YOUNG GEORGE
Young George, commonly called Bunting, arrived home in the week before Easter. He was full of excitement at the new state of affairs, from which he anticipated a more enjoyable life than had hitherto fallen to his lot, though he had spent the greater part of his holidays either in the country houses of relations or in the country with his own family. But to have a home of one's own in the country, to which one could invite chosen friends, with a horse of one's own, kennel facilities, games to be found or invented immediately outside the premises, and all the sport that the country afforded ready to hand—this was far better than staying in other people's houses in the country, pleasant as that had been, and certainly far better than being confined to a house in London, which presented no attractions whatever except in the one item of plays to be seen.
He arrived just in time for lunch, and could hardly give himself time to eat it, so anxious was he to explore. He disappeared immediately afterwards, with Barbara, and was seen at intervals hurrying here and there during the afternoon, an active eager figure in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, and one upon which his elder sisters looked with pride and pleasure.
"It is jolly to have him," said Caroline, as he ran past them, sitting out in the garden, on his way towards the fish ponds, carrying a net for some purpose that seemed to him of the utmost importance for the moment, and accompanied by Barbara and four dogs.
"The darling!" said Beatrix affectionately. She and Caroline had done their best to spoil him since his earliest years, and were inclined to look upon him now as a pet and a plaything, though his independence of mind and habit somewhat discouraged the attitude.
He and Barbara put in an appearance at tea-time, rather warm, rather dishevelled, but entirely happy. They were going through one of those spells of weather which sometimes seem to have strayed from June into April, when leaf and bud are expanding almost visibly under the influence of the hot sun, and promise and fulfilment are so mixed that to turn from one to the other is to get one of the happiest sensations that nature affords. A broad gravel path ran alongside the southeast corner of the house, ending in a yew-enclosed space furnished with white-painted seats round a large table. Here tea was set in shelter from sun and wind, and within sight of some of the quiet beauty of the formal garden, which the gay-coloured flowers of spring were already turning into a place of delight. Even Young George, not yet of an age to be satisfied with horticultural beauty, said that it was jolly, as he looked round him after satisfying the first pangs of appetite, and did not immediately rush away to more active pleasures when he had satisfied the remainder of them.
There was, indeed, a great deal to talk about, in the time that could be spared for talk. A great deal had to be told to this sympathetic bunch of sisters about his own experiences, and amusement to be extracted from them as to theirs.
Every family has its own chosen method of intercourse. That of the Graftons was to encourage one another to humour of observation and expression. When one or another of them was 'in form' they had as appreciative an audience among the rest as they could have gained from their warmest admirers outside. Young George occasionally gave bright examples of the sort of speech that was encouraged among them, and was generously applauded when he did so, not only because his sisters loved and admired him so much, but because it was gratifying to see him expanding to the pains they had taken with his education.
"There's a bloke near here who came last half," he said, when he had given them various pieces of intelligence which he thought might interest them. "His name's Beckley. I didn't know him very well till we came down in the train together, but he's rather a sportsman; he asked a ticket collector at Westhampton Junction to telegraph to his people that the train was late, but he hoped to be in time for his uncle's funeral. Do you know his people?"
"The Beckleys! Oh, yes, they live at Feltham Hall," said Caroline. "Mrs. Beckley and Vera called last week, and the Dragon and I called back. Vera told me about Jimmy. They find him difficult to cope with. They don't adore him as much as we do you, Bunting."