by Thomas Hardy
To indulge one’s instinctive and uncontrolled sense of justice and right, was not, he had found, permitted with impunity in an old civilization like ours. It was necessary to act under an acquired and cultivated sense of the same, if you wished to enjoy an average share of comfort and honour; and to let crude loving kindness take care of itself.
He suggested that she should come to him there at Marygreen.
On second thoughts he took out the last paragraph but one; and having rewritten the letter he dispatched it immediately, and in some excitement awaited the issue.
A few days after a figure moved through the white fog which enveloped the Beersheba suburb of Christminster, towards the quarter in which Jude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue. A timid knock sounded upon the door of his abode.
It was evening — so he was at home; and by a species of divination he jumped up and rushed to the door himself.
“Will you come out with me? I would rather not come in. I want to — to talk with you — and to go with you to the cemetery.”
It had been in the trembling accents of Sue that these words came. Jude put on his hat. “It is dreary for you to be out,” he said. “But if you prefer not to come in, I don’t mind.”
“Yes — I do. I shall not keep you long.”
Jude was too much affected to go on talking at first; she, too, was now such a mere cluster of nerves that all initiatory power seemed to have left her, and they proceeded through the fog like Acherontic shades for a long while, without sound or gesture.
“I want to tell you,” she presently said, her voice now quick, now slow, “so that you may not hear of it by chance. I am going back to Richard. He has — so magnanimously — agreed to forgive all.”
“Going back? How can you go — ”
“He is going to marry me again. That is for form’s sake, and to satisfy the world, which does not see things as they are. But of course I am his wife already. Nothing has changed that.”
He turned upon her with an anguish that was well-nigh fierce.
“But you are my wife! Yes, you are. You know it. I have always regretted that feint of ours in going away and pretending to come back legally married, to save appearances. I loved you, and you loved me; and we closed with each other; and that made the marriage. We still love — you as well as I — know it, Sue! Therefore our marriage is not cancelled.”
“Yes; I know how you see it,” she answered with despairing self-suppression. “But I am going to marry him again, as it would be called by you. Strictly speaking you, too — don’t mind my saying it, Jude! — you should take back — Arabella.”
“I should? Good God — what next! But how if you and I had married legally, as we were on the point of doing?”
“I should have felt just the same — that ours was not a marriage. And I would go back to Richard without repeating the sacrament, if he asked me. But ‘the world and its ways have a certain worth’ (I suppose): therefore I concede a repetition of the ceremony… Don’t crush all the life out of me by satire and argument, I implore you! I was strongest once, I know, and perhaps I treated you cruelly. But Jude, return good for evil! I am the weaker now. Don’t retaliate upon me, but be kind. Oh be kind to me — a poor wicked woman who is trying to mend!”
He shook his head hopelessly, his eyes wet. The blow of her bereavement seemed to have destroyed her reasoning faculty. The once keen vision was dimmed. “All wrong, all wrong!” he said huskily. “Error — perversity! It drives me out of my senses. Do you care for him? Do you love him? You know you don’t! It will be a fanatic prostitution — God forgive me, yes — that’s what it will be!”
“I don’t love him — I must, must, own it, in deepest remorse! But I shall try to learn to love him by obeying him.”
Jude argued, urged, implored; but her conviction was proof against all. It seemed to be the one thing on earth on which she was firm, and that her firmness in this had left her tottering in every other impulse and wish she possessed.
“I have been considerate enough to let you know the whole truth, and to tell it you myself,” she said in cut tones; “that you might not consider yourself slighted by hearing of it at second hand. I have even owned the extreme fact that I do not love him. I did not think you would be so rough with me for doing so! I was going to ask you…”
“To give you away?”
“No. To send — my boxes to me — if you would. But I suppose you won’t.”
“Why, of course I will. What — isn’t he coming to fetch you — to marry you from here? He won’t condescend to do that?”
“No — I won’t let him. I go to him voluntarily, just as I went away from him. We are to be married at his little church at Marygreen.”
She was so sadly sweet in what he called her wrong-headedness that Jude could not help being moved to tears more than once for pity of her. “I never knew such a woman for doing impulsive penances, as you, Sue! No sooner does one expect you to go straight on, as the one rational proceeding, than you double round the corner!”
“Ah, well; let that go! … Jude, I must say good-bye! But I wanted you to go to the cemetery with me. Let our farewell be there — beside the graves of those who died to bring home to me the error of my views.”
They turned in the direction of the place, and the gate was opened to them on application. Sue had been there often, and she knew the way to the spot in the dark. They reached it, and stood still.
“It is here — I should like to part,” said she.
“So be it!”
“Don’t think me hard because I have acted on conviction. Your generous devotion to me is unparalleled, Jude! Your worldly failure, if you have failed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail… ‘Charity seeketh not her own.’“
“In that chapter we are at one, ever beloved darling, and on it we’ll part friends. Its verses will stand fast when all the rest that you call religion has passed away!”
“Well — don’t discuss it. Good-bye, Jude; my fellow-sinner, and kindest friend!”
“Good-bye, my mistaken wife. Good-bye!”
CHAPTER V
The next afternoon the familiar Christminster fog still hung over all things. Sue’s slim shape was only just discernible going towards the station.
Jude had no heart to go to his work that day. Neither could he go anywhere in the direction by which she would be likely to pass. He went in an opposite one, to a dreary, strange, flat scene, where boughs dripped, and coughs and consumption lurked, and where he had never been before.
“Sue’s gone from me — gone!” he murmured miserably.
She in the meantime had left by the train, and reached Alfredston Road, where she entered the steam-tram and was conveyed into the town. It had been her request to Phillotson that he should not meet her. She wished, she said, to come to him voluntarily, to his very house and hearthstone.
It was Friday evening, which had been chosen because the schoolmaster was disengaged at four o’clock that day till the Monday morning following. The little car she hired at the Bear to drive her to Marygreen set her down at the end of the lane, half a mile from the village, by her desire, and preceded her to the schoolhouse with such portion of her luggage as she had brought. On its return she encountered it, and asked the driver if he had found the master’s house open. The man informed her that he had, and that her things had been taken in by the schoolmaster himself.
She could now enter Marygreen without exciting much observation. She crossed by the well and under the trees to the pretty new school on the other side, and lifted the latch of the dwelling without knocking. Phillotson stood in the middle of the room, awaiting her, as requested.
“I’ve come, Richard,” said she, looking pale and shaken, and sinking into a chair. “I cannot believe — you forgive your — wife!”
&n
bsp; “Everything, darling Susanna,” said Phillotson.
She started at the endearment, though it had been spoken advisedly without fervour. Then she nerved herself again.
“My children — are dead — and it is right that they should be! I am glad — almost. They were sin-begotten. They were sacrificed to teach me how to live! Their death was the first stage of my purification. That’s why they have not died in vain! … You will take me back?”
He was so stirred by her pitiful words and tone that he did more than he had meant to do. He bent and kissed her cheek.
Sue imperceptibly shrank away, her flesh quivering under the touch of his lips.
Phillotson’s heart sank, for desire was renascent in him. “You still have an aversion to me!”
“Oh no, dear — I have been driving through the damp, and I was chilly!” she said, with a hurried smile of apprehension. “When are we going to have the marriage? Soon?”
“To-morrow morning, early, I thought — if you really wish. I am sending round to the vicar to let him know you are come. I have told him all, and he highly approves — he says it will bring our lives to a triumphant and satisfactory issue. But — are you sure of yourself? It is not too late to refuse now if — you think you can’t bring yourself to it, you know?”
“Yes, yes, I can! I want it done quick. Tell him, tell him at once! My strength is tried by the undertaking — I can’t wait long!”
“Have something to eat and drink then, and go over to your room at Mrs. Edlin’s. I’ll tell the vicar half-past eight to-morrow, before anybody is about — if that’s not too soon for you? My friend Gillingham is here to help us in the ceremony. He’s been good enough to come all the way from Shaston at great inconvenience to himself.”
Unlike a woman in ordinary, whose eye is so keen for material things, Sue seemed to see nothing of the room they were in, or any detail of her environment. But on moving across the parlour to put down her muff she uttered a little “Oh!” and grew paler than before. Her look was that of the condemned criminal who catches sight of his coffin.
“What?” said Phillotson.
The flap of the bureau chanced to be open, and in placing her muff upon it her eye had caught a document which lay there. “Oh — only a — funny surprise!” she said, trying to laugh away her cry as she came back to the table.
“Ah! Yes,” said Phillotson. “The licence… It has just come.”
Gillingham now joined them from his room above, and Sue nervously made herself agreeable to him by talking on whatever she thought likely to interest him, except herself, though that interested him most of all. She obediently ate some supper, and prepared to leave for her lodging hard by. Phillotson crossed the green with her, bidding her good-night at Mrs. Edlin’s door.
The old woman accompanied Sue to her temporary quarters, and helped her to unpack. Among other things she laid out a night-gown tastefully embroidered.
“Oh — I didn’t know that was put in!” said Sue quickly. “I didn’t mean it to be. Here is a different one.” She handed a new and absolutely plain garment, of coarse and unbleached calico.
“But this is the prettiest,” said Mrs. Edlin. “That one is no better than very sackcloth o’ Scripture!”
“Yes — I meant it to be. Give me the other.”
She took it, and began rending it with all her might, the tears resounding through the house like a screech-owl.
“But my dear, dear! — whatever”
“It is adulterous! It signifies what I don’t feel — I bought it long ago — to please Jude. It must be destroyed!”
Mrs. Edlin lifted her hands, and Sue excitedly continued to tear the linen into strips, laying the pieces in the fire.
“You med ha’ give it to me!” said the widow. “It do make my heart ache to see such pretty open-work as that a-burned by the flames — not that ornamental night-rails can be much use to a’ ould ‘ooman like I. My days for such be all past and gone!”
“It is an accursed thing — it reminds me of what I want to forget!” Sue repeated. “It is only fit for the fire.”
“Lord, you be too strict! What do ye use such words for, and condemn to hell your dear little innocent children that’s lost to ‘ee! Upon my life I don’t call that religion!”
Sue flung her face upon the bed, sobbing. “Oh, don’t, don’t! That kills me!” She remained shaken with her grief, and slipped down upon her knees.
“I’ll tell ‘ee what — you ought not to marry this man again!” said Mrs. Edlin indignantly. “You are in love wi’ t’ other still!”
“Yes I must — I am his already!”
“Pshoo! You be t’ other man’s. If you didn’t like to commit yourselves to the binding vow again, just at first, ‘twas all the more credit to your consciences, considering your reasons, and you med ha’ lived on, and made it all right at last. After all, it concerned nobody but your own two selves.”
“Richard says he’ll have me back, and I’m bound to go! If he had refused, it might not have been so much my duty to — give up Jude. But — ” She remained with her face in the bed-clothes, and Mrs. Edlin left the room.
Phillotson in the interval had gone back to his friend Gillingham, who still sat over the supper-table. They soon rose, and walked out on the green to smoke awhile. A light was burning in Sue’s room, a shadow moving now and then across the blind.
Gillingham had evidently been impressed with the indefinable charm of Sue, and after a silence he said, “Well: you’ve all but got her again at last. She can’t very well go a second time. The pear has dropped into your hand.”
“Yes! … I suppose I am right in taking her at her word. I confess there seems a touch of selfishness in it. Apart from her being what she is, of course, a luxury for a fogy like me, it will set me right in the eyes of the clergy and orthodox laity, who have never forgiven me for letting her go. So I may get back in some degree into my old track.”
“Well — if you’ve got any sound reason for marrying her again, do it now in God’s name! I was always against your opening the cage-door and letting the bird go in such an obviously suicidal way. You might have been a school inspector by this time, or a reverend, if you hadn’t been so weak about her.”
“I did myself irreparable damage — I know it.”
“Once you’ve got her housed again, stick to her.”
Phillotson was more evasive to-night. He did not care to admit clearly that his taking Sue to him again had at bottom nothing to do with repentance of letting her go, but was, primarily, a human instinct flying in the face of custom and profession. He said, “Yes — I shall do that. I know woman better now. Whatever justice there was in releasing her, there was little logic, for one holding my views on other subjects.”
Gillingham looked at him, and wondered whether it would ever happen that the reactionary spirit induced by the world’s sneers and his own physical wishes would make Phillotson more orthodoxly cruel to her than he had erstwhile been informally and perversely kind.
“I perceive it won’t do to give way to impulse,” Phillotson resumed, feeling more and more every minute the necessity of acting up to his position. “I flew in the face of the Church’s teaching; but I did it without malice prepense. Women are so strange in their influence that they tempt you to misplaced kindness. However, I know myself better now. A little judicious severity, perhaps…”
“Yes; but you must tighten the reins by degrees only. Don’t be too strenuous at first. She’ll come to any terms in time.”
The caution was unnecessary, though Phillotson did not say so. “I remember what my vicar at Shaston said, when I left after the row that was made about my agreeing to her elopement. ‘The only thing you can do to retrieve your position and hers is to admit your error in not restraining her with a wise and strong hand, and to get her back again if she’ll come, and be firm in the future.’ But I was so headstrong at that time that I paid no heed. And that after the divorce she should have thought of doing so I d
id not dream.”
The gate of Mrs. Edlin’s cottage clicked, and somebody began crossing in the direction of the school. Phillotson said “Good-night.”
“Oh, is that Mr. Phillotson,” said Mrs. Edlin. “I was going over to see ‘ee. I’ve been upstairs with her, helping her to unpack her things; and upon my word, sir, I don’t think this ought to be!”
“What — the wedding?”
“Yes. She’s forcing herself to it, poor dear little thing; and you’ve no notion what she’s suffering. I was never much for religion nor against it, but it can’t be right to let her do this, and you ought to persuade her out of it. Of course everybody will say it was very good and forgiving of ‘ee to take her to ‘ee again. But for my part I don’t.”
“It’s her wish, and I am willing,” said Phillotson with grave reserve, opposition making him illogically tenacious now. “A great piece of laxity will be rectified.”
“I don’t believe it. She’s his wife if anybody’s. She’s had three children by him, and he loves her dearly; and it’s a wicked shame to egg her on to this, poor little quivering thing! She’s got nobody on her side. The one man who’d be her friend the obstinate creature won’t allow to come near her. What first put her into this mood o’ mind, I wonder!”
“I can’t tell. Not I certainly. It is all voluntary on her part. Now that’s all I have to say.” Phillotson spoke stiffly. “You’ve turned round, Mrs. Edlin. It is unseemly of you!”
“Well. I knowed you’d be affronted at what I had to say; but I don’t mind that. The truth’s the truth.”
“I’m not affronted, Mrs. Edlin. You’ve been too kind a neighbour for that. But I must be allowed to know what’s best for myself and Susanna. I suppose you won’t go to church with us, then?”
“No. Be hanged if I can… I don’t know what the times be coming to! Matrimony have growed to be that serious in these days that one really do feel afeard to move in it at all. In my time we took it more careless; and I don’t know that we was any the worse for it! When I and my poor man were jined in it we kept up the junketing all the week, and drunk the parish dry, and had to borrow half a crown to begin housekeeping!”