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Updated: May 7, 2025
Julia was undoubtedly very ill, so ill that even Samson Mountain forbore to force her to descend to the parlour in which Mr. Tom Raybould nervously awaited her coming, and where, on Samson's return from his daughter's chamber, the pair sat and drank their beer together in miserable silence, broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation regarding crops and politics.
Julia knew well enough. Tom Raybould was a young farmer, a year or two older than herself. She had known him all her life, and he had been a schoolfellow and chosen chum of her brother's. He had shown unmistakable signs of affection for her, but had never spoken.
'You wanted to see me, father, she asked, trembling. 'I sent for you. Mrs. Rusker was in a state of pitiable excitement, if anybody had had the leisure to notice her. 'Theer's some'at happened to-day as it's fit an' right as yo' should know. I met ode Raybould today i' th' Exchange, an' he tode me some'at as I'd long suspected, about his son Tom. I reckon you know what it was.
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