THE AMERICAN MAIL.
Judy had, clasped in her arms, a package of mail, unopened except for
the letter on top, which was the one that poor, brave Mrs. Brown had
written her. She had kept throughout the letter the same gallant spirit
of belief in her son's safety, but Judy could not take that view.
"Gone! Gone! and all because of poor miserable, no-account me!" her
heart cried out in its anguish, but she shed no tear and made no sound.
Her face, glowing with health and spirits only a few minutes ago, was
now as pale as a ghost and her eyes had lost their sparkle.
Pere Tricot hastened towards her as she came slowly down the street.
"My dear little girl, what is it?"
"He is drowned and all for me--just my stubbornness!"
"Who? Your father?"
"No!"
"Your brother, then?"
"I have no brother."
"Ah, then, your sweetheart? Your fiance?"
"I--I--sometime he might--that is, we were not fianced, not exactly."
The old man drew her down on the bench beside him:
"Now tell me all about it, _ma pauvre petite_."
And Judy told him of her friends in Kentucky. Of Molly Brown and her
brother Kent; of her own stubbornness in not leaving France when the war
broke out; and then she translated Mrs. Brown's letter for him.
"Ah, but the good lady does not think he is drowned!"
"Yes, but she is so wonderful, so brave."
"Well, are you not wonderful and brave, too? You must go on with your
courage. If a mother can write as she has done and have faith in _le bon
Dieu_, then you must try, too--that will make you worthy of such a
_belle mere_. Does she not say that two passengers were seen to be
saved by the enemy?"
"Oh, Pere Tricot, you are good, good! I will try--if Kent's own mother
can be so brave, why surely I must be calm, too, I, who am nothing to
him."
"Nothing? Ah, my dear Mam'selle, one who is nothing does not have young
men take trips across the ocean for her. But look at the spinach wilting
in the sun! We must hasten to get the cooking done."
Poor Judy! All zest had gone out of the morning for her. She put her
package of mail in the cart, not at all caring if it got at the fishy
end, and wearily began to push. Pere Tricot, well knowing that work was
a panacea for sorrow, let her take her share of the burden, and together
the old peasant in his stiff blue blouse and the sad young American girl
trundled the provisions down the boulevard.
"You have more letters, my daughter?"
"Yes, I have not read them yet. I was afraid of more bad news."
"Perhaps there is something from the mother and father."
"No, the big one is from Molly and the others are just from various
friends."
When they reached the shop, of course Mere Tricot started in with her
usual badinage directed against her life partner, but he soon tipped her
a wink to give her to understand that Judy was in distress, and the kind
old grenadier ceased her vituperation and went quietly to work washing
spinach and making ready the fowls for the spit.
Judy took her letters to a green bench in the diminutive court behind
the apartment which passed for garden, with its one oleander tree and
pots of geraniums. Her heart seemed to be up in her throat; at least,
there was a strange pulsation there that must be heart. So this was
sorrow! Strange to have lived as long as she had and never to have known
what sorrow was before! The nearest she had ever come to sorrow was
telling her mother and father good-by when they started on some perilous
trip--but they had always come back, and she was used to parting with
them.
But Kent--maybe he would never come back! It was all very well for Mrs.
Brown to refuse to believe in his being gone forever, but why should he
be the one to be saved, after all? No doubt the passengers who were lost
had mothers and--and what? Sweethearts--there she would say it! She was
his sweetheart even though they were not really engaged. She knew it now
for a certainty. Kent did not have to tell her what he felt for her, and
now that it was too late, she knew what she felt for him. She knew now
why she had been so lonesome. It was not merely the fact that war was
going on and her friends were out of Paris--it was that she was longing
for Kent. She understood now why she felt so homeless just at this time.
She was no more homeless than she had always been, but now she wanted a
home and she wanted it to be Kent's home, too. Fool! fool that she had
been! Why hadn't she gone home like all the sensible Americans when war
was declared? The Browns would never forgive her and she would never
forgive herself. She read again Mrs. Brown's letter. How good she was to
have been willing to have Kent turn right around and go back to Paris
for that worthless Julia Kean. And now he was gone, and it was all her
fault! Ah, me! Well, life must be lived, if all the color had gone out
of it.
She wearily opened the letter addressed in Molly's handwriting. It was
from her father, and in it another from her mother, forwarded by Molly.
At last she had heard from them. They, too, hoped she had gone back to
America. Had taken for granted she had, since they had sent the letters
to Molly. She read them over and over. The love they had for her was to
be seen in every word. Never again would she part from them. How she
longed for them! They would understand about Kent, even though she was
not engaged to him. And now she knew what Bobby would advise her to do
were he there in Paris: "Work! Work until you drop from it, but work!"
Already the great range, that stretched the entire length of the tiny
tiled kitchen, was filled with copper vessels, and appetizing odors were
permeating the living room and the little shop beyond.
"Let me help," said Judy bravely. "Must I mind the shop or do you need
me here? I can't cook, but I can wash spinach and peel potatoes."
"Marie can look after the shop this morning, my dear child, so you go
rest yourself," said the good wife.
"I don't want to rest! I want to work!"
"Let her work, Mother! Let her work! It is best so," and Judy's old
partner got the blue bowl, sacred to mayonnaise, and Judy sat on the
bench in the court and stirred and stirred as she dropped the oil into
the beaten egg. Her arm ached as the great smooth yellow mass grew
thicker and thicker, but the more her arm ached, the less her heart
ached. When the bowl was quite full, she started in on a great basket
of potatoes that must be peeled, some for Saratoga chips and some for
potato salad. Onions must be peeled, too, and then the spinach cleaned
and chopped in a colander until it was a puree.
The Tricots worked with a precision and ease that delighted Judy. She
never tired of watching the grenadier turn out the wonderful little
tarts. On that morning a double quantity was to be made as Marie was to
carry a basket of them to "the regiment"; that, of course, meant Jean
Tricot's regiment. They had not yet been ordered to the front, but were
ready to go at any moment.
The old woman put batch after batch in the great oven. They came out all
done to a turn and all exactly alike, as though made by machinery. Then
they were put in the show cases in the shop; and more were rolled out,
filled and baked.
"Sometime may I try to do some?"
The old woman smiled indulgently at Judy's pale face.
"You may try right now."
Judy made a rather deformed batch but Mere Tricot declared the children
would not know the difference, and they could be sold to them. "The
soldats must have the prettiest and another time you can make them well
enough for them."
So far, Judy had not shed a tear. Her eyes felt dry and feverish and her
heart was still beating in her throat in some mysterious way. Suddenly
without a bit of warning the tears came. Splash! Splash! they dropped
right on the tarts.
"Never mind the tarts!" exclaimed the kindly grenadier. "Those must go
to Jean's regiment. They will understand."
"I could not help it," sobbed poor Judy. "I was thinking how proud Kent
would be of me when he knew I could make tarts and wondering how many
he could eat, when all of a sudden it came to me that he never would
know--and--and--Oh, Mother Tricot!" and she buried her face on the bosom
of the good old woman, who patted her with one hand and held her close
while she adroitly whisked a pan of tarts from the oven with the other.
"Tarts must not burn, no matter if hearts are broken!"