One Day | Page 6

consequence--poor old man. And once even the Grand Duke Peter
spoke of my 'divine origin' though he could not be coaxed or wheedled
into committing his wise self any further. Now you, yourself the most
reserved and secretive of individuals when it pleases you to be so, have
just been surprised into something of the same expression. Do you
wonder that I long to unravel the mystery that you are all so determined
to keep from me? I can learn nothing at home--absolutely nothing!
They glorify my mother--God bless her memory! Everyone worships
her! But they never speak of you, and they are silent, too, about my
father. They simply won't tell me a thing about him, so I don't imagine
that he could have been a very good king! Was he, Uncle Paul? Did you
know him?"
"I never knew the king, Boy!--never even saw him!"
"But you must have heard--"
"Nothing, Boy, that I can tell you--absolutely nothing!"
Verdayne had risen again and was once more pacing back and forth
under the trees, as was his wont when troubled with painful memories.
"But my mother--you knew her!"
"Yes, yes--I knew your mother!"
"Tell me about her!"
A dull, hopeless agony came into the eyes of the older man. And so his
Gethsemane had come to him again! Every life has this garden to pass
through--some, alas! again and yet again! And Paul Verdayne had
thought that he had long since drained his cup of misery to the dregs.
He knew better now.
"Yes, I will tell you of your mother, Boy," he said, and there was a
strained, guarded note in his voice which his companion's quick ear did

not fail to catch. "But you must be patient if you wish to hear what little
there is, after all, that I can tell you. You must remember, my Boy, that
it is a long time since your mother--died--and men of my age
sometimes--forget!"
"I will remember," the Boy said, gently.
But as he looked up into the face of his friend, something in his heart
told him that Paul Verdayne did not forget! And somehow the older
man felt confident that the Boy knew, and was strangely comforted by
the silent sympathy between them which both felt, but neither could
express.
"Your mother, Boy, was the noblest and most beautiful woman that
ever graced a throne. Everyone who knew her must have said that! You
are very like her, Paul--not in appearance, a mistake of Fate to be
everlastingly deplored, but in spirit you are her living counterpart. Ah!
you have a great example to live up to, Boy, in attempting to follow her
footsteps! There was never a queen like her--never!"
The young prince followed with the deepest absorption the words of
the man who had known his mother, hanging upon the story with the
breathless interest of a child in some fairy tale.
"She knew life as it is given few women to know it. She was not more
than thirty-five, I think, when you were born, but she had crowded into
those years more knowledge of the world, in all its myriad phases, than
others seem to absorb during their allotted three score and ten. And her
knowledge was not of the world alone, but of the heart. She was full of
ideals of advancement, of growth, of doing and being something
worthy the greatest endeavor, exerting every hope and ambition to the
utmost for the future splendor of her kingdom--your kingdom now.
How she loved you!--what splendid achievements she expected of you!
how she prayed that you might be grand, and great, and true!"
"Did you always know her?"
"Always?--no. Only for three weeks, Boy!"

"Three weeks!--three little weeks! How strange, then, that you should
have learned so much about her in that short space of time! She must
indeed have made a strong impression upon you!"
"Impression, you say? Boy, all that I am or ever expect to become--all
that I know or ever expect to learn--all that I have done or ever expect
to accomplish--I owe to your mother. She was the one inspiration of
my life. Until I knew her, I was a nonentity. It was she who awakened
me--who taught me how to live! Three weeks! Child! child!--"
He caught himself sharply and bit his lip, forcing back the impetuous
words he had not meant to say. The silence of years still shrouded those
mysterious three weeks, and the time had not yet come when that
silence could be broken. What had he said? What possessed the Boy
to-day to cling so persistently to this hitherto forbidden subject?
"Where did you meet her, Uncle?"
"At Lucerne!"
"Lucerne!" echoed the Boy, his blue eyes growing dreamy with musing.
"That says nothing to me--nothing!