The day was lovely. Wood-doves cooed in the coppice, and blackbirds fluted; in the blue sky compact white clouds drifted like icebergs in a still ocean. Jack Weldon had done his best to assume a mourner’s appearance: he had put on a black round cap with crape about it, a black coat, but could not muster other than brown continuations. His mother had hunted up his father’s Sunday pair; but his father had been a short and stout man. These would not fit the length of Jack’s legs, and about the waist would have been double, like a Jaeger jersey.
“We must do what we can,” said the widow; “nobody expects us to do more. I’ll stitch a black crape band round the leg above the knee. Gentlefolks does it on the arm.”
By this method the snuff-coloured continuations of Jack were given a suitably lugubrious expression. If they were not black, they tried to look funereal.
“After all,” said Mrs. Weldon, “you don’t expect for babies what you do for grown-ups.”
So the procession started, and augmented itself on the way by the contingent from the toll-gate.
The woman from the latter was of an age agreeable with that of Mrs. Weldon. The way was long. It comported with the occasion to move slowly.
That two old women, both naturally prone to gossip, should walk all the way in silence, was not to be expected; and they were soon in full flow of conversation, carried on in an undertone.
But if it was impossible for two old women to walk three miles in silence, so was it impossible for two young people to do so.
Jack ought to have led the way, followed by Kate; but Jack was burdened, and lagged accordingly, and Kate had an impulsive spirit, and therefore forged ahead.
“I say, Jack,” said Kate, “be Rosie terrible heavy?”