Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
VI
In returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phillotsonhad won the interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants,who, though they did not honour him for his miscellaneous acquirementsas he would have been honoured elsewhere, retained for him a sincereregard. When, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a prettywife--awkwardly pretty for him, if he did not take care, theysaid--they were glad to have her settle among them.
For some time after her flight from that home Sue's absence did notexcite comment. Her place as monitor in the school was taken byanother young woman within a few days of her vacating it, whichsubstitution also passed without remark, Sue's services having beenof a provisional nature only. When, however, a month had passed, andPhillotson casually admitted to an acquaintance that he did not knowwhere his wife was staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till,jumping to conclusions, people ventured to affirm that Sue had playedhim false and run away from him. The schoolmaster's growing languorand listlessness over his work gave countenance to the idea.
Though Phillotson had held his tongue as long as he could, except tohis friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would not allow himto do so when misapprehensions as to Sue's conduct spread abroad.On a Monday morning the chairman of the school committee called, andafter attending to the business of the school drew Phillotson asideout of earshot of the children.
”You'll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since everybody is talking ofit: is this true as to your domestic affairs--that your wife's goingaway was on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover? If so, Icondole with you.”
”Don't,” said Phillotson. ”There was no secret about it.”
”She has gone to visit friends?”
”No.”
”Then what has happened?”
”She has gone away under circumstances that usually call forcondolence with the husband. But I gave my consent.”
The chairman looked as if he had not apprehended the remark.
”What I say is quite true,” Phillotson continued testily. ”She askedleave to go away with her lover, and I let her. Why shouldn't I? Awoman of full age, it was a question of her own conscience--not forme. I was not her gaoler. I can't explain any further. I don'twish to be questioned.”
The children observed that much seriousness marked the faces ofthe two men, and went home and told their parents that somethingnew had happened about Mrs. Phillotson. Then Phillotson's littlemaidservant, who was a schoolgirl just out of her standards, saidthat Mr. Phillotson had helped in his wife's packing, had offeredher what money she required, and had written a friendly letter toher young man, telling him to take care of her. The chairman ofcommittee thought the matter over, and talked to the other managersof the school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet themprivately. The meeting lasted a long time, and at the end theschool-master came home, looking as usual pale and worn. Gillinghamwas sitting in his house awaiting him.
”Well; it is as you said,” observed Phillotson, flinging himselfdown wearily in a chair. ”They have requested me to send in myresignation on account of my scandalous conduct in giving my torturedwife her liberty--or, as they call it, condoning her adultery. But Ishan't resign!”
”I think I would.”
”I won't. It is no business of theirs. It doesn't affect me in mypublic capacity at all. They may expel me if they like.”
”If you make a fuss it will get into the papers, and you'll never getappointed to another school. You see, they have to consider whatyou did as done by a teacher of youth--and its effects as such uponthe morals of the town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position isindefensible. You must let me say that.”
To this good advice, however, Phillotson would not listen.
”I don't care,” he said. ”I don't go unless I am turned out. Andfor this reason; that by resigning I acknowledge I have acted wronglyby her; when I am more and more convinced every day that in the sightof Heaven and by all natural, straightforward humanity, I have actedrightly.”
Gillingham saw that his rather headstrong friend would not be able tomaintain such a position as this; but he said nothing further, andin due time--indeed, in a quarter of an hour--the formal letter ofdismissal arrived, the managers having remained behind to write itafter Phillotson's withdrawal. The latter replied that he should notaccept dismissal; and called a public meeting, which he attended,although he looked so weak and ill that his friend implored him tostay at home. When he stood up to give his reasons for contestingthe decision of the managers he advanced them firmly, as he haddone to his friend, and contended, moreover, that the matter was adomestic theory which did not concern them. This they over-ruled,insisting that the private eccentricities of a teacher came quitewithin their sphere of control, as it touched the morals of those hetaught. Phillotson replied that he did not see how an act of naturalcharity could injure morals.
All the respectable inhabitants and well-to-do fellow-natives ofthe town were against Phillotson to a man. But, somewhat to hissurprise, some dozen or more champions rose up in his defence as fromthe ground.
It has been stated that Shaston was the anchorage of a curious andinteresting group of itinerants, who frequented the numerous fairsand markets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumnmonths. Although Phillotson had never spoken to one of thesegentlemen they now nobly led the forlorn hope in his defence.The body included two cheap Jacks, a shooting-gallery proprietorand the ladies who loaded the guns, a pair of boxing-masters, asteam-roundabout manager, two travelling broom-makers, who calledthemselves widows, a gingerbread-stall keeper, a swing-boat owner,and a ”test-your-strength” man.
This generous phalanx of supporters, and a few others of independentjudgment, whose own domestic experiences had been not withoutvicissitude, came up and warmly shook hands with Phillotson; afterwhich they expressed their thoughts so strongly to the meeting thatissue was joined, the result being a general scuffle, wherein a blackboard was split, three panes of the school windows were broken,an inkbottle was spilled over a town-councillor's shirt front,a churchwarden was dealt such a topper with the map of Palestinethat his head went right through Samaria, and many black eyes andbleeding noses were given, one of which, to everybody's horror, wasthe venerable incumbent's, owing to the zeal of an emancipatedchimney-sweep, who took the side of Phillotson's party. WhenPhillotson saw the blood running down the rector's face he deploredalmost in groans the untoward and degrading circumstances, regrettedthat he had not resigned when called upon, and went home so ill thatnext morning he could not leave his bed.
The farcical yet melancholy event was the beginning of a seriousillness for him; and he lay in his lonely bed in the pathetic stateof mind of a middle-aged man who perceives at length that hislife, intellectual and domestic, is tending to failure and gloom.Gillingham came to see him in the evenings, and on one occasionmentioned Sue's name.
”She doesn't care anything about me!” said Phillotson. ”Why shouldshe?”
”She doesn't know you are ill.”
”So much the better for both of us.”
”Where are her lover and she living?”
”At Melchester--I suppose; at least he was living there some timeago.”
When Gillingham reached home he sat and reflected, and at last wrotean anonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reaching her,the letter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at thediocesan capital. Arriving at that place it was forwarded toMarygreen in North Wessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the onlyperson who knew his present address--the widow who had nursed hisaunt.
Three days later, in the evening, when the sun was going down insplendour over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shastonwindows like tongues of fire to the eyes of the rustics in that vale,the sick man fancied that he heard somebody come to the house, and afew minutes after there was a tap at the bedroom door. Phillotsondid not speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and thereentered--Sue.
She was in light spring clothing, and her advent seemed ghostly--likethe flitting in of a moth. He turned his eyes upon her, and flushed;but appeared to check his primary impulse to speak.
”I have no business here,” she said, bending her frightened face tohim. ”But I heard you were ill--very ill; and--and as I know thatyou recognize other feelings between man and woman than physicallove, I have come.”
”I am not very ill, my dear friend. Only unwell.”
”I didn't know that; and I am afraid that only a severe illness wouldhave justified my coming!”
”Yes... yes. And I almost wish you had not come! It is a littletoo soon--that's all I mean. Still, let us make the best of it. Youhaven't heard about the school, I suppose?”
”No--what about it?”
”Only that I am going away from here to another place. The managersand I don't agree, and we are going to part--that's all.”
Sue did not for a moment, either now or later, suspect what troubleshad resulted to him from letting her go; it never once seemed tocross her mind, and she had received no news whatever from Shaston.They talked on slight and ephemeral subjects, and when his tea wasbrought up he told the amazed little servant that a cup was to be setfor Sue. That young person was much more interested in their historythan they supposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted hereyes and hands in grotesque amazement. While they sipped Sue wentto the window and thoughtfully said, ”It is such a beautiful sunset,Richard.”
”They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing themist of the vale. But I lose them all, as they don't shine into thisgloomy corner where I lie.”
”Wouldn't you like to see this particular one? It is like heavenopened.”
”Ah yes! But I can't.”
”I'll help you to.”
”No--the bedstead can't be shifted.”
”But see how I mean.”
She went to where a swing-glass stood, and taking it in her handscarried it to a spot by the window where it could catch the sunshine,moving the glass till the beams were reflected into Phillotson'sface.
”There--you can see the great red sun now!” she said. ”And I amsure it will cheer you--I do so hope it will!” She spoke with achildlike, repentant kindness, as if she could not do too much forhim.
Phillotson smiled sadly. ”You are an odd creature!” he murmured asthe sun glowed in his eyes. ”The idea of your coming to see me afterwhat has passed!”
”Don't let us go back upon that!” she said quickly. ”I have to catchthe omnibus for the train, as Jude doesn't know I have come; he wasout when I started; so I must return home almost directly. Richard,I am so very glad you are better. You don't hate me, do you? Youhave been such a kind friend to me!”
”I am glad to know you think so,” said Phillotson huskily. ”No.I don't hate you!”
It grew dusk quickly in the gloomy room during their intermittentchat, and when candles were brought and it was time to leave she puther hand in his or rather allowed it to flit through his; for she wassignificantly light in touch. She had nearly closed the door when hesaid, ”Sue!” He had noticed that, in turning away from him, tearswere on her face and a quiver in her lip.
It was bad policy to recall her--he knew it while he pursued it.But he could not help it. She came back.
”Sue,” he murmured, ”do you wish to make it up, and stay? I'llforgive you and condone everything!”
”Oh you can't, you can't!” she said hastily. ”You can't condone itnow!”
”HE is your husband now, in effect, you mean, of course?”
”You may assume it. He is obtaining a divorce from his wifeArabella.”
”His wife! It is altogether news to me that he has a wife.”
”It was a bad marriage.”
”Like yours.”
”Like mine. He is not doing it so much on his own account as onhers. She wrote and told him it would be a kindness to her, sincethen she could marry and live respectably. And Jude has agreed.”
”A wife... A kindness to her. Ah, yes; a kindness to her to releaseher altogether... But I don't like the sound of it. I can forgive,Sue.”
”No, no! You can't have me back now I have been so wicked--as to dowhat I have done!”
There had arisen in Sue's face that incipient fright which showeditself whenever he changed from friend to husband, and which made heradopt any line of defence against marital feeling in him. ”I MUST gonow. I'll come again--may I?”
”I don't ask you to go, even now. I ask you to stay.”
”I thank you, Richard; but I must. As you are not so ill as Ithought, I CANNOT stay!”
”She's his--his from lips to heel!” said Phillotson; but so faintlythat in closing the door she did not hear it. The dread of areactionary change in the schoolmaster's sentiments, coupled,perhaps, with a faint shamefacedness at letting even him knowwhat a slipshod lack of thoroughness, from a man's point of view,characterized her transferred allegiance, prevented her telling himof her, thus far, incomplete relations with Jude; and Phillotson laywrithing like a man in hell as he pictured the prettily dressed,maddening compound of sympathy and averseness who bore his name,returning impatiently to the home of her lover.
Gillingham was so interested in Phillotson's affairs, and soseriously concerned about him, that he walked up the hill-side toShaston two or three times a week, although, there and back, it wasa journey of nine miles, which had to be performed between tea andsupper, after a hard day's work in school. When he called on thenext occasion after Sue's visit his friend was downstairs, andGillingham noticed that his restless mood had been supplanted by amore fixed and composed one.
”She's been here since you called last,” said Phillotson.
”Not Mrs. Phillotson?”
”Yes.”
”Ah! You have made it up?”
”No... She just came, patted my pillow with her little white hand,played the thoughtful nurse for half an hour, and went away.”
”Well--I'm hanged! A little hussy!”
”What do you say?”
”Oh--nothing!”
”What do you mean?”
”I mean, what a tantalizing, capricious little woman! If she werenot your wife--”
”She is not; she's another man's except in name and law. And I havebeen thinking--it was suggested to me by a conversation I had withher--that, in kindness to her, I ought to dissolve the legal tiealtogether; which, singularly enough, I think I can do, now she hasbeen back, and refused my request to stay after I said I had forgivenher. I believe that fact would afford me opportunity of doing it,though I did not see it at the moment. What's the use of keepingher chained on to me if she doesn't belong to me? I know--I feelabsolutely certain--that she would welcome my taking such a step asthe greatest charity to her. For though as a fellow-creature shesympathizes with, and pities me, and even weeps for me, as a husbandshe cannot endure me--she loathes me--there's no use in mincingwords--she loathes me, and my only manly, and dignified, and mercifulcourse is to complete what I have begun... And for worldly reasons,too, it will be better for her to be independent. I have hopelesslyruined my prospects because of my decision as to what was best forus, though she does not know it; I see only dire poverty ahead frommy feet to the grave; for I can be accepted as teacher no more. Ishall probably have enough to do to make both ends meet during theremainder of my life, now my occupation's gone; and I shall bebetter able to bear it alone. I may as well tell you that what hassuggested my letting her go is some news she brought me--the newsthat Fawley is doing the same.”
”Oh--he had a spouse, too? A queer couple, these lovers!”
”Well--I don't want your opinion on that. What I was going to say isthat my liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open upa chance of happiness for her which she has never dreamt of hitherto.For then they'll be able to marry, as they ought to have done atfirst.”
Gillingham did not hurry to reply. ”I may disagree with yourmotive,” he said gently, for he respected views he could not share.”But I think you are right in your determination--if you can carry itout. I doubt, however, if you can.”
In returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phillotsonhad won the interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants,who, though they did not honour him for his miscellaneous acquirementsas he would have been honoured elsewhere, retained for him a sincereregard. When, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a prettywife--awkwardly pretty for him, if he did not take care, theysaid--they were glad to have her settle among them.
For some time after her flight from that home Sue's absence did notexcite comment. Her place as monitor in the school was taken byanother young woman within a few days of her vacating it, whichsubstitution also passed without remark, Sue's services having beenof a provisional nature only. When, however, a month had passed, andPhillotson casually admitted to an acquaintance that he did not knowwhere his wife was staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till,jumping to conclusions, people ventured to affirm that Sue had playedhim false and run away from him. The schoolmaster's growing languorand listlessness over his work gave countenance to the idea.
Though Phillotson had held his tongue as long as he could, except tohis friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would not allow himto do so when misapprehensions as to Sue's conduct spread abroad.On a Monday morning the chairman of the school committee called, andafter attending to the business of the school drew Phillotson asideout of earshot of the children.
”You'll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since everybody is talking ofit: is this true as to your domestic affairs--that your wife's goingaway was on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover? If so, Icondole with you.”
”Don't,” said Phillotson. ”There was no secret about it.”
”She has gone to visit friends?”
”No.”
”Then what has happened?”
”She has gone away under circumstances that usually call forcondolence with the husband. But I gave my consent.”
The chairman looked as if he had not apprehended the remark.
”What I say is quite true,” Phillotson continued testily. ”She askedleave to go away with her lover, and I let her. Why shouldn't I? Awoman of full age, it was a question of her own conscience--not forme. I was not her gaoler. I can't explain any further. I don'twish to be questioned.”
The children observed that much seriousness marked the faces ofthe two men, and went home and told their parents that somethingnew had happened about Mrs. Phillotson. Then Phillotson's littlemaidservant, who was a schoolgirl just out of her standards, saidthat Mr. Phillotson had helped in his wife's packing, had offeredher what money she required, and had written a friendly letter toher young man, telling him to take care of her. The chairman ofcommittee thought the matter over, and talked to the other managersof the school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet themprivately. The meeting lasted a long time, and at the end theschool-master came home, looking as usual pale and worn. Gillinghamwas sitting in his house awaiting him.
”Well; it is as you said,” observed Phillotson, flinging himselfdown wearily in a chair. ”They have requested me to send in myresignation on account of my scandalous conduct in giving my torturedwife her liberty--or, as they call it, condoning her adultery. But Ishan't resign!”
”I think I would.”
”I won't. It is no business of theirs. It doesn't affect me in mypublic capacity at all. They may expel me if they like.”
”If you make a fuss it will get into the papers, and you'll never getappointed to another school. You see, they have to consider whatyou did as done by a teacher of youth--and its effects as such uponthe morals of the town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position isindefensible. You must let me say that.”
To this good advice, however, Phillotson would not listen.
”I don't care,” he said. ”I don't go unless I am turned out. Andfor this reason; that by resigning I acknowledge I have acted wronglyby her; when I am more and more convinced every day that in the sightof Heaven and by all natural, straightforward humanity, I have actedrightly.”
Gillingham saw that his rather headstrong friend would not be able tomaintain such a position as this; but he said nothing further, andin due time--indeed, in a quarter of an hour--the formal letter ofdismissal arrived, the managers having remained behind to write itafter Phillotson's withdrawal. The latter replied that he should notaccept dismissal; and called a public meeting, which he attended,although he looked so weak and ill that his friend implored him tostay at home. When he stood up to give his reasons for contestingthe decision of the managers he advanced them firmly, as he haddone to his friend, and contended, moreover, that the matter was adomestic theory which did not concern them. This they over-ruled,insisting that the private eccentricities of a teacher came quitewithin their sphere of control, as it touched the morals of those hetaught. Phillotson replied that he did not see how an act of naturalcharity could injure morals.
All the respectable inhabitants and well-to-do fellow-natives ofthe town were against Phillotson to a man. But, somewhat to hissurprise, some dozen or more champions rose up in his defence as fromthe ground.
It has been stated that Shaston was the anchorage of a curious andinteresting group of itinerants, who frequented the numerous fairsand markets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumnmonths. Although Phillotson had never spoken to one of thesegentlemen they now nobly led the forlorn hope in his defence.The body included two cheap Jacks, a shooting-gallery proprietorand the ladies who loaded the guns, a pair of boxing-masters, asteam-roundabout manager, two travelling broom-makers, who calledthemselves widows, a gingerbread-stall keeper, a swing-boat owner,and a ”test-your-strength” man.
This generous phalanx of supporters, and a few others of independentjudgment, whose own domestic experiences had been not withoutvicissitude, came up and warmly shook hands with Phillotson; afterwhich they expressed their thoughts so strongly to the meeting thatissue was joined, the result being a general scuffle, wherein a blackboard was split, three panes of the school windows were broken,an inkbottle was spilled over a town-councillor's shirt front,a churchwarden was dealt such a topper with the map of Palestinethat his head went right through Samaria, and many black eyes andbleeding noses were given, one of which, to everybody's horror, wasthe venerable incumbent's, owing to the zeal of an emancipatedchimney-sweep, who took the side of Phillotson's party. WhenPhillotson saw the blood running down the rector's face he deploredalmost in groans the untoward and degrading circumstances, regrettedthat he had not resigned when called upon, and went home so ill thatnext morning he could not leave his bed.
The farcical yet melancholy event was the beginning of a seriousillness for him; and he lay in his lonely bed in the pathetic stateof mind of a middle-aged man who perceives at length that hislife, intellectual and domestic, is tending to failure and gloom.Gillingham came to see him in the evenings, and on one occasionmentioned Sue's name.
”She doesn't care anything about me!” said Phillotson. ”Why shouldshe?”
”She doesn't know you are ill.”
”So much the better for both of us.”
”Where are her lover and she living?”
”At Melchester--I suppose; at least he was living there some timeago.”
When Gillingham reached home he sat and reflected, and at last wrotean anonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reaching her,the letter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at thediocesan capital. Arriving at that place it was forwarded toMarygreen in North Wessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the onlyperson who knew his present address--the widow who had nursed hisaunt.
Three days later, in the evening, when the sun was going down insplendour over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shastonwindows like tongues of fire to the eyes of the rustics in that vale,the sick man fancied that he heard somebody come to the house, and afew minutes after there was a tap at the bedroom door. Phillotsondid not speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and thereentered--Sue.
She was in light spring clothing, and her advent seemed ghostly--likethe flitting in of a moth. He turned his eyes upon her, and flushed;but appeared to check his primary impulse to speak.
”I have no business here,” she said, bending her frightened face tohim. ”But I heard you were ill--very ill; and--and as I know thatyou recognize other feelings between man and woman than physicallove, I have come.”
”I am not very ill, my dear friend. Only unwell.”
”I didn't know that; and I am afraid that only a severe illness wouldhave justified my coming!”
”Yes... yes. And I almost wish you had not come! It is a littletoo soon--that's all I mean. Still, let us make the best of it. Youhaven't heard about the school, I suppose?”
”No--what about it?”
”Only that I am going away from here to another place. The managersand I don't agree, and we are going to part--that's all.”
Sue did not for a moment, either now or later, suspect what troubleshad resulted to him from letting her go; it never once seemed tocross her mind, and she had received no news whatever from Shaston.They talked on slight and ephemeral subjects, and when his tea wasbrought up he told the amazed little servant that a cup was to be setfor Sue. That young person was much more interested in their historythan they supposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted hereyes and hands in grotesque amazement. While they sipped Sue wentto the window and thoughtfully said, ”It is such a beautiful sunset,Richard.”
”They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing themist of the vale. But I lose them all, as they don't shine into thisgloomy corner where I lie.”
”Wouldn't you like to see this particular one? It is like heavenopened.”
”Ah yes! But I can't.”
”I'll help you to.”
”No--the bedstead can't be shifted.”
”But see how I mean.”
She went to where a swing-glass stood, and taking it in her handscarried it to a spot by the window where it could catch the sunshine,moving the glass till the beams were reflected into Phillotson'sface.
”There--you can see the great red sun now!” she said. ”And I amsure it will cheer you--I do so hope it will!” She spoke with achildlike, repentant kindness, as if she could not do too much forhim.
Phillotson smiled sadly. ”You are an odd creature!” he murmured asthe sun glowed in his eyes. ”The idea of your coming to see me afterwhat has passed!”
”Don't let us go back upon that!” she said quickly. ”I have to catchthe omnibus for the train, as Jude doesn't know I have come; he wasout when I started; so I must return home almost directly. Richard,I am so very glad you are better. You don't hate me, do you? Youhave been such a kind friend to me!”
”I am glad to know you think so,” said Phillotson huskily. ”No.I don't hate you!”
It grew dusk quickly in the gloomy room during their intermittentchat, and when candles were brought and it was time to leave she puther hand in his or rather allowed it to flit through his; for she wassignificantly light in touch. She had nearly closed the door when hesaid, ”Sue!” He had noticed that, in turning away from him, tearswere on her face and a quiver in her lip.
It was bad policy to recall her--he knew it while he pursued it.But he could not help it. She came back.
”Sue,” he murmured, ”do you wish to make it up, and stay? I'llforgive you and condone everything!”
”Oh you can't, you can't!” she said hastily. ”You can't condone itnow!”
”HE is your husband now, in effect, you mean, of course?”
”You may assume it. He is obtaining a divorce from his wifeArabella.”
”His wife! It is altogether news to me that he has a wife.”
”It was a bad marriage.”
”Like yours.”
”Like mine. He is not doing it so much on his own account as onhers. She wrote and told him it would be a kindness to her, sincethen she could marry and live respectably. And Jude has agreed.”
”A wife... A kindness to her. Ah, yes; a kindness to her to releaseher altogether... But I don't like the sound of it. I can forgive,Sue.”
”No, no! You can't have me back now I have been so wicked--as to dowhat I have done!”
There had arisen in Sue's face that incipient fright which showeditself whenever he changed from friend to husband, and which made heradopt any line of defence against marital feeling in him. ”I MUST gonow. I'll come again--may I?”
”I don't ask you to go, even now. I ask you to stay.”
”I thank you, Richard; but I must. As you are not so ill as Ithought, I CANNOT stay!”
”She's his--his from lips to heel!” said Phillotson; but so faintlythat in closing the door she did not hear it. The dread of areactionary change in the schoolmaster's sentiments, coupled,perhaps, with a faint shamefacedness at letting even him knowwhat a slipshod lack of thoroughness, from a man's point of view,characterized her transferred allegiance, prevented her telling himof her, thus far, incomplete relations with Jude; and Phillotson laywrithing like a man in hell as he pictured the prettily dressed,maddening compound of sympathy and averseness who bore his name,returning impatiently to the home of her lover.
Gillingham was so interested in Phillotson's affairs, and soseriously concerned about him, that he walked up the hill-side toShaston two or three times a week, although, there and back, it wasa journey of nine miles, which had to be performed between tea andsupper, after a hard day's work in school. When he called on thenext occasion after Sue's visit his friend was downstairs, andGillingham noticed that his restless mood had been supplanted by amore fixed and composed one.
”She's been here since you called last,” said Phillotson.
”Not Mrs. Phillotson?”
”Yes.”
”Ah! You have made it up?”
”No... She just came, patted my pillow with her little white hand,played the thoughtful nurse for half an hour, and went away.”
”Well--I'm hanged! A little hussy!”
”What do you say?”
”Oh--nothing!”
”What do you mean?”
”I mean, what a tantalizing, capricious little woman! If she werenot your wife--”
”She is not; she's another man's except in name and law. And I havebeen thinking--it was suggested to me by a conversation I had withher--that, in kindness to her, I ought to dissolve the legal tiealtogether; which, singularly enough, I think I can do, now she hasbeen back, and refused my request to stay after I said I had forgivenher. I believe that fact would afford me opportunity of doing it,though I did not see it at the moment. What's the use of keepingher chained on to me if she doesn't belong to me? I know--I feelabsolutely certain--that she would welcome my taking such a step asthe greatest charity to her. For though as a fellow-creature shesympathizes with, and pities me, and even weeps for me, as a husbandshe cannot endure me--she loathes me--there's no use in mincingwords--she loathes me, and my only manly, and dignified, and mercifulcourse is to complete what I have begun... And for worldly reasons,too, it will be better for her to be independent. I have hopelesslyruined my prospects because of my decision as to what was best forus, though she does not know it; I see only dire poverty ahead frommy feet to the grave; for I can be accepted as teacher no more. Ishall probably have enough to do to make both ends meet during theremainder of my life, now my occupation's gone; and I shall bebetter able to bear it alone. I may as well tell you that what hassuggested my letting her go is some news she brought me--the newsthat Fawley is doing the same.”
”Oh--he had a spouse, too? A queer couple, these lovers!”
”Well--I don't want your opinion on that. What I was going to say isthat my liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open upa chance of happiness for her which she has never dreamt of hitherto.For then they'll be able to marry, as they ought to have done atfirst.”
Gillingham did not hurry to reply. ”I may disagree with yourmotive,” he said gently, for he respected views he could not share.”But I think you are right in your determination--if you can carry itout. I doubt, however, if you can.”