Jude the Obscure (Oxford World's Classics)

Jude the Obscure
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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 in
flu-
ence 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 head-
strong at that time that I paid no heed. And that after the divorce she
should have thought of doing so I did not dream.’
The gate of Mrs. Edlin’s cottage clicked, and somebody began
crossing in the direction of the school. Phillotson said ‘Good-night.’
‘O, 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 su
ffering. 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 recti
fied.’
‘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 sti
ffly. ‘You’ve turned round,
Mrs. Edlin. It is unseemly of you.’
‘Well. I knowed you’d be a
ffronted at what I had to say; but I don’t
mind that. The truth’s the truth.’
At Christminster Again
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‘I’m not a
ffronted, 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!’
When Mrs. Edlin had gone back to her cottage Phillotson spoke
moodily. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to do it––at any rate quite so
rapidly.’
‘Why?’
‘If she is really compelling herself to this against her instincts––
merely from this new sense of duty or religion––I ought perhaps to
let her wait a bit.’
‘Now you’ve got so far you ought not to back out of it. That’s my
opinion.’
‘I can’t very well put it o
ff now; that’s true. But I had a qualm
when she gave that little cry at sight of the license.’
‘Now, never you have qualms, old boy. I mean to give her away to-
morrow morning, and you mean to take her. It has always been on
my conscience that I didn’t urge more objections to your letting her
go, and now we’ve got to this stage I shan’t be content if I don’t help
you to set the matter right.’
Phillotson nodded, and seeing how staunch his friend was, became
more frank. ‘No doubt when it gets known what I’ve done I shall be
thought a soft fool by many. But they don’t know Sue as I do.
Though so elusive, hers is such an honest nature* at bottom that I
don’t think she has ever done anything against her conscience. The
fact of her having lived with Fawley goes for nothing. At the time she
left me for him she thought she was quite within her right. Now she
thinks otherwise.’
The next morning came, and the self-sacri
fice of the woman on
the altar of what she was pleased to call her principles was acqui-
esced in by these two friends, each from his own point of view.
Phillotson went across to the Widow Edlin’s to fetch Sue a few
minutes after eight o’clock. The fog of the previous day or two on