They Jogged on for Some Time in Silence
The trip was a little foggy, to be sure, in the January weather; and was raw and cold. But who cared for such trifles? Not Dot, decidedly. Not Tilly Slowboy, for she deemed sitting in a cart, on any terms, the highest point of human joys. Not the baby, I’ll be bound; for it’s not in baby nature to be warmer or more sound asleep than the blessed young Peerybingle was, all the way.
You couldn’t see very far in the fog, of course; but you could see a great deal! It’s astonishing how much you may see in a thicker fog than that, if you will only take the trouble to look for it. Why, even to sit looking for hazy fairy rings, and ghostly figures near the hedges and trees was a pleasant occupation, to make no mention of the unexpected shapes in which the trees themselves came out of the mists and glided in again.
In one place there was a great mound of weeds burning, and they watched the fire flaring through the fog, with here and there a dash of red in it, until, because of getting “smoke up her nose,” as she explained, Miss Slowboy choked and woke the baby, who wouldn’t go to sleep again. But Boxer, who was in advance a quarter of a mile or so, had passed the outskirts of the town, and gained the corner of the street where Caleb and his daughter lived; and long before they reached the door, he and the blind girl were on the pavement waiting to receive them.
The Party at Caleb’s
May Fielding was already there; and so was her mother, a little querulous chip of an old lady with a peevish face. Gruff and Tackleton was also there, pretending to be agreeable and perfectly at home, and really quite as much out of his element as a fish out of water.
“May! My dear old friend!” cried Dot, running up to meet her. “What happiness to see you!”
Her old friend was as glad as she, and it really was, if you’ll believe me, a pleasant sight to see them embrace each other. Tackleton had shown taste, beyond all question. May was very pretty. And so was Dot pretty. They simply set each other’s beauty off and, as John Peerybingle came near saying, they ought to have been born sisters—which was the only improvement you could have suggested.
Tackleton had brought his leg of mutton, and, wonderful to relate, a tart beside—but he could afford such generosity this time; one doesn’t get married every day. And in addition to these dainties, there were the veal-and-ham-pie and “things,” as Mrs. Peerybingle called them; which were chiefly nuts and oranges and cakes.
When the repast was set forth on the table, together with Caleb’s contribution, a bowl of smoking potatoes, which was all he was allowed to provide, Tackleton led his future mother-in-law to the post of honor. Why, she was gotten up for the occasion; even wearing gloves. Caleb sat next his daughter. Dot and her old school friend were side by side. The carrier took care of the bottom of the table. Miss Slowboy was seated a little distance away, far from every other article of furniture but the chair she sat on, that she might have nothing to knock the baby’s head against. She was delighted not only to take care of the baby, but to stare around at the toys.