My aunt drooped her head. She did not greet nor moan. I think the fountain of her tears was dry.
“My heart’s sore for yo’, Matty, and glad I am yo’ve come to me i’ yo’r trouble.”
“I had to come, Charlotte, for if yo’r William cannot help me, I dunnot know wheer to turn.”
“Aw’ll do owt aw can. Yo’ know that, Matty. Aw set a deal o’ store on George. We all did. Aw cannot think what possessed him. More aw think on it, more awm capped, for George wer’ noan o’ th’ sort to . . . . It’s fair beyond me. What does Wood say?”
“It’s that’s brought me here, William. It’s a cruel thing to say; but in his heart o’ hearts aw think mi husband’s fair glad they’n fetched our George. He never took to th’ lad, nor George to him. But yo’d ha’ thowt at naa, when aw want all th’ comfort aw can get, mi own husband ’ud be th’ first to help.”
And Aunt Wood’s lips trembled and she pressed her thin hand to her throat to keep down the sobs that choked her.
“Dunnot tak’ on, Matty,” said my father. “We’st stand to yo’, wet or fine.”
“Aw shud think so i’deed,” cried my mother; “my own sister. If yo’ can’t look to yo’r own in th’ time o’ need, what’s relations for aw shud like to know. Onybody ’ll stan’ yo’r friend when yo’r i’ no need o’ frien’s. It’s trouble tries folk. Nah, thee drink this cup o’ tea, Matty, an’ nivver heed drawin’ to th’ table. Sit wher’ tha art an’ keep thi feet on th’ fender. An’, see yo’, there’s a drop o’ rum i’ thi tea, tho’ aw dunnot hold wi’ it as a reg’lar thing, for wilful waste ma’es woful want, but it’ll warm thee an’ hearten thi up. Tha’ looks as if tha hadn’t a drop o’ blood i’ thi body, poor thing.”
“Hast ta any notion o’ what tha’d like doin’ for George?” asked my father.
“Nay, it’ll be a law job, that’s all aw know. But see, awm noan come a beggin’. Aw dunnot know what William ’ud say, if he knew; but yo’ll noan tell.”