"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!"
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.