The ancient had not slept off his perturbation, though he did not remember the cause of it, and seeing his supper still unlaid, he was righteously wroth. “A muddler, mucking up everything—that’s what you be!” he said, repeating unconsciously Elijah’s indictment. And Jinny, remembering the pot that now stood by the wedding-cake, went about wanly, unresentfully, with movements lacking their wonted deftness. Her grandfather had already forgotten the suggestion of sunstroke, much as it had shaken him: for her actual pallor he had no eye.
When she finally brought in the meal, she found him risen and standing tranced before the great wedding-cake, gazing dazedly at its elaborately frosted architecture.
“You didn’t want to open it,” she cried with irrepressible petulance as she hooked down the pasteboard lid.
He ignored the reproach. “Weddin’s and funerals in one day,” he brooded. “Pomps and wanities.”
“Come to the table, Gran’fer,” she said more gently.
“Pomps and wanities!” he repeated. “Who’s this for?”
“It’s for Farmer Gale’s wedding—’twas too late to deliver it. Come along.”
“In my day folks made their own weddin’-cakes. And dedn’t want no funeral coaches neither. The church-path or the farm-wagon——”
“Come along!” She took his arm. “There’s no funeral coaches here.”
A whining and scratching at the door made a welcome diversion. Nip, back from the hunting-path, sneaked in, aware of sin, with ears flat, tail abased, and sidelong squint.