38. Laughter and Tears — Pat of Silver Bush by Lucy Montgomery

1

It was all over. Winnie had gone.

"Pat darling," she whispered, with her eyes softly full of farewell, "everything was lovely. I've really enjoyed my own wedding. You and Judy were wonderful."

Pat managed to smile as Judy had exhorted, but when Judy found her looking at the deserted festal board she said,

"Judy, isn't it nice to be . . . able to . . . stop smiling? I . . . I hope there won't be another wedding at Silver Bush for a hundred years."

"Why, I wish we could have a wedding every day," said Cuddles. "I suppose the next one here will be your own. And then it will be my turn. That is," she added reflectively, "if I can get any one to have me. I don't want to be an old maid."

"Sure and don't be hurting my falings," said Judy. "I'm an ould maid."

"I always forget that," said Cuddles contritely. "You aren't a bit like an old maid, Judy. You're . . . you're just Judy."

"Mr. Ronald Russell of St. John told me mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen," said Pat.

"And ye'll be loving Mr. Ronald Russell foriver bekase av it. But I'm thinking he's right. Did ye hear him saying to Winnie, 'Are ye going to be making a Prisbytarian av him?' . . . maning Frank. And Winnie sez, sez she, Prisbytarians don't be made, they're born,' sez she. Oh, oh, wasn't that the answer to me smart gintleman? St. John can't be getting far ahead av Silver Bush I'm thinking. He had his appetite wid him, that one. But I do be liking a man who enj'ys his vittles."

"He's a member of Parliament," said Pat, "and they say he'll be Premier some day."

"And him ould Short-and-dirty Russell's son! A fat chanct!" said Judy scornfully.

"I hope the pictures will turn out well," said Cuddles. "I was in them all."

"Innyway, Winnie wasn't photygraphed wid her arm round her groom like Jean Madison was. Ondacint I call it. And now, Patsy darlint, will we start claning up or lave it till the morning?"

"Whatever you like, Judy."

"Oh, oh, it's ye are the mistress here now, wid Winnie gone and yer mother niver to be troubled. It's for ye to give orders and for me to obey them."

"Nonsense, Judy. Fancy me giving you orders!"

"I'd rather it that way, Patsy darlint," said Judy firmly.

Pat hesitated. Then quietly accepted the sovereignty of Silver Bush.

"Very well, Judy. We'll leave things just as they are tonight. We're all tired. Do you remember the night after Aunt Hazel's wedding when we did the dining room?"

"It's the darlint ye was, working like a liddle slave to kape from crying."

"And you told me funny stories: Judy, let's have a bit of a fire . . . there's a chill in the air and the first fire is such a delightful thing. And we'll sit by it and you'll tell stories."

"Ye must av been hearing all me stories a million times over, Patsy. Though I do be thinking whin I saw the Joe Kellers to-day--he did be marrying his wife bekase a liddle girl he was swate on jilted him and she married him bekase Sam Miller av the Bay Shore jilted her. So what wud ye ixpect?"

"That they wouldn't be very happy, Judy."

"Oh, oh, and that's where ye wud be wrong, me jewel. The marriage was be way av being a big success. That do be life, ye know."

"Life is queer, Judy. Winnie and her Frank now . . . she doesn't seem to have a fear or doubt. I'd be frightened . . . I could never be sure I loved any one enough to marry him. And then to-day . . . away down in my heart I was just sick over Winnie going . . . and yet on the surface I was enjoying the excitement, too."

"There do be always something to take the edge off things," said Judy shrewdly. "That do be why nothing is iver as hard as ye think it's going to be."

Hilary came in after having driven some of the guests to the station and joined them. Bold-and-Bad, who had been sulking all day because nobody had admired him, lay down on the rug, gathered his feet and nose and tail into a snug circle, and forgave the world. Old Aunt Louisa, who had seen so much come and go, looked down on them from the wall. The white kittens still gambolled in immortal youth. King William still rode proudly across the Boyne. It was . . . rather nice to have a feeling of leisure and tranquillity again. And yet Pat was afraid that upstairs there was a dreadful stillness and silence after all the fuss was over that would pounce on her when she went to bed. She kept Hilary as long as she could and was so nice to him that when he said good-night to her on the poplar-patterned doorstep he was bold enough to ask her to kiss him.

"Of course I'll kiss you," said Pat graciously. "I've been kissing so many friends to-day one more or less doesn't matter."

"I don't want a friendly kiss," said Hilary . . . and went off on that note.

"Oh, oh, and ye might av give him his kiss," said Judy, who was always hearing what she had no business to. "He'll be going away far enough all too soon, poor b'y."

"I . . . I . . . was perfectly willing to kiss him," cried Pat chokily. "And don't . . . don't . . . talk of his going away. I can't bear it to-night."

2

Pat was very lonely when she went up to bed. The house seemed so strangely empty now that Winnie's laugh had gone out of it. Here was the mirror that had reflected her face. That little vacant chair where she had always sat was very eloquent. Her little discarded slippers that could have danced by themselves the whole night through, so often had Winnie's feet danced in them, comforted each other under the bed. They looked as if her feet had just stepped out of them. Her fragrance still lingered in the room. It was all terrible.

Pat leaned out of the window to drink in the cold, delicious air. The wind sounded eerie in the bushes. A dog was barking over at Swallowfield. Pat had rather thought that when she found herself alone she would cast herself on the bed in an abandonment of anguish. But there was still moonlight in the world . . . still owls in the silver bush. The old loyalties of home were still potent . . . it would be nice to have a room of one's very own.

A house always looks very pathetic and unfriended on a dawn after a festivity. Pat found happiness and comfort in restoring it all from cellar to garret. The presents were packed and sent to the Bay Shore. It was fun to read the account of the wedding in the papers.

"The bride before her marriage was Winifred Alma, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Alec Gardiner." That hurt Pat. Wasn't Winnie still their daughter? "The bridesmaids wore dresses of pink Georgette crêpe with pink mohair hats and bouquets of sweet peas. Little Emmy Madison made a charming flower girl in a smocked frock of pink voile." Fancy little Emmy having her name and dress in the papers! Miss Patricia Gardiner, sister of the bride, was charming in marigold voile. And oh, oh . . . "Miss Judy Plum wore blue silk with corsage of roses." It must have been that rogue of a Jen Russell who had put that in. Judy was tremendously pleased. Her name right there with all the quality, bracketed with the groom's aunt, the haughty Mrs. Ronald Russell in her black satin with mauve orchids! Though Judy was a bit dubious about "corsage." It sounded . . . well . . . a liddle quare.

Then there were visits to the Bay Shore to help Winnie get settled in her big white house with its background of sapphire water, where there was a coloured, fir-scented garden, full of wind music and bee song, that dipped in terraces to the harbour shore and was always filled with the sound of "perilous seas forlorn." Pat would have been quite happy if she could have forgotten that Hilary was going away.