Chapter: 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 of 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 I?"

"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.

 The next day Sue is to return to Shaston, and they set out for the railroad station. Before they part, Jude and Sue embrace and kiss. Jude returns to Marygreen and realizes that he is facing a conflict: he cannot continue to be attached to Sue and still hope to be ordained a clergyman. He admits with painful honesty that he is not fit to hold any position in the church. That evening he burns all his books of theological works and feels relieved. Sue returns to Shaston desperately worried and miserable. That night she sleeps in a stuffy closet in order not to share the same bedroom with Phillotson. The following morning she asks Phillotson if she can live separately from him. Phillotson is astonished and does not understand her request. He wonders why she married him at all. Sue admits that it was her fault in not breaking off the engagement. Further, she confesses that she had agreed to marry him only because she was afraid of the scandal at the training college. She begs him to release her from the bond. Phillotson is horrified and accuses her of having been in love with Jude all this time. During the day Phillotson and Sue correspond by exchanging notes while teaching in their different classrooms. Phillotson finally consents to let Sue live separately in his own house, but not with Jude, as she had wanted.

