Jude's old and embittered aunt lay unwell at Marygreen, and on the following Sunday he went to see her—a visit which was the result of a victorious struggle against his inclination to turn aside to the village of Lumsdon and obtain a miserable interview with his cousin, in which the word nearest his heart could not be spoken, and the sight which had tortured him could not be revealed.
His aunt was now unable to leave her bed, and a great part of Jude's short day was occupied in making arrangements for her comfort. The little bakery business had been sold to a neighbour, and with the proceeds of this and her savings she was comfortably supplied with necessaries and more, a widow of the same village living with her and ministering to her wants. It was not till the time had nearly come for him to leave that he obtained a quiet talk with her, and his words tended insensibly towards his cousin.
“Was Sue born here?”
“She was—in this room. They were living here at that time. What made 'ee ask that?”
“Oh—I wanted to know.”
“Now you've been seeing her!” said the harsh old woman. “And what did I tell 'ee?”
“Well—that I was not to see her.”
“Have you gossiped with her?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't keep it up. She was brought up by her father to hate her mother's family; and she'll look with no favour upon a working chap like you—a townish girl as she's become by now. I never cared much about her. A pert little thing, that's what she was too often, with her tight-strained nerves. Many's the time I've smacked her for her impertinence. Why, one day when she was walking into the pond with her shoes and stockings off, and her petticoats pulled above her knees, afore I could cry out for shame, she said: 'Move on, Aunty! This is no sight for modest eyes!'“
“She was a little child then.”
“She was twelve if a day.”
“Well—of course. But now she's older she's of a thoughtful, quivering, tender nature, and as sensitive as—”
His aunt was now unable to leave her bed, and a great part of Jude's short day was occupied in making arrangements for her comfort. The little bakery business had been sold to a neighbour, and with the proceeds of this and her savings she was comfortably supplied with necessaries and more, a widow of the same village living with her and ministering to her wants. It was not till the time had nearly come for him to leave that he obtained a quiet talk with her, and his words tended insensibly towards his cousin.
“Was Sue born here?”
“She was—in this room. They were living here at that time. What made 'ee ask that?”
“Oh—I wanted to know.”
“Now you've been seeing her!” said the harsh old woman. “And what did I tell 'ee?”
“Well—that I was not to see her.”
“Have you gossiped with her?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't keep it up. She was brought up by her father to hate her mother's family; and she'll look with no favour upon a working chap like you—a townish girl as she's become by now. I never cared much about her. A pert little thing, that's what she was too often, with her tight-strained nerves. Many's the time I've smacked her for her impertinence. Why, one day when she was walking into the pond with her shoes and stockings off, and her petticoats pulled above her knees, afore I could cry out for shame, she said: 'Move on, Aunty! This is no sight for modest eyes!'“
“She was a little child then.”
“She was twelve if a day.”
“Well—of course. But now she's older she's of a thoughtful, quivering, tender nature, and as sensitive as—”
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