If Bud hadn't realized that fun was the main thing at Scottish weddings, she got hints of it in Kate's preparation. Croodles and hysterics took possession of the bride: she was sure she would never get through the ceremony with her life, or she would certainly do something silly that would make the whole world laugh at her and dreadfully vex the Captain. Even her wedding-dress, whose prospect had filled her dreams with gladness, but deepened her depression when it came from the manteau-maker's—she wept sad stains on the front width, and the orange-blossom they rehearsed with might have been a wreath of the bitter rue. Bud wanted her to try the dress on, but the bride was aghast at such an unlucky proposition; so she tried it on herself, with sweet results, if one did not look at the gathers in the back. They practised the ceremony the night before, Kate's sister from Colonsay (who was to be her bridesmaid) playing the part of a tall, brass-buttoned bridegroom.
“Oh, Kate!” cried Bud, pitifully, “you stand there like's you were a soda-water bottle and the cork lost. My goodness! brisk up a bit; if it's hard on you, just remember it isn't much of a joke for Charles. Don't you know the eyes of the public are on you?”
“That's just it,” said poor Kate. “I wouldn't be frightened a bit if it wasn't for that, for I'm so brave. What do you do with your hands?”
“You just keep hold of them. Mercy! don't let them hang like that; they're yours; up till now he's got nothing to do with them. Now for the tears—where's your handkerchief? That one's yards too big, and there isn't an edge of lace to peek through, but it 'll do this time. It 'll all be right on the night. Now the minister's speaking, and you're looking down at the carpet and you're timid and fluttered and nervous, and thinking what an epoch this is in your sinful life, and how you won't be Kate MacNeill any more but Mrs. Charles Maclean, and the Lord knows if you will be happy with him—”
The bride blubbered and threw her apron over her head as usual. Bud was in despair.
“Well, you are a silly!” she exclaimed. “All you want is a gentle tear or two trickling down the side of your nose, enough to make your eyes blink but not enough to soak your veil or leave streaks. And there you gush like a water-spout, and damp your face so much the bridegroom 'll catch his death of cold when he kisses you. Stop it, Kate MacNeill, it isn't anybody's funeral. Why, weddings aren't so very fatal; lots of folk get over them—leastways in America.”
“I can't help it!” protested the weeping maid. “I never could be melancholy in moderation, and the way you speak you make me think it's running a dreadful risk to marry anybody.”
“Well,” said Bud, “you needn't think of things so harrowing, I suppose. Just squeeze your eyes together and bite your lip, and perhaps it 'll start a tear; if it don't, it 'll look like as if you were bravely struggling with emotion. And then there's the proud, glad smile as you back out on Charles's arm—give her your arm, Minnie—the trial's over, you know, and you've got on a lovely new plain ring, and all the other girls are envious, and Charles Maclean and you are one till death do you part. Oh, Kate, Kate! don't grin; that's not a smile, it's a—it's a railroad track. Look!” Bud assumed a smile that spoke of gladness and humility, confidence and a maiden's fears, a smile that appealed and charmed.
“I couldn't smile like that to save my life,” said Kate, in a despair. “I wish you had learned me that instead of the height of Popacatthekettle. Do you think he'll be angry if I don't do them things properly?”
“Who? Charles! Why, Charles 'll be so mortally scared himself he wouldn't notice if you made faces at him or were a different girl altogether. He'll have a dull, dead booming in his ears, and wonder whether it's wedding-day or apple-custard—all of them I've seen married looked like that. It's not for Charles you should weep and smile; it's for the front of the house, you know, it's for the people looking on.”