Jude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the spot where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of sackcloth for a cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the bare block.
“Yes; yes,” said Phillotson abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his eyes resting on the ground as if he were trying to remember where he was. “I won’t keep you long. It was merely that I have heard that you have seen my little friend Sue recently. It occurred to me to speak to you on that account. I merely want to ask—about her.”
“I think I know what!” Jude hurriedly said. “About her escaping from the training school, and her coming to me?”
“Yes.”
“Well”—Jude for a moment felt an unprincipled and fiendish wish to annihilate his rival at all cost. By the exercise of that treachery which love for the same woman renders possible to men the most honourable in every other relation of life, he could send off Phillotson in agony and defeat by saying that the scandal was true, and that Sue had irretrievably committed herself with him. But his action did not respond for a moment to his animal instinct; and what he said was, “I am glad of your kindness in coming to talk plainly to me about it. You know what they say?—that I ought to marry her.”
“What!”
“And I wish with all my soul I could!”
Phillotson trembled, and his naturally pale face acquired a corpselike sharpness in its lines. “I had no idea that it was of this nature! God forbid!”
“No, no!” said Jude aghast. “I thought you understood? I mean that were I in a position to marry her, or someone, and settle down, instead of living in lodgings here and there, I should be glad!”
What he had really meant was simply that he loved her.