"Ah--indeed? ... Separated, have they!"
"You see, the eldest boy was mine--"
"Oh--yours!"
"Yes, poor little fellow--born in lawful wedlock, thank God. And perhaps she feels, over and above other things, that I ought to have been in her place. I can't say. However, as for me, I am soon off from here. I've got Father to look after now, and we can't live in such a hum-drum place as this. I hope soon to be in a bar again at Christminster, or some other big town."
They parted. When Phillotson had ascended the hill a few steps he stopped, hastened back, and called her.
"What is, or was, their address?"
Arabella gave it.
"Thank you. Good afternoon."
Arabella smiled grimly as she resumed her way, and practised dimple-making all along the road from where the pollard willows begin to the old almshouses in the first street of the town.
Meanwhile Phillotson ascended to Marygreen, and for the first time during a lengthened period he lived with a forward eye. On crossing under the large trees of the green to the humble schoolhouse to which he had been reduced he stood a moment, and pictured Sue coming out of the door to meet him. No man had ever suffered more inconvenience from his own charity, Christian or heathen, than Phillotson had done in letting Sue go. He had been knocked about from pillar to post at the hands of the virtuous almost beyond endurance; he had been nearly starved, and was now dependent entirely upon the very small stipened from the school of this village (where the parson had got ill-spoken of for befriending him ). He had often thought of Arabella's remarks that he should have been more severe with Sue, that her recalcitrant spirit would soon have been broken. Yet such was his obstinate and illogical disregard of opinion, and of the principles in which he had been trained, that his convictions on the rightness of his course with his wife had not been disturbed.
Principles which could be subverted by feeling in one direction were liable to the same catastrophe in another. The instincts which had allowed him to give Sue her liberty now enabled him to regard her as none the worse for her life with Jude. He wished for her still, in his curious way, if he did not love her, and, apart from policy, soon felt that he would be gratified to have her again as his, always provided that she came willingly.
But artifice was necessary, he had found, for stemming the cold and inhumane blast of the world's contempt. And here were the materials ready made. By getting Sue back and remarrying her on the respectable plea of having entertained erroneous views of her, and gained his divorce wrongfully, he might acquire some comfort, resume his old courses, perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to the Church as a licentiate.
He thought he would write to Gillingham to inquire his views, and what he thought of his, Phillotson's, sending a letter to her. Gillingham replied, naturally, that now she was gone it were best to let her be, and considered that if she were anybody's wife she was the wife of the man to whom she had borne three children and owed such tragical adventures. Probably, as his attachment to her seemed unusually strong, the singular pair would make their union legal in course of time, and all would be well, and decent, and in order.
"But they won't--Sue won't!" exclaimed Phillotson to himself. "Gillingham is so matter of fact. She's affected by Christminster sentiment and teaching. I can see her views on the indissolubility of marriage well enough, and I know where she got them. They are not mine; but I shall make use of them to further mine."
He wrote a brief reply to Gillingham. "I know I am entirely wrong, but I don't agree with you. As to her having lived with and had three children by him, my feeling is (though I can advance no logical or moral defence of it, on the old lines) that it has done little more than finish her education. I shall write to her, and learn whether what that woman said is true or no."
As he had made up his mind to do this before he had written to his friend, there had not been much reason for writing to the latter at all. However, it was Phillotson's way to act thus.
He accordingly addressed a carefully considered epistle to Sue, and, knowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthine strictness into the lines here and there, carefully hiding his heterodox feelings, not to frighten her. He stated that, it having come to his knowledge that her views had considerably changed, he felt compelled to say that his own, too, were largely modified by events subsequent to their parting. He would not conceal from her that passionate love had little to do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their lives, if not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they threatened to become, through his acting on what he had considered at the time a principle of justice, charity, and reason.
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!"
苏在信仰彻底大转变过程中一心认定的那个永远跟她分不开的丈夫的男人，当时还住在马利格林。
她和裘德的孩子发生惨剧的头一天，费乐生曾在基督堂瞧见他们两个在雨地里看着游行队伍朝圆形会堂行进。不过他那会儿没对他的同伴季令安提。季令安是他的老朋友，恰好在他那儿盘桓，到基督堂观光其实是他的主意。
“你心里又念叨什么啦？”回去路上，季令安说。“莫非那个永远到不了手的大学学位吗？”
“非也。”费乐生没好气地说。“我今天瞧见一个人。”稍停又说，“苏珊娜。”
“我也瞧见了。”
“你怎么没说？”
“我可不想叫你牵挂着她。不过，你既然瞧见她，干吗不跟她打招呼：‘你好哇，我从前的宝贝儿？’”
“啊，呃。可以当然可以。不过，我倒有个想法，你看怎么样：我现在有充分理由认为我跟她离婚那会儿，她是完全无辜的——千错万猎都是我错。实实在在是这么回事！这就不好收拾了，对不对？”
“可是不管你怎么说，反正她总算大费心机把你领上了正路啦。”
“哼。你这么损我，太没意思啦。毫无疑问，我当时该等下去才对。”
到了周末，季令安回到沙氏顿附近自己的小学，费乐生也照例到阿尔夫瑞顿的集市。他走下那个绵延很长、他比裘德认识得更早的山丘，但是他的历史不像裘德那样同那片斜坡休戚相关。他一边走，一边琢磨阿拉贝拉带来的消息。到了镇上，他买了份平常看的当地出版的周报，然后到一家小客店坐着，歇歇脚，好有劲再走那五英里回头路。他从衣袋里把报纸抽出来，随意看了看，忽地一条“石匠之子自杀奇闻”的新闻，进入他的眼帘。
他固然不是轻易动感情的人，可是这条消息还是让他心酸，也让他大惑不解。因为他不明白那个大孩子的年纪怎么会像报上说的那么大。不过，报道总还是真实可信，毋庸置疑。
“他们的悲伤的杯子现在装得满满啦！”他说，同时翻来覆去地想着苏，想着她离他而去的得失。
阿拉贝拉已在阿尔夫瑞顿住定了，小学老师既是每礼拜六上那儿的集市，所以过了几个礼拜，他们又碰上，也是势在必然——碰见的时间，说准确了，正好是她刚从基督堂回来。她在那儿呆的时间比原来打算的长多了，一直起劲地注意着裘德的动向，裘德那方面却再没瞧见她。费乐生这天回家路上碰见她的时候，她已经快到镇上了。
“你爱出来上这条路走走吧，卡特莱太太？”他说。
“我这才重新开头哪。”她答道。“我当姑娘，跟嫁人之后，都住在这儿。我这辈子前头觉着有滋有味儿的事儿，样样宗宗都跟这条路搀合着。这些事新近又在我心里鼓捣个没完；因为我刚去过一趟基督堂。是呀；我见过裘德啦。”
“啊！经过那么一场打击，他们的情形怎么样啦？”
“他们的办法可真出奇啦——真出奇啦！她不跟他住一块儿啦。我走之前才听说的，千真万确的。不过我先头找他们的时候，我一看他们俩的态度，就觉着他们早晚非走这一步不可。”
“不跟她丈夫一块儿住啦？唉，我本来觉着这一来他们俩结合得更紧呢。”
“闹来闹去，他根本不算她丈夫。虽说他们这么多年跟夫妻俩一样过，她可压根儿没跟他真正结过婚。现在嘛，这件惨事不单没让他们赶着办，把关系弄个合法化，她反倒怪里怪气地信起教来了，就跟卡特莱死了，我受打击的时候一个样，不过她神经兮兮比我还厉害呢。她说，我这是听人家说的，她说在上帝跟教会眼里头，她是你的妻子——就是你的妻子，此外什么人，怎么干，都不能算数。”
“啊——真的吗？分开啦，他们分开啦！”
“你还不知道，那个顶大的孩子是我的呢——”
“哦——你生的！”
“对啦，可怜的小家伙——感谢上帝，他可是我明媒正娶生下来的。她大概前思后想之后，才觉着，别的不算，只有我才该占着她那个位子。我这会儿还不能说准了。不过，拿我自个儿说吧，我快离开这儿啦，我这会儿得照顾爸爸，没法在这个带死不活的地方往下住啦。我希望到基督堂，要么别的大城市，找个酒吧活儿于于。”
他们分了手。费乐生往山坡上才走几步就停住了，赶快掉头，又把她喊住。
“你有他们的住址吗，从前的也行？”
阿拉贝拉跟他说了。
“谢谢。再见。”
阿拉贝拉一边往前走，一边脸上露出阴险的笑容，一路上还不断练习咋酒涡。正是从那个地点起，路两边都是截去顶枝的柳树，一直通到镇里头条街的善堂。
同时，费乐生上了山，往马利格林走去。悠悠岁月，他这是头一回在生活中睁开眼睛往前看。他从草地上大树底下过去，走向他不得已而去工作的那个不起眼的小学的时候，想象着苏走出门来接他的光景。在这世界上，不论是基督徒还是异教徒，谁也没像费乐生那样只为出自一番好心让苏离开他，因而闹得麻烦不可开交。正人君子们对他的打击之大，实在超出了人类承受力的极限；他被逼得走投无路，濒于饿死，就是现在在这个乡村小学挣到的那点微薄报酬也只是差可糊口而已（当地那位牧师还因为对他关照而备遭非议）。他常常想起阿拉贝拉的话：他应该对她严厉点，那样她的犟劲儿用不了多久就垮了。但是他这人是个死心眼儿，对别人的意见有理没理都听不进去，再搭上他受教育时接受的原则，所以他认为自己对妻子的处置，无可訾议，这个信念，他从来就没动摇过。
原则这玩意儿诚然可以由于某种心理倾向而置诸脑后，但换了另一种心理倾向，说不定也会轻而易举地同样酿成无穷祸害。从前既是本能促使他给了苏自由，现在也能叫他把苏和裘德同居看成无伤大雅。要是说他并不爱她，他也还可以按他的特异方式对她抱希望，而且很快就感到，且不说如何对付外界，单是她愿意回来，把她再弄上手，那可是谢天谢地的好事了。
不过他已经懂得，要对付那班铁石心肠的人不惜伤天害理对他的肆意污蔑，他非得要手段不可。而且这可以就地取材，信手拈来。一巳把她弄回来了，而且光明磊落地宣告他从前把她看错了，所以离婚也就离错了，所以要和她重结连理，再续良缘。这样一来他大概可以得到若干补偿，得以重理旧业，也许还能回沙氏顿小学，说不定教会还能让他当特准传教士哩。
他想写封信征询季令安的意见，看他对写信给她这一手作如何想。季令安当然回了信，说她既经离去，最好听之任之；他认为她既为人妇，自应属与之生男青女、患难相共之人，更何况他对她一往情深，非同一般，说不定再过若干日子，他们这对古怪夫妇的结合会办法律手续，此后当可万事大吉，既得体，又如意了。
“可他们才不干哪，苏才不干哪！”他自己一个人大呼小叫的。“季令安真是就事论事啊。苏这是接受了基督堂的感情和教导才到这一步啊。她认为婚姻是绝对解除不了的，这我看得清清楚楚；我也清楚她怎么有了这样的想法。她的想法跟我并不一样，不过我得利用她的想法，促我的想法实现。”
他给季令安回了封短信。“我自知全盘错误，但我不同意你的看法。至于说她与那个男人同居，生男青女，我认为（虽然我无法按古老成规从逻辑上或伦理上提出辩解）那也不过使她得以完成自己的教育而已。我要写信给她，以证实那个女人的话是真是假。”
他给朋友写信之前本就立意如此，所以写不写原来无所谓，费乐生为人做事大抵如此。
于是他经过一番仔细推敲，给苏写了信。既然知道她的气质易于激动，他在信里边随时都摆出一副拉德曼舍式正颜厉色；还小心翼翼地避免流露有悖教义的感情，兔得她看了害怕。他声称就他见闻所及，得悉她的思想大有改变，所以他深感不可不说，自他们仳离后，历经世事，他的见解也颇有变化。他愿坦陈无隐，他写此信殊与热烈的爱情无涉，而是因为他切望使他们的生活即使不算成功，至少不致重演因他当初自以为根据公正、仁善和理性的原则所作所为而造成的令人痛心的结局的危险。
他已恍然大悟，身处他们这种古老文明之中，谁若不顾一切任凭自己生而有之的正义感和公平心而无所节制，势必碰得头破血流。你若一心想混到手你那份舒适和体面，你一切行为非遵循你经教导而养成的正义感和公平心不可。至于什么朴质纯真的爱人之心，那就去它的吧。
他提议说，他目前住在马利格林，她无妨来此。
写完了，转念一想，他把倒数第二段删掉了；重抄一遍，立即发出；多少有点心痒难挠地等待下回分解。
