But he was young. Indeed to men of fifty, men just twice his age, he
seemed a mere boy and incapable of grief. He was so slim, and his limbs
were so loose, and his hair so fair, and his gestures often so naive,
that few of the mature people who saw him daily striding up and down
Trafalgar Road could have believed him to be acquainted with sorrow like
their sorrows. The next morning, as it were in justification of these
maturer people, his youth arose and fought with the malady in him, and,
if it did not conquer, it was not defeated. On the previous night,
after hours of hesitation, he had suddenly walked forth and gone down
Oak Street, and pushed open the garden gates of the Orgreaves, and gazed
at the facade of the house--not at her window, because that was at the
side--and it was all dark. The Orgreaves had gone to bed: he had
expected it. Even this perfectly futile reconnaissance had calmed him.
While dressing in the bleak sunrise he had looked at the oval lawn of
the Orgreaves' garden, and had seen Johnnie idly kicking a football on
it. Johnnie had probably spent the evening with her; and it was nothing
to Johnnie! She was there, somewhere between him and Johnnie, within
fifty yards of both of them, mysterious and withdrawn as ever, busy at
something or other. And it was naught to Johnnie! By the thought of
all this the woe in him was strengthened and embittered. Nevertheless
his youth, aided by the astringent quality of the clear dawn, still
struggled sturdily against it. And he ate six times more breakfast than
his suffering and insupportable father.
At half-past one--it was Thursday, and the shop closed at two o'clock--
he had put on courage like a garment, and decided that he would see her
that afternoon or night, `or perish in the attempt.' And as the
remembered phrase of the Sunday passed through his mind, he inwardly
smiled and thought of school; and felt old and sure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------