Chapter: In returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phillotson
had won the interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants,
who, though they did not honour him for his miscellaneous acquirements
as he would have been honoured elsewhere, retained for him a sincere
regard.  When, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a pretty
wife--awkwardly pretty for him, if he did not take care, they
said--they were glad to have her settle among them.

For some time after her flight from that home Sue's absence did not
excite comment.  Her place as monitor in the school was taken by
another young woman within a few days of her vacating it, which
substitution also passed without remark, Sue's services having been
of a provisional nature only.  When, however, a month had passed, and
Phillotson casually admitted to an acquaintance that he did not know
where his wife was staying, curiosity began to be aroused; till,
jumping to conclusions, people ventured to affirm that Sue had played
him false and run away from him.  The schoolmaster's growing languor
and listlessness over his work gave countenance to the idea.

Though Phillotson had held his tongue as long as he could, except to
his friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would not allow him
to do so when misapprehensions as to Sue's conduct spread abroad.
On a Monday morning the chairman of the school committee called, and
after attending to the business of the school drew Phillotson aside
out of earshot of the children.

"You'll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since everybody is talking of
it: is this true as to your domestic affairs--that your wife's going
away was on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover?  If so, I
condole 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 for
condolence 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 asked
leave to go away with her lover, and I let her.  Why shouldn't I?  A
woman of full age, it was a question of her own conscience--not for
me.  I was not her gaoler.  I can't explain any further.  I don't
wish to be questioned."

The children observed that much seriousness marked the faces of
the two men, and went home and told their parents that something
new had happened about Mrs. Phillotson.  Then Phillotson's little
maidservant, who was a schoolgirl just out of her standards, said
that Mr. Phillotson had helped in his wife's packing, had offered
her what money she required, and had written a friendly letter to
her young man, telling him to take care of her.  The chairman of
committee thought the matter over, and talked to the other managers
of the school, till a request came to Phillotson to meet them
privately.  The meeting lasted a long time, and at the end the
school-master came home, looking as usual pale and worn.  Gillingham
was sitting in his house awaiting him.

"Well; it is as you said," observed Phillotson, flinging himself
down wearily in a chair.  "They have requested me to send in my
resignation on account of my scandalous conduct in giving my tortured
wife her liberty--or, as they call it, condoning her adultery.  But I
shan't resign!"

"I think I would."

"I won't. It is no business of theirs.  It doesn't affect me in my
public 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 get
appointed to another school.  You see, they have to consider what
you did as done by a teacher of youth--and its effects as such upon
the morals of the town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position is
indefensible.  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.  And
for this reason; that by resigning I acknowledge I have acted wrongly
by her; when I am more and more convinced every day that in the sight
of Heaven and by all natural, straightforward humanity, I have acted
rightly."

Gillingham saw that his rather headstrong friend would not be able to
maintain such a position as this; but he said nothing further, and
in due time--indeed, in a quarter of an hour--the formal letter of
dismissal arrived, the managers having remained behind to write it
after Phillotson's withdrawal.  The latter replied that he should not
accept dismissal; and called a public meeting, which he attended,
although he looked so weak and ill that his friend implored him to
stay at home.  When he stood up to give his reasons for contesting
the decision of the managers he advanced them firmly, as he had
done to his friend, and contended, moreover, that the matter was a
domestic theory which did not concern them.  This they over-ruled,
insisting that the private eccentricities of a teacher came quite
within their sphere of control, as it touched the morals of those he
taught.  Phillotson replied that he did not see how an act of natural
charity could injure morals.

All the respectable inhabitants and well-to-do fellow-natives of
the town were against Phillotson to a man.  But, somewhat to his
surprise, some dozen or more champions rose up in his defence as from
the ground.

It has been stated that Shaston was the anchorage of a curious and
interesting group of itinerants, who frequented the numerous fairs
and markets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumn
months.  Although Phillotson had never spoken to one of these
gentlemen they now nobly led the forlorn hope in his defence.
The body included two cheap Jacks, a shooting-gallery proprietor
and the ladies who loaded the guns, a pair of boxing-masters, a
steam-roundabout manager, two travelling broom-makers, who called
themselves 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 independent
judgment, whose own domestic experiences had been not without
vicissitude, came up and warmly shook hands with Phillotson; after
which they expressed their thoughts so strongly to the meeting that
issue was joined, the result being a general scuffle, wherein a black
board 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 Palestine
that his head went right through Samaria, and many black eyes and
bleeding noses were given, one of which, to everybody's horror, was
the venerable incumbent's, owing to the zeal of an emancipated
chimney-sweep, who took the side of Phillotson's party.  When
Phillotson saw the blood running down the rector's face he deplored
almost in groans the untoward and degrading circumstances, regretted
that he had not resigned when called upon, and went home so ill that
next morning he could not leave his bed.

The farcical yet melancholy event was the beginning of a serious
illness for him; and he lay in his lonely bed in the pathetic state
of mind of a middle-aged man who perceives at length that his
life, intellectual and domestic, is tending to failure and gloom.
Gillingham came to see him in the evenings, and on one occasion
mentioned Sue's name.

"She doesn't care anything about me!" said Phillotson.  "Why should
she?"

"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 time
ago."

When Gillingham reached home he sat and reflected, and at last wrote
an anonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reaching her,
the letter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at the
diocesan capital.  Arriving at that place it was forwarded to
Marygreen in North Wessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the only
person who knew his present address--the widow who had nursed his
aunt.

Three days later, in the evening, when the sun was going down in
splendour over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shaston
windows 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 a
few minutes after there was a tap at the bedroom door.  Phillotson
did not speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and there
entered--Sue.

She was in light spring clothing, and her advent seemed ghostly--like
the 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 to
him.  "But I heard you were ill--very ill; and--and as I know that
you recognize other feelings between man and woman than physical
love, 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 would
have justified my coming!"

"Yes... yes.  And I almost wish you had not come!  It is a little
too soon--that's all I mean.  Still, let us make the best of it.  You
haven't heard about the school, I suppose?"

"No--what about it?"

"Only that I am going away from here to another place.  The managers
and 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 troubles
had resulted to him from letting her go; it never once seemed to
cross her mind, and she had received no news whatever from Shaston.
They talked on slight and ephemeral subjects, and when his tea was
brought up he told the amazed little servant that a cup was to be set
for Sue.  That young person was much more interested in their history
than they supposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted her
eyes and hands in grotesque amazement.  While they sipped Sue went
to the window and thoughtfully said, "It is such a beautiful sunset,
Richard."

"They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing the
mist of the vale.  But I lose them all, as they don't shine into this
gloomy corner where I lie."

"Wouldn't you like to see this particular one?  It is like heaven
opened."

"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 hands
carried it to a spot by the window where it could catch the sunshine,
moving the glass till the beams were reflected into Phillotson's
face.

"There--you can see the great red sun now!" she said.  "And I am
sure it will cheer you--I do so hope it will!"  She spoke with a
childlike, repentant kindness, as if she could not do too much for
him.

Phillotson smiled sadly.  "You are an odd creature!" he murmured as
the sun glowed in his eyes.  "The idea of your coming to see me after
what has passed!"

"Don't let us go back upon that!" she said quickly.  "I have to catch
the omnibus for the train, as Jude doesn't know I have come; he was
out 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?  You
have 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 intermittent
chat, and when candles were brought and it was time to leave she put
her hand in his or rather allowed it to flit through his; for she was
significantly light in touch.  She had nearly closed the door when he
said, "Sue!"  He had noticed that, in turning away from him, tears
were 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'll
forgive you and condone everything!"

"Oh you can't, you can't!" she said hastily.  "You can't condone it
now!"

"HE is your husband now, in effect, you mean, of course?"

"You may assume it.  He is obtaining a divorce from his wife
Arabella."

"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 on
hers.  She wrote and told him it would be a kindness to her, since
then she could marry and live respectably.  And Jude has agreed."

"A wife...  A kindness to her.  Ah, yes; a kindness to her to release
her 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 do
what I have done!"

There had arisen in Sue's face that incipient fright which showed
itself whenever he changed from friend to husband, and which made her
adopt any line of defence against marital feeling in him.  "I MUST go
now.  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 I
thought, I CANNOT stay!"

"She's his--his from lips to heel!" said Phillotson; but so faintly
that in closing the door she did not hear it.  The dread of a
reactionary change in the schoolmaster's sentiments, coupled,
perhaps, with a faint shamefacedness at letting even him know
what a slipshod lack of thoroughness, from a man's point of view,
characterized her transferred allegiance, prevented her telling him
of her, thus far, incomplete relations with Jude; and Phillotson lay
writhing 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 so
seriously concerned about him, that he walked up the hill-side to
Shaston two or three times a week, although, there and back, it was
a journey of nine miles, which had to be performed between tea and
supper, after a hard day's work in school.  When he called on the
next occasion after Sue's visit his friend was downstairs, and
Gillingham noticed that his restless mood had been supplanted by a
more 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 were
not your wife--"

"She is not; she's another man's except in name and law.  And I have
been thinking--it was suggested to me by a conversation I had with
her--that, in kindness to her, I ought to dissolve the legal tie
altogether; which, singularly enough, I think I can do, now she has
been back, and refused my request to stay after I said I had forgiven
her.  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 keeping
her chained on to me if she doesn't belong to me?  I know--I feel
absolutely certain--that she would welcome my taking such a step as
the greatest charity to her.  For though as a fellow-creature she
sympathizes with, and pities me, and even weeps for me, as a husband
she cannot endure me--she loathes me--there's no use in mincing
words--she loathes me, and my only manly, and dignified, and merciful
course is to complete what I have begun...  And for worldly reasons,
too, it will be better for her to be independent.  I have hopelessly
ruined my prospects because of my decision as to what was best for
us, though she does not know it; I see only dire poverty ahead from
my feet to the grave; for I can be accepted as teacher no more.  I
shall probably have enough to do to make both ends meet during the
remainder of my life, now my occupation's gone; and I shall be
better able to bear it alone.  I may as well tell you that what has
suggested my letting her go is some news she brought me--the news
that 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 is
that my liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open up
a 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 at
first."

Gillingham did not hurry to reply.  "I may disagree with your
motive," he said gently, for he respected views he could not share.
"But I think you are right in your determination--if you can carry it
out. I doubt, however, if you can."





Part Fifth


AT ALDBRICKHAM AND ELSEWHERE



   "Thy aerial part, and all the fiery parts which are
    mingled in thee, though by nature they have an upward
    tendency, still in obedience to the disposition of the
    universe they are over-powered here in the compound
    mass the body."--M.  ANTONINUS (Long).

 When Sue does not return to Phillotson and he does not hesitate to tell the school authorities why, he is asked to resign, refuses to do so, and is dismissed. In the public meeting he calls to defend himself, most townspeople are against him, but some few are for him. The scuffle that results turns the meeting into a bad farce. Owing to Gillingham's telling her that he is ill, Sue comes to see Phillotson; he asks her to come back but she will not. He learns for the first time that Jude has been married. Later, he tells Gillingham that for Sue's sake he is going to divorce her, as Jude is divorcing Arabella.

