"Aunt―did my father ill-use my mother, and my aunt her husband?" said Jude, abruptly, sitting down by the fire.
She raised her ancient eyes under the rim of the by-gone bonnet that she always wore. "Who's been telling you that?" she said.
"I have heard it spoken of, and want to know all."
"You med so well, I s'pose; though your wife—I reckon 'twas she—must have been a fool to open up that! There isn't much to know, after all. Your father and mother couldn't get on together, and they parted. It was coming home from Alfredston market, when you were a baby—on the hill by the Brown House barn—that they had their last difference, and took leave of one another for the last time. Your mother soon afterwards died—she drowned herself, in short, and your father went away with you to South Wessex, and never came here any more."
Jude recalled his father's silence about North Wessex and Jude's mother, never speaking of either till his dying day.
"It was the same with your father's sister. Her husband offended her, and she so disliked living with him afterwards that she went away to London with her little maid. The Fawleys were not made for wedlock; it never seemed to sit well upon us. There's sommat in our blood that won't take kindly to the notion of being bound to do what we do readily enough if not bound. That's why you ought to have hearkened to me, and not ha' married."
"Where did father and mother part—by the Brown House, did you say?"
"A little farther on—where the road to Fenworth branches off, and the hand-post stands. A gibbet once stood there."
In the dusk of that evening Jude walked away from his old aunt's as if to go home. But as soon as he reached the open down he struck out upon it till he came to a
