One morning--towards the end of November--Edwin, attended by Maggie, was
rearranging books in the drawing-room after breakfast, when there came a
startling loud tap at the large central pane of the window. Both of
them jumped.
"Who's throwing?" Edwin exclaimed.
"I expect it's that boy," said Maggie, almost angrily.
"Not Georgie?"
"Yes. I wish you'd go and stop him. You've no idea what a tiresome
little thing he is. And so rough too!"
This attitude of Maggie towards the mysterious nephew was a surprise for
Edwin. She had never grumbled about him before. In fact they had seen
little of him. For a fortnight he had not been abroad, and the rumour
ran that he was unwell, that he was `not so strong as he ought to be.'
And now Maggie suddenly charged him with a whole series of misdoings!
But it was Maggie's way to keep unpleasant things from Edwin for a time,
in order to save her important brother from being worried, and then in a
moment of tension to fling them full in his face, like a wet clout.
"What's he been up to?" Edwin inquired for details.
"Oh! I don't know," answered Maggie vaguely. At the same instant came
another startling blow on the window. "There!" Maggie cried, in
triumph, as if saying: "That's what he's been up to!" After all, the
windows were Maggie's own windows.
Edwin left on the sofa a whole pile of books that he was sorting, and
went out into the garden. On the top of the wall separating him from
the Orgreaves a row of damaged earthenware objects--jugs and jars
chiefly--at once caught his eye. He witnessed the smashing of one of
them, and then he ran to the wall, and taking a spring, rested on it
with his arms, his toes pushed into crevices. Young George, with hand
outstretched to throw, in the garden of the Orgreaves, seemed rather
diverted by this apparition.
"Hello!" said Edwin. "What are you up to?"
"I'm practising breaking crocks," said the child. That he had acquired
the local word gave Edwin pleasure.
"Yes, but do you know you're practising breaking my windows too? When
you aim too high you simply can't miss one of my windows."
George's face was troubled, as he examined the facts, which had hitherto
escaped his attention, that there was a whole world of consequences on
the other side of the wall, and that a missile which did not prove its
existence against either the wall or a crock had not necessarily ceased
to exist. Edwin watched the face with a new joy, as though looking at
some wonder of nature under a microscope. It seemed to him that he now
saw vividly why children were interesting.
"I can't see any windows from here," said George, in defence.
"If you climb up here you'll see them all right."
"Yes, but I can't climb up. I've tried to, a lot of times. Even when I
stood on my toes on this stump I could only just reach to put the crocks
on the top."
"What did you want to get on the wall for?"
"I wanted to see that swing of yours."
"Well," said Edwin, laughing, "if you could remember the swing why
couldn't you remember the windows?"
George shook his head at Edwin's stupidity, and looked at the ground.
"A swing isn't windows," he said. Then he glanced up with a diffident
smile: "I've often been wanting to come and see you."
Edwin was tremendously flattered. If he had made a conquest, the child
by this frank admission had made a greater.
"Then why didn't you come?"
"I couldn't, by myself. Besides, my back hasn't been well. Did they
tell you?"
George was so naturally serious that Edwin decided to be serious too.
"I did hear something about it," he replied, with the grave confidential
tone that he would have used to a man of his own age. This treatment
was evidently appreciated by George, and always afterwards Edwin
conversed with him as with an equal, forbearing from facetiousness.
Damp though it was, Edwin twisted himself round and sat on the wall next
to the crocks, and bent over the boy beneath, who gazed with upturned
face.
"Why didn't you ask Auntie Janet to bring you?"
"I don't generally ask for things that I really want," said the boy,
with a peculiar glance.
"I see," said Edwin, with an air of comprehension. He did not, however,
comprehend. He only felt that the boy was wonderful. Imagine the boy
saying that! He bent lower. "Come on up," he said. "I'll give you a
hand. Stick your feet into that nick there."
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