the burghers walking past upon the pavement--
or rather roadway, pavements being scarce here--which was
two or three feet above the level of the parlour floor.
They nodded down to the happy couple their morning greetings,
as they went on.
"Richard," she said all at once; "would you mind my living away from you?"
"Away from me? Why, that's what you were doing when I married you.
What then was the meaning of marrying at all?"
"You wouldn't like me any the better for telling you."
"I don't object to know."
"Because I thought I could do nothing else. You had got my
promise a long time before that, remember. Then, as time went on,
I regretted I had promised you, and was trying to see an honourable
way to break it off. But as I couldn't I became rather reckless
and careless about the conventions. Then you know what scandals
were spread, and how I was turned out of the training school you
had taken such time and trouble to prepare me for and get me into;
and this frightened me and it seemed then that the one thing I
could do would be to let the engagement stand. Of course I,
of all people, ought not to have cared what was said, for it was
just what I fancied I never did care for. But I was a coward--
as so many women are--and my theoretic unconventionality broke down.
If that had not entered into the case it would have been better to
have hurt your feelings once for all then, than to marry you and hurt
them all my life after.... And you were so generous in never giving
credit for a moment to the rumour."
"I am bound in honesty to tell you that I weighed its probability
and inquired of your cousin about it."
"Ah!" she said with pained surprise.
"I didn't doubt you."
"But you inquired!"
"I took his word."
Her eyes had filled. "HE wouldn't have inquired!" she said.
"But you haven't answered me. Will you let me go away?
I know how irregular it is of me to ask it----"
"It is irregular."
"But I do ask it! Domestic laws should be made according to temperaments,
which should be classified. If people are at all peculiar in character they
have to suffer from the very rules that produce comfort in others! ... Will
you let me?"
"But we married"
"What is the use of thinking of laws and ordinances," she burst out,
"if they make you miserable when you know you are committing no sin?"
"But you are committing a sin in not liking me."
"I DO like you! But I didn't reflect it would be--that it would
be so much more than that.... For a man and woman to live on intimate
terms when one feels as I do is adultery, in any circumstances,
however legal. There--I've said it! ... Will you let me, Richard?"
"You distress me, Susanna, by such importunity!"
"Why can't we agree to free each other? We made the compact,
and surely we can cancel it--not legally of course;
but we can morally, especially as no new interests,
in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked after.
Then we might be friends, and meet without pain to either.
Oh Richard, be my friend and have pity! We shall both be
dead in a few years, and then what will it matter to anybody
that you relieved me from constraint for a little while?
I daresay you think me eccentric, or super-sensitive, or
something absurd. Well--why should I suffer for what I was born
to be, if it doesn't hurt other people?"
"But it does--it hurts me! And you vowed to love me."
"Yes--that's it! I am in the wrong. I always am! It is as culpable to bind
yourself to love always as to believe a creed always, and as silly as to vow
always to like a particular food or drink!"
"And do you mean, by living away from me, living by yourself?"
"Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude."
"As his wife?"
"As I choose."
Phillotson writhed.
Sue continued: "She, or he, 'who lets the world, or his own
portion of it, choose his plan of life for him, has no need
of any other faculty than the apelike one of imitation.'
J. S. Mill's words, those are. I have been reading it up.
Why can't you act upon them? I wish to, always."
"What do I care about J. S. Mill!" moaned he. "I only want
to lead a quiet life! Do you mind my saying that I have
guessed what never once occurred to me before our marriage--
that you were in love, and are in love, with Jude Fawley!"
"You may go on guessing that I am, since you have begun.
But do you suppose that if I had been I should have asked you
to let me go and live with him?"
The ringing of the school bell saved Phillotson from the necessity
of replying at present to what apparently did not strike him
as being such a convincing ARGUMENTUM AD VERECUNDIAM as she,
in her loss of courage at the last moment, meant it to appear.
She was beginning to be so puzzling and unstateable that he was ready
to throw in with her other little peculiarities the extremest request
which a wife could make.
They proceeded to the schools that morning as usual, Sue entering
the class-room, where he could see the back of her head through
the glass partition whenever he turned his eyes that way.
As he went on giving and hearing lessons his forehead and eyebrows
twitched from concentrated agitation of thought, till at length
he tore a scrap from a sheet of scribbling paper and wrote:
Your request prevents my attending to work at all. I don't know
what I am doing! Was it seriously made?
He folded the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little
boy to take to Sue. The child toddled off into the class-room.
Phillotson saw his wife turn and take the note, and the bend
of her pretty head as she read it, her lips slightly crisped,
to prevent undue expression under fire of so many young eyes.
He could not see her hands, but she changed her position,
and soon the child returned, bringing nothing in reply.
In a few minutes, however, one of Sue's class appeared,
with a little note similar to his own. These words only were
pencilled therein:
I am sincerely sorry to say that it was seriously made.
Phillotson looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place
of his brows twitched again. In ten minutes he called up the child
he had just sent to her, and dispatched another missive:
God knows I don't want to thwart you in any reasonable way.
My whole thought is to make you comfortable and happy. But I
cannot agree to such a preposterous notion as your going to live
with your lover. You would lose everybody's respect and regard;
and so should I!
After an interval a similar part was enacted in the class-room,
and an answer came:
I know you mean my good. But I don't want to be respectable!
To produce "Human development in its richest diversity"
(to quote your Humboldt) is to my mind far above respectability.
No doubt my tastes are low--in your view--hopelessly low!
If you won t let me go to him, will you grant me this one request--
allow me to live in your house in a separate way?
To this he returned no answer.
She wrote again:
I know what you think. But cannot you have pity on me?
I beg you to; I implore you to be merciful! I would not
ask if I were not almost compelled by what I can't bear!
No poor woman has ever wished more than I that Eve had
not fallen, so that (as the primitive Christians believed)
some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise.
But I won't trifle! Be kind to me--even though I have not been
kind to you! I will go away, go abroad, anywhere, and never
trouble you.
Nearly an hour passed, and then he returned an answer:
I do not wish to pain you. How well you KNOW I don't! Give me a little time.
I am disposed to agree to your last request.
One line from her:
Thank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.
All day Phillotson bent a dazed regard upon her through the glazed partition;
and he felt as lonely as when he had not known her.
But he was as good as his word, and consented to her living
apart in the house. At first, when they met at meals,
she had seemed more composed under the new arrangement;
but the irksomeness of their position worked on her temperament,
and the fibres of her nature seemed strained like harp-strings.
She talked vaguely and indiscriminately to prevent his
talking pertinently.
