Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
IV
Phillotson was sitting up late, as was often his custom, trying toget together the materials for his long-neglected hobby of Romanantiquities. For the first time since reviving the subject he felt areturn of his old interest in it. He forgot time and place, and whenhe remembered himself and ascended to rest it was nearly two o'clock.
His preoccupation was such that, though he now slept on the otherside of the house, he mechanically went to the room that he and hiswife had occupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove Place,which since his differences with Sue had been hers exclusively.He entered, and unconsciously began to undress.
There was a cry from the bed, and a quick movement. Before theschoolmaster had realized where he was he perceived Sue starting uphalf-awake, staring wildly, and springing out upon the floor on theside away from him, which was towards the window. This was somewhathidden by the canopy of the bedstead, and in a moment he heard herflinging up the sash. Before he had thought that she meant to domore than get air she had mounted upon the sill and leapt out. Shedisappeared in the darkness, and he heard her fall below.
Phillotson, horrified, ran downstairs, striking himself sharplyagainst the newel in his haste. Opening the heavy door he ascendedthe two or three steps to the level of the ground, and there on thegravel before him lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in hisarms, and bringing Sue into the hall seated her on a chair, where hegazed at her by the flapping light of the candle which he had setdown in the draught on the bottom stair.
She had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyesthat seemed not to take him in; and though not particularly large ingeneral they appeared so now. She pressed her side and rubbed herarm, as if conscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, inevident distress at his gaze.
”Thank God--you are not killed! Though it's not for want oftrying--not much hurt I hope?”
Her fall, in fact, had not been a serious one, probably owing to thelowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the ground without.Beyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side she had apparentlyincurred little harm.
”I was asleep, I think!” she began, her pale face still turned awayfrom him. ”And something frightened me--a terrible dream--I thoughtI saw you--” The actual circumstances seemed to come back to her,and she was silent.
Her cloak was hanging at the back of the door, and the wretchedPhillotson flung it round her. ”Shall I help you upstairs?” he askeddrearily; for the significance of all this sickened him of himselfand of everything.
”No thank you, Richard. I am very little hurt. I can walk.”
”You ought to lock your door,” he mechanically said, as if lecturingin school. ”Then no one could intrude even by accident.”
”I have tried--it won't lock. All the doors are out of order.”
The aspect of things was not improved by her admission. She ascendedthe staircase slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her.Phillotson did not approach her, or attempt to ascend himself till heheard her enter her room. Then he fastened up the front door, andreturning, sat down on the lower stairs, holding the newel with onehand, and bowing his face into the other. Thus he remained for along long time--a pitiable object enough to one who had seen him;till, raising his head and sighing a sigh which seemed to say thatthe business of his life must be carried on, whether he had a wife orno, he took the candle and went upstairs to his lonely room on theother side of the landing.
No further incident touching the matter between them occurred tillthe following evening, when, immediately school was over, Phillotsonwalked out of Shaston, saying he required no tea, and not informingSue where he was going. He descended from the town level by a steeproad in a north-westerly direction, and continued to move downwardstill the soil changed from its white dryness to a tough brown clay.He was now on the low alluvial beds
Where Duncliffe is the traveller's mark, And cloty Stour's a-rolling dark.
More than once he looked back in the increasing obscurity of evening.Against the sky was Shaston, dimly visible
On the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as pale day wore Away... [William Barnes.]
The new-lit lights from its windows burnt with a steady shine as ifwatching him, one of which windows was his own. Above it he couldjust discern the pinnacled tower of Trinity Church. The air downhere, tempered by the thick damp bed of tenacious clay, was not as ithad been above, but soft and relaxing, so that when he had walked amile or two he was obliged to wipe his face with his handkerchief.
Leaving Duncliffe Hill on the left he proceeded without hesitationthrough the shade, as a man goes on, night or day, in a district overwhich he has played as a boy. He had walked altogether about fourand a half miles
Where Stour receives her strength, From six cleere fountains fed, [Drayton.]
when he crossed a tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton--alittle town of three or four thousand inhabitants--where he wenton to the boys' school, and knocked at the door of the master'sresidence.
A boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillotson's inquiry if Mr.Gillingham was at home, replied that he was, going at once off to hisown house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. Hediscovered his friend putting away some books from which he had beengiving evening lessons. The light of the paraffin lamp fell onPhillotson's face--pale and wretched by contrast with his friend's,who had a cool, practical look. They had been schoolmates inboyhood, and fellow-students at Wintoncester Training College, manyyears before this time.
”Glad to see you, Dick! But you don't look well! Nothing thematter?”
Phillotson advanced without replying, and Gillingham closed thecupboard and pulled up beside his visitor.
”Why you haven't been here--let me see--since you were married?I called, you know, but you were out; and upon my word it is such aclimb after dark that I have been waiting till the days are longerbefore lumpering up again. I am glad you didn't wait, however.”
Though well-trained and even proficient masters, they occasionallyused a dialect-word of their boyhood to each other in private.
”I've come, George, to explain to you my reasons for taking a stepthat I am about to take, so that you, at least, will understand mymotives if other people question them anywhen--as they may, indeedcertainly will... But anything is better than the present conditionof things. God forbid that you should ever have such an experienceas mine!”
”Sit down. You don't mean--anything wrong between you and Mrs.Phillotson?”
”I do... My wretched state is that I've a wife I love who notonly does not love me, but--but-- Well, I won't say. I know herfeeling! I should prefer hatred from her!”
”Ssh!”
”And the sad part of it is that she is not so much to blame as I. Shewas a pupil-teacher under me, as you know, and I took advantage ofher inexperience, and toled her out for walks, and got her to agreeto a long engagement before she well knew her own mind. Afterwardsshe saw somebody else, but she blindly fulfilled her engagement.”
”Loving the other?”
”Yes; with a curious tender solicitude seemingly; though her exactfeeling for him is a riddle to me--and to him too, I think--possiblyto herself. She is one of the oddest creatures I ever met. However,I have been struck with these two facts; the extraordinary sympathy,or similarity, between the pair. He is her cousin, which perhapsaccounts for some of it. They seem to be one person split in two!And with her unconquerable aversion to myself as a husband, eventhough she may like me as a friend, 'tis too much to bear longer.She has conscientiously struggled against it, but to no purpose.I cannot bear it--I cannot! I can't answer her arguments--she hasread ten times as much as I. Her intellect sparkles like diamonds,while mine smoulders like brown paper... She's one too many for me!”
”She'll get over it, good-now?”
”Never! It is--but I won't go into it--there are reasons why shenever will. At last she calmly and firmly asked if she might leaveme and go to him. The climax came last night, when, owing to myentering her room by accident, she jumped out of window--so strongwas her dread of me! She pretended it was a dream, but that wasto soothe me. Now when a woman jumps out of window without caringwhether she breaks her neck or no, she's not to be mistaken; and thisbeing the case I have come to a conclusion: that it is wrong to sotorture a fellow-creature any longer; and I won't be the inhumanwretch to do it, cost what it may!”
”What--you'll let her go? And with her lover?”
”Whom with is her matter. I shall let her go; with him certainly,if she wishes. I know I may be wrong--I know I can't logically,or religiously, defend my concession to such a wish of hers, orharmonize it with the doctrines I was brought up in. Only I know onething: something within me tells me I am doing wrong in refusingher. I, like other men, profess to hold that if a husband gets sucha so-called preposterous request from his wife, the only course thatcan possibly be regarded as right and proper and honourable in him isto refuse it, and put her virtuously under lock and key, and murderher lover perhaps. But is that essentially right, and proper, andhonourable, or is it contemptibly mean and selfish? I don't professto decide. I simply am going to act by instinct, and let principlestake care of themselves. If a person who has blindly walked into aquagmire cries for help, I am inclined to give it, if possible.”
”But--you see, there's the question of neighbours and society--whatwill happen if everybody--”
”Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher any longer! I only seewhat's under my eyes.”
”Well--I don't agree with your instinct, Dick!” said Gillinghamgravely. ”I am quite amazed, to tell the truth, that such a sedate,plodding fellow as you should have entertained such a craze for amoment. You said when I called that she was puzzling and peculiar:I think you are!”
”Have you ever stood before a woman whom you know to be intrinsicallya good woman, while she has pleaded for release--been the man she hasknelt to and implored indulgence of?”
”I am thankful to say I haven't.”
”Then I don't think you are in a position to give an opinion. Ihave been that man, and it makes all the difference in the world, ifone has any manliness or chivalry in him. I had not the remotestidea--living apart from women as I have done for so many years--thatmerely taking a woman to church and putting a ring upon her fingercould by any possibility involve one in such a daily, continuoustragedy as that now shared by her and me!”
”Well, I could admit some excuse for letting her leave you, providedshe kept to herself. But to go attended by a cavalier--that makes adifference.”
”Not a bit. Suppose, as I believe, she would rather endure herpresent misery than be made to promise to keep apart from him?All that is a question for herself. It is not the same thing atall as the treachery of living on with a husband and playing himfalse... However, she has not distinctly implied living with himas wife, though I think she means to... And, to the best of myunderstanding, it is not an ignoble, merely animal, feeling betweenthe two: that is the worst of it; because it makes me think theiraffection will be enduring. I did not mean to confess to you that inthe first jealous weeks of my marriage, before I had come to my rightmind, I hid myself in the school one evening when they were togetherthere, and I heard what they said. I am ashamed of it now, thoughI suppose I was only exercising a legal right. I found from theirmanner that an extraordinary affinity, or sympathy, entered intotheir attachment, which somehow took away all flavour of grossness.Their supreme desire is to be together--to share each other'semotions, and fancies, and dreams.”
”Platonic!”
”Well no. Shelleyan would be nearer to it. They remind me of--whatare their names--Laon and Cythna. Also of Paul and Virginia alittle. The more I reflect, the more ENTIRELY I am on their side!”
”But if people did as you want to do, there'd be a general domesticdisintegration. The family would no longer be the social unit.”
”Yes--I am all abroad, I suppose!” said Phillotson sadly. ”I wasnever a very bright reasoner, you remember.... And yet, I don't seewhy the woman and the children should not be the unit without theman.”
”By the Lord Harry!--Matriarchy! ... Does SHE say all this too?”
”Oh no. She little thinks I have out-Sued Sue in this--all in thelast twelve hours!”
”It will upset all received opinion hereabout. Good God--what willShaston say!”
”I don't say that it won't. I don't know--I don't know! ... As Isay, I am only a feeler, not a reasoner.”
”Now,” said Gillingham, ”let us take it quietly, and have somethingto drink over it.” He went under the stairs, and produced a bottleof cider-wine, of which they drank a rummer each. ”I think you arerafted, and not yourself,” he continued. ”Do go back and make upyour mind to put up with a few whims. But keep her. I hear on allsides that she's a charming young thing.”
”Ah yes! That's the bitterness of it! Well, I won't stay. I have along walk before me.”
Gillingham accompanied his friend a mile on his way, and at partingexpressed his hope that this consultation, singular as its subjectwas, would be the renewal of their old comradeship. ”Stick to her!”were his last words, flung into the darkness after Phillotson; fromwhich his friend answered ”Aye, aye!”
But when Phillotson was alone under the clouds of night, and nosound was audible but that of the purling tributaries of the Stour,he said, ”So Gillingham, my friend, you had no stronger argumentsagainst it than those!”
”I think she ought to be smacked, and brought to her senses--that'swhat I think!” murmured Gillingham, as he walked back alone.
The next morning came, and at breakfast Phillotson told Sue:
”You may go--with whom you will. I absolutely and unconditionallyagree.”
Having once come to this conclusion it seemed to Phillotson moreand more indubitably the true one. His mild serenity at the sensethat he was doing his duty by a woman who was at his mercy almostoverpowered his grief at relinquishing her.
Some days passed, and the evening of their last meal together hadcome--a cloudy evening with wind--which indeed was very seldom absentin this elevated place. How permanently it was imprinted upon hisvision; that look of her as she glided into the parlour to tea;a slim flexible figure; a face, strained from its roundness, andmarked by the pallors of restless days and nights, suggesting tragicpossibilities quite at variance with her times of buoyancy; a tryingof this morsel and that, and an inability to eat either. Her nervousmanner, begotten of a fear lest he should be injured by her course,might have been interpreted by a stranger as displeasure thatPhillotson intruded his presence on her for the few brief minutesthat remained.
”You had better have a slice of ham or an egg, or something with yourtea? You can't travel on a mouthful of bread and butter.”
She took the slice he helped her to; and they discussed as they sattrivial questions of housekeeping, such as where he would find thekey of this or that cupboard, what little bills were paid, and whatnot.
”I am a bachelor by nature, as you know, Sue,” he said, in a heroicattempt to put her at her ease. ”So that being without a wife willnot really be irksome to me, as it might be to other men who havehad one a little while. I have, too, this grand hobby in my head ofwriting 'The Roman Antiquities of Wessex,' which will occupy all myspare hours.”
”If you will send me some of the manuscript to copy at any time,as you used to, I will do it with so much pleasure!” she said withamenable gentleness. ”I should much like to be some help to youstill--as a--f-f-friend.”
Phillotson mused, and said: ”No, I think we ought to be reallyseparate, if we are to be at all. And for this reason, that I don'twish to ask you any questions, and particularly wish you not to giveme information as to your movements, or even your address... Now,what money do you want? You must have some, you know.”
”Oh, of course, Richard, I couldn't think of having any of your moneyto go away from you with! I don't want any either. I have enough ofmy own to last me for a long while, and Jude will let me have--”
”I would rather not know anything about him, if you don't mind.You are free, absolutely; and your course is your own.”
”Very well. But I'll just say that I have packed only a change ortwo of my own personal clothing, and one or two little things besidesthat are my very own. I wish you would look into my trunk before itis closed. Besides that I have only a small parcel that will go intoJude's portmanteau.”
”Of course I shall do no such thing as examine your luggage! I wishyou would take three-quarters of the household furniture. I don'twant to be bothered with it. I have a sort of affection for a littleof it that belonged to my poor mother and father. But the rest youare welcome to whenever you like to send for it.”
”That I shall never do.”
”You go by the six-thirty train, don't you? It is now a quarter tosix.”
”You... You don't seem very sorry I am going, Richard!”
”Oh no--perhaps not.”
”I like you much for how you have behaved. It is a curious thingthat directly I have begun to regard you as not my husband, but asmy old teacher, I like you. I won't be so affected as to say I loveyou, because you know I don't, except as a friend. But you do seemthat to me!”
Sue was for a few moments a little tearful at these reflections, andthen the station omnibus came round to take her up. Phillotson sawher things put on the top, handed her in, and was obliged to make anappearance of kissing her as he wished her good-bye, which she quiteunderstood and imitated. From the cheerful manner in which theyparted the omnibus-man had no other idea than that she was going fora short visit.
When Phillotson got back into the house he went upstairs and openedthe window in the direction the omnibus had taken. Soon the noise ofits wheels died away. He came down then, his face compressed likethat of one bearing pain; he put on his hat and went out, followingby the same route for nearly a mile. Suddenly turning round he camehome.
He had no sooner entered than the voice of his friend Gillinghamgreeted him from the front room.
”I could make nobody hear; so finding your door open I walked in, andmade myself comfortable. I said I would call, you remember.”
”Yes. I am much obliged to you, Gillingham, particularly for comingto-night.”
”How is Mrs.--”
”She is quite well. She is gone--just gone. That's her tea-cup,that she drank out of only an hour ago. And that's the plateshe--” Phillotson's throat got choked up, and he could not go on.He turned and pushed the tea-things aside.
”Have you had any tea, by the by?” he asked presently in a renewedvoice.
”No--yes--never mind,” said Gillingham, preoccupied. ”Gone, you sayshe is?”
”Yes... I would have died for her; but I wouldn't be cruel to herin the name of the law. She is, as I understand, gone to join herlover. What they are going to do I cannot say. Whatever it may beshe has my full consent to.”
There was a stability, a ballast, in Phillotson's pronouncement whichrestrained his friend's comment. ”Shall I--leave you?” he asked.
”No, no. It is a mercy to me that you have come. I have somearticles to arrange and clear away. Would you help me?”
Gillingham assented; and having gone to the upper rooms theschoolmaster opened drawers, and began taking out all Sue's thingsthat she had left behind, and laying them in a large box. ”Shewouldn't take all I wanted her to,” he continued. ”But when I madeup my mind to her going to live in her own way I did make up mymind.”
”Some men would have stopped at an agreement to separate.”
”I've gone into all that, and don't wish to argue it. I was, andam, the most old-fashioned man in the world on the question ofmarriage--in fact I had never thought critically about its ethicsat all. But certain facts stared me in the face, and I couldn't goagainst them.”
They went on with the packing silently. When it was done Phillotsonclosed the box and turned the key.
”There,” he said. ”To adorn her in somebody's eyes; never again inmine!”
Phillotson was sitting up late, as was often his custom, trying toget together the materials for his long-neglected hobby of Romanantiquities. For the first time since reviving the subject he felt areturn of his old interest in it. He forgot time and place, and whenhe remembered himself and ascended to rest it was nearly two o'clock.
His preoccupation was such that, though he now slept on the otherside of the house, he mechanically went to the room that he and hiswife had occupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove Place,which since his differences with Sue had been hers exclusively.He entered, and unconsciously began to undress.
There was a cry from the bed, and a quick movement. Before theschoolmaster had realized where he was he perceived Sue starting uphalf-awake, staring wildly, and springing out upon the floor on theside away from him, which was towards the window. This was somewhathidden by the canopy of the bedstead, and in a moment he heard herflinging up the sash. Before he had thought that she meant to domore than get air she had mounted upon the sill and leapt out. Shedisappeared in the darkness, and he heard her fall below.
Phillotson, horrified, ran downstairs, striking himself sharplyagainst the newel in his haste. Opening the heavy door he ascendedthe two or three steps to the level of the ground, and there on thegravel before him lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in hisarms, and bringing Sue into the hall seated her on a chair, where hegazed at her by the flapping light of the candle which he had setdown in the draught on the bottom stair.
She had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyesthat seemed not to take him in; and though not particularly large ingeneral they appeared so now. She pressed her side and rubbed herarm, as if conscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, inevident distress at his gaze.
”Thank God--you are not killed! Though it's not for want oftrying--not much hurt I hope?”
Her fall, in fact, had not been a serious one, probably owing to thelowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the ground without.Beyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side she had apparentlyincurred little harm.
”I was asleep, I think!” she began, her pale face still turned awayfrom him. ”And something frightened me--a terrible dream--I thoughtI saw you--” The actual circumstances seemed to come back to her,and she was silent.
Her cloak was hanging at the back of the door, and the wretchedPhillotson flung it round her. ”Shall I help you upstairs?” he askeddrearily; for the significance of all this sickened him of himselfand of everything.
”No thank you, Richard. I am very little hurt. I can walk.”
”You ought to lock your door,” he mechanically said, as if lecturingin school. ”Then no one could intrude even by accident.”
”I have tried--it won't lock. All the doors are out of order.”
The aspect of things was not improved by her admission. She ascendedthe staircase slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her.Phillotson did not approach her, or attempt to ascend himself till heheard her enter her room. Then he fastened up the front door, andreturning, sat down on the lower stairs, holding the newel with onehand, and bowing his face into the other. Thus he remained for along long time--a pitiable object enough to one who had seen him;till, raising his head and sighing a sigh which seemed to say thatthe business of his life must be carried on, whether he had a wife orno, he took the candle and went upstairs to his lonely room on theother side of the landing.
No further incident touching the matter between them occurred tillthe following evening, when, immediately school was over, Phillotsonwalked out of Shaston, saying he required no tea, and not informingSue where he was going. He descended from the town level by a steeproad in a north-westerly direction, and continued to move downwardstill the soil changed from its white dryness to a tough brown clay.He was now on the low alluvial beds
Where Duncliffe is the traveller's mark, And cloty Stour's a-rolling dark.
More than once he looked back in the increasing obscurity of evening.Against the sky was Shaston, dimly visible
On the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as pale day wore Away... [William Barnes.]
The new-lit lights from its windows burnt with a steady shine as ifwatching him, one of which windows was his own. Above it he couldjust discern the pinnacled tower of Trinity Church. The air downhere, tempered by the thick damp bed of tenacious clay, was not as ithad been above, but soft and relaxing, so that when he had walked amile or two he was obliged to wipe his face with his handkerchief.
Leaving Duncliffe Hill on the left he proceeded without hesitationthrough the shade, as a man goes on, night or day, in a district overwhich he has played as a boy. He had walked altogether about fourand a half miles
Where Stour receives her strength, From six cleere fountains fed, [Drayton.]
when he crossed a tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton--alittle town of three or four thousand inhabitants--where he wenton to the boys' school, and knocked at the door of the master'sresidence.
A boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillotson's inquiry if Mr.Gillingham was at home, replied that he was, going at once off to hisown house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. Hediscovered his friend putting away some books from which he had beengiving evening lessons. The light of the paraffin lamp fell onPhillotson's face--pale and wretched by contrast with his friend's,who had a cool, practical look. They had been schoolmates inboyhood, and fellow-students at Wintoncester Training College, manyyears before this time.
”Glad to see you, Dick! But you don't look well! Nothing thematter?”
Phillotson advanced without replying, and Gillingham closed thecupboard and pulled up beside his visitor.
”Why you haven't been here--let me see--since you were married?I called, you know, but you were out; and upon my word it is such aclimb after dark that I have been waiting till the days are longerbefore lumpering up again. I am glad you didn't wait, however.”
Though well-trained and even proficient masters, they occasionallyused a dialect-word of their boyhood to each other in private.
”I've come, George, to explain to you my reasons for taking a stepthat I am about to take, so that you, at least, will understand mymotives if other people question them anywhen--as they may, indeedcertainly will... But anything is better than the present conditionof things. God forbid that you should ever have such an experienceas mine!”
”Sit down. You don't mean--anything wrong between you and Mrs.Phillotson?”
”I do... My wretched state is that I've a wife I love who notonly does not love me, but--but-- Well, I won't say. I know herfeeling! I should prefer hatred from her!”
”Ssh!”
”And the sad part of it is that she is not so much to blame as I. Shewas a pupil-teacher under me, as you know, and I took advantage ofher inexperience, and toled her out for walks, and got her to agreeto a long engagement before she well knew her own mind. Afterwardsshe saw somebody else, but she blindly fulfilled her engagement.”
”Loving the other?”
”Yes; with a curious tender solicitude seemingly; though her exactfeeling for him is a riddle to me--and to him too, I think--possiblyto herself. She is one of the oddest creatures I ever met. However,I have been struck with these two facts; the extraordinary sympathy,or similarity, between the pair. He is her cousin, which perhapsaccounts for some of it. They seem to be one person split in two!And with her unconquerable aversion to myself as a husband, eventhough she may like me as a friend, 'tis too much to bear longer.She has conscientiously struggled against it, but to no purpose.I cannot bear it--I cannot! I can't answer her arguments--she hasread ten times as much as I. Her intellect sparkles like diamonds,while mine smoulders like brown paper... She's one too many for me!”
”She'll get over it, good-now?”
”Never! It is--but I won't go into it--there are reasons why shenever will. At last she calmly and firmly asked if she might leaveme and go to him. The climax came last night, when, owing to myentering her room by accident, she jumped out of window--so strongwas her dread of me! She pretended it was a dream, but that wasto soothe me. Now when a woman jumps out of window without caringwhether she breaks her neck or no, she's not to be mistaken; and thisbeing the case I have come to a conclusion: that it is wrong to sotorture a fellow-creature any longer; and I won't be the inhumanwretch to do it, cost what it may!”
”What--you'll let her go? And with her lover?”
”Whom with is her matter. I shall let her go; with him certainly,if she wishes. I know I may be wrong--I know I can't logically,or religiously, defend my concession to such a wish of hers, orharmonize it with the doctrines I was brought up in. Only I know onething: something within me tells me I am doing wrong in refusingher. I, like other men, profess to hold that if a husband gets sucha so-called preposterous request from his wife, the only course thatcan possibly be regarded as right and proper and honourable in him isto refuse it, and put her virtuously under lock and key, and murderher lover perhaps. But is that essentially right, and proper, andhonourable, or is it contemptibly mean and selfish? I don't professto decide. I simply am going to act by instinct, and let principlestake care of themselves. If a person who has blindly walked into aquagmire cries for help, I am inclined to give it, if possible.”
”But--you see, there's the question of neighbours and society--whatwill happen if everybody--”
”Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher any longer! I only seewhat's under my eyes.”
”Well--I don't agree with your instinct, Dick!” said Gillinghamgravely. ”I am quite amazed, to tell the truth, that such a sedate,plodding fellow as you should have entertained such a craze for amoment. You said when I called that she was puzzling and peculiar:I think you are!”
”Have you ever stood before a woman whom you know to be intrinsicallya good woman, while she has pleaded for release--been the man she hasknelt to and implored indulgence of?”
”I am thankful to say I haven't.”
”Then I don't think you are in a position to give an opinion. Ihave been that man, and it makes all the difference in the world, ifone has any manliness or chivalry in him. I had not the remotestidea--living apart from women as I have done for so many years--thatmerely taking a woman to church and putting a ring upon her fingercould by any possibility involve one in such a daily, continuoustragedy as that now shared by her and me!”
”Well, I could admit some excuse for letting her leave you, providedshe kept to herself. But to go attended by a cavalier--that makes adifference.”
”Not a bit. Suppose, as I believe, she would rather endure herpresent misery than be made to promise to keep apart from him?All that is a question for herself. It is not the same thing atall as the treachery of living on with a husband and playing himfalse... However, she has not distinctly implied living with himas wife, though I think she means to... And, to the best of myunderstanding, it is not an ignoble, merely animal, feeling betweenthe two: that is the worst of it; because it makes me think theiraffection will be enduring. I did not mean to confess to you that inthe first jealous weeks of my marriage, before I had come to my rightmind, I hid myself in the school one evening when they were togetherthere, and I heard what they said. I am ashamed of it now, thoughI suppose I was only exercising a legal right. I found from theirmanner that an extraordinary affinity, or sympathy, entered intotheir attachment, which somehow took away all flavour of grossness.Their supreme desire is to be together--to share each other'semotions, and fancies, and dreams.”
”Platonic!”
”Well no. Shelleyan would be nearer to it. They remind me of--whatare their names--Laon and Cythna. Also of Paul and Virginia alittle. The more I reflect, the more ENTIRELY I am on their side!”
”But if people did as you want to do, there'd be a general domesticdisintegration. The family would no longer be the social unit.”
”Yes--I am all abroad, I suppose!” said Phillotson sadly. ”I wasnever a very bright reasoner, you remember.... And yet, I don't seewhy the woman and the children should not be the unit without theman.”
”By the Lord Harry!--Matriarchy! ... Does SHE say all this too?”
”Oh no. She little thinks I have out-Sued Sue in this--all in thelast twelve hours!”
”It will upset all received opinion hereabout. Good God--what willShaston say!”
”I don't say that it won't. I don't know--I don't know! ... As Isay, I am only a feeler, not a reasoner.”
”Now,” said Gillingham, ”let us take it quietly, and have somethingto drink over it.” He went under the stairs, and produced a bottleof cider-wine, of which they drank a rummer each. ”I think you arerafted, and not yourself,” he continued. ”Do go back and make upyour mind to put up with a few whims. But keep her. I hear on allsides that she's a charming young thing.”
”Ah yes! That's the bitterness of it! Well, I won't stay. I have along walk before me.”
Gillingham accompanied his friend a mile on his way, and at partingexpressed his hope that this consultation, singular as its subjectwas, would be the renewal of their old comradeship. ”Stick to her!”were his last words, flung into the darkness after Phillotson; fromwhich his friend answered ”Aye, aye!”
But when Phillotson was alone under the clouds of night, and nosound was audible but that of the purling tributaries of the Stour,he said, ”So Gillingham, my friend, you had no stronger argumentsagainst it than those!”
”I think she ought to be smacked, and brought to her senses--that'swhat I think!” murmured Gillingham, as he walked back alone.
The next morning came, and at breakfast Phillotson told Sue:
”You may go--with whom you will. I absolutely and unconditionallyagree.”
Having once come to this conclusion it seemed to Phillotson moreand more indubitably the true one. His mild serenity at the sensethat he was doing his duty by a woman who was at his mercy almostoverpowered his grief at relinquishing her.
Some days passed, and the evening of their last meal together hadcome--a cloudy evening with wind--which indeed was very seldom absentin this elevated place. How permanently it was imprinted upon hisvision; that look of her as she glided into the parlour to tea;a slim flexible figure; a face, strained from its roundness, andmarked by the pallors of restless days and nights, suggesting tragicpossibilities quite at variance with her times of buoyancy; a tryingof this morsel and that, and an inability to eat either. Her nervousmanner, begotten of a fear lest he should be injured by her course,might have been interpreted by a stranger as displeasure thatPhillotson intruded his presence on her for the few brief minutesthat remained.
”You had better have a slice of ham or an egg, or something with yourtea? You can't travel on a mouthful of bread and butter.”
She took the slice he helped her to; and they discussed as they sattrivial questions of housekeeping, such as where he would find thekey of this or that cupboard, what little bills were paid, and whatnot.
”I am a bachelor by nature, as you know, Sue,” he said, in a heroicattempt to put her at her ease. ”So that being without a wife willnot really be irksome to me, as it might be to other men who havehad one a little while. I have, too, this grand hobby in my head ofwriting 'The Roman Antiquities of Wessex,' which will occupy all myspare hours.”
”If you will send me some of the manuscript to copy at any time,as you used to, I will do it with so much pleasure!” she said withamenable gentleness. ”I should much like to be some help to youstill--as a--f-f-friend.”
Phillotson mused, and said: ”No, I think we ought to be reallyseparate, if we are to be at all. And for this reason, that I don'twish to ask you any questions, and particularly wish you not to giveme information as to your movements, or even your address... Now,what money do you want? You must have some, you know.”
”Oh, of course, Richard, I couldn't think of having any of your moneyto go away from you with! I don't want any either. I have enough ofmy own to last me for a long while, and Jude will let me have--”
”I would rather not know anything about him, if you don't mind.You are free, absolutely; and your course is your own.”
”Very well. But I'll just say that I have packed only a change ortwo of my own personal clothing, and one or two little things besidesthat are my very own. I wish you would look into my trunk before itis closed. Besides that I have only a small parcel that will go intoJude's portmanteau.”
”Of course I shall do no such thing as examine your luggage! I wishyou would take three-quarters of the household furniture. I don'twant to be bothered with it. I have a sort of affection for a littleof it that belonged to my poor mother and father. But the rest youare welcome to whenever you like to send for it.”
”That I shall never do.”
”You go by the six-thirty train, don't you? It is now a quarter tosix.”
”You... You don't seem very sorry I am going, Richard!”
”Oh no--perhaps not.”
”I like you much for how you have behaved. It is a curious thingthat directly I have begun to regard you as not my husband, but asmy old teacher, I like you. I won't be so affected as to say I loveyou, because you know I don't, except as a friend. But you do seemthat to me!”
Sue was for a few moments a little tearful at these reflections, andthen the station omnibus came round to take her up. Phillotson sawher things put on the top, handed her in, and was obliged to make anappearance of kissing her as he wished her good-bye, which she quiteunderstood and imitated. From the cheerful manner in which theyparted the omnibus-man had no other idea than that she was going fora short visit.
When Phillotson got back into the house he went upstairs and openedthe window in the direction the omnibus had taken. Soon the noise ofits wheels died away. He came down then, his face compressed likethat of one bearing pain; he put on his hat and went out, followingby the same route for nearly a mile. Suddenly turning round he camehome.
He had no sooner entered than the voice of his friend Gillinghamgreeted him from the front room.
”I could make nobody hear; so finding your door open I walked in, andmade myself comfortable. I said I would call, you remember.”
”Yes. I am much obliged to you, Gillingham, particularly for comingto-night.”
”How is Mrs.--”
”She is quite well. She is gone--just gone. That's her tea-cup,that she drank out of only an hour ago. And that's the plateshe--” Phillotson's throat got choked up, and he could not go on.He turned and pushed the tea-things aside.
”Have you had any tea, by the by?” he asked presently in a renewedvoice.
”No--yes--never mind,” said Gillingham, preoccupied. ”Gone, you sayshe is?”
”Yes... I would have died for her; but I wouldn't be cruel to herin the name of the law. She is, as I understand, gone to join herlover. What they are going to do I cannot say. Whatever it may beshe has my full consent to.”
There was a stability, a ballast, in Phillotson's pronouncement whichrestrained his friend's comment. ”Shall I--leave you?” he asked.
”No, no. It is a mercy to me that you have come. I have somearticles to arrange and clear away. Would you help me?”
Gillingham assented; and having gone to the upper rooms theschoolmaster opened drawers, and began taking out all Sue's thingsthat she had left behind, and laying them in a large box. ”Shewouldn't take all I wanted her to,” he continued. ”But when I madeup my mind to her going to live in her own way I did make up mymind.”
”Some men would have stopped at an agreement to separate.”
”I've gone into all that, and don't wish to argue it. I was, andam, the most old-fashioned man in the world on the question ofmarriage--in fact I had never thought critically about its ethicsat all. But certain facts stared me in the face, and I couldn't goagainst them.”
They went on with the packing silently. When it was done Phillotsonclosed the box and turned the key.
”There,” he said. ”To adorn her in somebody's eyes; never again inmine!”