by Nell Speed
CHAPTER IX.
THE AMERICAN MAIL.
Judy had, clasped in her arms, a package of mail, unopened except forthe letter on top, which was the one that poor, brave Mrs. Brown hadwritten her. She had kept throughout the letter the same gallant spiritof belief in her son's safety, but Judy could not take that view.
"Gone! Gone! and all because of poor miserable, no-account me!" herheart 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, wasnow 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 herbrother Kent; of her own stubbornness in not leaving France when the warbroke 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 yourcourage. If a mother can write as she has done and have faith in _le bonDieu_, 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 besaved by the enemy?"
"Oh, Pere Tricot, you are good, good! I will try--if Kent's own mothercan be so brave, why surely I must be calm, too, I, who am nothing tohim."
"Nothing? Ah, my dear Mam'selle, one who is nothing does not have youngmen take trips across the ocean for her. But look at the spinach wiltingin the sun! We must hasten to get the cooking done."
Poor Judy! All zest had gone out of the morning for her. She put herpackage of mail in the cart, not at all caring if it got at the fishyend, and wearily began to push. Pere Tricot, well knowing that work wasa panacea for sorrow, let her take her share of the burden, and togetherthe old peasant in his stiff blue blouse and the sad young American girltrundled 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 variousfriends."
When they reached the shop, of course Mere Tricot started in with herusual badinage directed against her life partner, but he soon tipped hera wink to give her to understand that Judy was in distress, and the kindold grenadier ceased her vituperation and went quietly to work washingspinach and making ready the fowls for the spit.
Judy took her letters to a green bench in the diminutive court behindthe apartment which passed for garden, with its one oleander tree andpots 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 wassorrow! Strange to have lived as long as she had and never to have knownwhat sorrow was before! The nearest she had ever come to sorrow wastelling her mother and father good-by when they started on some periloustrip--but they had always come back, and she was used to parting withthem.
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 hebe the one to be saved, after all? No doubt the passengers who were losthad mothers and--and what? Sweethearts--there she would say it! She washis sweetheart even though they were not really engaged. She knew it nowfor a certainty. Kent did not have to tell her what he felt for her, andnow that it was too late, she knew what she felt for him. She knew nowwhy she had been so lonesome. It was not merely the fact that war wasgoing on and her friends were out of Paris--it was that she was longingfor 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 ahome and she wanted it to be Kent's home, too. Fool! fool that she hadbeen! Why hadn't she gone home like all the sensible Americans when warwas declared? The Browns would never forgive her and she would neverforgive herself. She read again Mrs. Brown's letter. How good she was tohave been willing to have Kent turn right around and go back to Parisfor that worthless Julia Kean. And now he was gone, and it was all herfault! Ah, me! Well, life must be lived, if all the color had gone outof it.
She wearily opened the letter addressed in Molly's handwriting. It wasfrom 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 toAmerica. Had taken for granted she had, since they had sent the lettersto Molly. She read them over and over. The love they had for her was tobe seen in every word. Never again would she part from them. How shelonged for them! They would understand about Kent, even though she wasnot engaged to him. And now she knew what Bobby would advise her to dowere he there in Paris: "Work! Work until you drop from it, but work!"
Already the great range, that stretched the entire length of the tinytiled kitchen, was filled with copper vessels, and appetizing odors werepermeating the living room and the little shop beyond.
"Let me help," said Judy bravely. "Must I mind the shop or do you needme 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 gorest 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 oldpartner got the blue bowl, sacred to mayonnaise, and Judy sat on thebench in the court and stirred and stirred as she dropped the oil intothe beaten egg. Her arm ached as the great smooth yellow mass grewthicker and thicker, but the more her arm ached, the less her heartached. When the bowl was quite full, she started in on a great basketof potatoes that must be peeled, some for Saratoga chips and some forpotato salad. Onions must be peeled, too, and then the spinach cleanedand chopped in a colander until it was a puree.
The Tricots worked with a precision and ease that delighted Judy. Shenever tired of watching the grenadier turn out the wonderful littletarts. On that morning a double quantity was to be made as Marie was tocarry a basket of them to "the regiment"; that, of course, meant JeanTricot's regiment. They had not yet been ordered to the front, but wereready to go at any moment.
The old woman put batch after batch in the great oven. They came out alldone to a turn and all exactly alike, as though made by machinery. Thenthey 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 childrenwould not know the difference, and they could be sold to them. "Thesoldats must have the prettiest and another time you can make them wellenough for them."
So far, Judy had not shed a tear. Her eyes felt dry and feverish and herheart was still beating in her throat in some mysterious way. Suddenlywithout a bit of warning the tears came. Splash! Splash! they droppedright on the tarts.
"Never mind the tarts!" exclaimed the kindly grenadier. "Those must goto Jean's regiment. They will understand."
"I could not help it," sobbed poor Judy. "I was thinking how proud Kentwould be of me when he knew I could make tarts and wondering how manyhe could eat, when all of a sudden it came to me that he never wouldknow--and--and--Oh, Mother Tricot!" and she buried her face on the bosomof the good old woman, who patted her with one hand and held her closewhile she adroitly whisked a pan of tarts from the oven with the other.
"Tarts must not burn, no matter if hearts are broken!"
