"I was," she said, gravely, and sauntered away.
I went unhappily to Paris. Would that another stranger could chance
along, to whom the boy might unburden his heart,--his noble heart,
filled not only with dreams of military glory, but of plans for the
protection of the weak and helpless among his countrymen!
A week later a telegram from the princess summoned me to Orléans. To my
surprise, she met me on the staircase of Mrs. Greyshield's house.
"You are right!" she whispered. "Mrs. Greyshield is to lose her boy!"
My first feeling was one of anger. "Do not speak of such a thing!" I
said, harshly.
"Come and see," and she led the way to a room where the weary-faced lad
lay on a huge, canopied bed, a nursing sister on either side of him.
"The doctors are in consultation below," she murmured; "but there is no
hope."
[Illustration]
"Where is his mother?"
"In her room. She sees no one. It is a foreign fashion, you know. She is
suffering deeply--at last."
"Oh, this is horrible!" I said. "Can nothing be done?"
"Do you observe what a perfect accent he has?" she said, meditatively.
"There must be excellent teachers at the _lycée_!"
From the bed came occasionally muttered scraps of French prose or
poetry, and I shuddered as I listened.
"Sacrificed for an accent!" she went on to herself. "It is a favourite
amusement of American mothers. This boy was torn from a father whom he
worshipped. I wonder what he will say when his wife returns to America
with two living children and one--" She turned to me. "I could have told
her that growing children should not be hurried from one country to
another. Yet it is better this way than the other."
"The other?" I repeated, stupidly.
"Yes, the other,--after years of residence abroad, no home, no country,
no attachments, a weary traveller till one dies. I thought you might
like to see him, as you were so attracted by him. He fainted the day you
left, and has been this way ever since. It cannot last much longer."
We had been speaking in a low tone, yet our voices must have been heard
by the sleeper, for suddenly he turned his head on the pillow and looked
at us.
The princess approached him, and murmured his name in an exquisitely
soft and gentle voice. The boy recognised her.
"Ah, the princess!" he said, collectedly. "May I trouble you with a
message?"
"Certainly."
"It is for papa," he said, dreamily. "Will you tell him for me,
please--" Here his voice died away, and his dark, beseeching eyes rolled
from one to another of the people in the room.
"Shall I send them away?" asked the princess.
"No, thank you. It is only the pain. Will you--will you be good enough
to tell papa not to think me a coward? I promised him to hold out,
but--"
"I will tell him."
"And tell him I'm sorry we couldn't build that home and live together,
but I think if he prepared it mamma and the children might go. Tell him
I think they would be happier. America is so lovely! Mamma would get
used to it."
He stopped, panting for breath, and one of the nurses put something on
his lips, while the other wiped away the drops of moisture that the
effort of speaking had brought to his spectral face. Then he closed his
eyes, and his pallid figure seemed to be sinking away from us; but
presently he roused himself, and this time his glance fell on me.
"Miss Canada," he said, drowsily, "the salute to the flag--Dottie and
Howard."
The princess motioned to one of the nurses, who slipped from the room
and presently returned with the children. A wan, evanescent flush
overspread his face at sight of the flag, and he tried to raise himself
on his elbow. One of the nurses supported him, and he fixed his glazing
but still beautiful eyes on the children. "Are you ready?"
The small boy and girl were far from realising their brother's
condition, but they knew what he wished, and in a warbling voice little
Dottie began:
"This is my country's flag, and I am my country's child,
To love and serve her well will ever be my joy."
A little farther on her tiny brother took up the formula which it had
been Gerald's pleasure to teach them.
[Illustration]
The consultation below had broken up, and several of the doctors had
crept to the door of the room, but the boy did not seem to notice them.
His attention was riveted on the children, to the exclusion of all
others.
"Give brother the flag!" he murmured, when they finished.
They handed him the Stars and Stripes, but he could not retain it, and
the princess, quietly moving to the bedside, steadied it between his
trembling fingers.
"Now sing with brother."
The two children lifted up their little quavering voices, and turning
his own face to the ceiling, a face illumined by a joy not of this
world, he tried to sing with them:
"My country! 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!"
Here his voice faltered, his radiant face drooped, and his darkening
eyes turned beseechingly in my direction.
In a choking voice I finished the verse, as I had once before finished
it for him:
"Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!"
His head was on the pillow when I finished, but his fingers still
grasped the flag.
"Gerald," said the princess, tenderly, "do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," fluttered from his pale lips.
"And are you contented?"
He pressed her hand slightly.
"Would you rather die, or live to grow up and forget your country, as
you surely would do if you lived all your young life among strangers?"
"I would rather die!" and here his voice was so firm that all in the
room heard it.
"Dottie and Howard!" he murmured, presently, and the princess drew back.
After all, she was only a stranger.
He died, with their little faces pressed close to his own. "Give my love
to mamma, dear mamma!" were his last words. Shortly after the nurses
drew the children away. The boy had had his wish. He had died for his
country as truly as if he had fallen in battle.