Part 26 (1/2)
”Dizzy?” asked Jo.
”No, but happy enough to die,” gasped Judy. ”If I wasn't going to be married, I'd be a bird man.”
When the landing was finally made and Judy stepped out, the world seemed very stale, flat and unprofitable. She was glad Kent was there waiting for her. If she could not be a bird man, she could at least be a very happy war bride. The great leather coat she had worn in her flight was very ugly and unbecoming, and she was thankful for one thing that she did not have to wear such frightful looking clothes all the time.
On the way back to Paris she asked cousin Sally how she had recognized Jo Williams so readily.
”By her feet, of course! Why, no man on earth ever had such eternally feminine feet.” That good lady promised to find out immediately something about Polly and let his s.p.u.n.ky wife know where and how he was.
”She will have the Cross of Honour before she gets through, Philippe says.”
”You don't feel as though it were your duty to tell she is a woman, do you?” asked Judy.
”Duty to tell! Heavens, child! I feel it is my duty to help France in every way I can, and surely to get that girl out of the aviation corps would be a hindrance to _la Patrie_. I doubt even Philippe's thinking it his duty to tell, and,” with a twinkle in her eye that the horrors of war could not altogether dim, ”Philippe has a very stern idea of his duty. He felt maybe it was his duty to get in a flying machine and go after you and Mr. Williams so he could chaperone you. He felt that the dignity of the family was at stake,--so soon to be the bride of his cousin and flying with another man! Terrible!”
”Why, of course! I never thought of how it looked. There I went and hugged and kissed Jo right before everybody. I bet you a sou this minute Philippe and all the rest of them are feeling sorry for you, Kent.”
”Well, they needn't be,” declared that young man as he found Judy's hand under the robe. ”I'm satisfied--but I did feel a little funny for half a minute when you went and kissed Jo so warmly. It took me a moment longer to recognize her. Why didn't you put me on?”
”Put you on? How could I, with all the people around?”
”You promised me once you wouldn't fly with anybody until you could fly with me. Don't you remember?”
”Of course I did, you goose! But I didn't say anybody--I said any man; so you see I didn't break my promise when I flew with Mrs. Polly Perkins!”
CHAPTER XXII.
THE WEDDING BREAKFAST.
When the Marquise d'Ochte said she would do something, she always did it and did it as well as it could be done. When she undertook to find out where and how Polly Perkins was for the benefit of his s.p.u.n.ky wife, she did it and did it immediately. And not only did she find him, but she got a little respite from duty for him and bore him back to Paris where she had already spirited Jo to be present at the wedding breakfast. She had asked a holiday for Jo, too, although the grizzled commander was loathe to let his best aviator off even for a day.
Jo was taken to the converted d'Ochte mansion and there dressed like a nice, feminine little woman, her hair curled by madame's maid. A tight velvet toque and a dotted veil completed the transformation and the commander himself would not have recognized his one time prize aviator.
All of this masquerade was for the sole purpose of fooling Philippe, who, also, was to be one of the guests at the Tricots'.
Polly was so happy to see his Jo again that it was pathetic to behold, and her pride in him and his bravery was beautiful. Polly was vastly improved. Kent, who had always liked the little man and had insisted that there was much more to him than the other members of the colony could see, was delighted to have his opinion of his friend verified.
The ceremony was a very simple one, performed, not by the magistrate as Mere Tricot had suggested, but at the Protestant Episcopal Church. Polly Perkins gave away the bride, and Jo looked as though she would burst with pride at this honour done her husband. Jim Castleman was best man, and Cousin Sally fell in love with him on the spot.
”He is like the young men of my youth,” she declared, ”the young men of Kentucky, I am not saying how many years ago.”
The little living room at the Tricots' soon after the ceremony was full to overflowing, but every one squeezed in somehow. The old couple were very happy in dispensing hospitality. Their Jean came home for a few hours and their hearts were thankful for this glimpse of their son.
Marie beamed with joy and the rosy baby delighted them all by saying, ”Pa-pa!” the first word it had ever uttered.
Philippe, looking so handsome that Judy, too, wondered that all the American girls pa.s.sed him by, fraternized with Jean, the peasant's son, with that simplicity which characterizes the military of France.
The party was very gay, so gay that it seemed impossible that the Germans were really not more than thirty miles from them. Of course they talked politics, men and women. Old Mere Tricot had her opinions and expressed them, and they listened with respect when she pooh-poohed and bah-bahed the notion that the Nations had gone to war from altruistic motives.