A messenger came to the house bringing primroses from Osborne. The Queen had heard that he was indisposed and was anxious.
He wrote thanking her for her concern. He drew great pleasure from the primroses.
She wired every day from Windsor asking how he was.
‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield,’ she said to Brown, ‘I fear his end is near.’
And she shut herself away in the Blue Room where Albert had breathed his last; she thought of the terrible day which would live for ever in her mind; and she wept bitterly for she knew that she was about to lose a very dear friend.
April had come. He knew he was dying. It was time, he told himself. He had no more use for life. He had climbed to the very highest pinnacle. No one would have believed that the young Jew who had struggled so hard to make a living from his writing would have become Prime Minister, a peer, and the beloved friend of the Queen.
He had not left the house in Curzon Street for three weeks now, and he knew he never would again. It was gratifying to learn that in the streets people spoke his name in hushed whispers and asked each other how he was today.
‘Getting so close to the grave,’ he murmured. ‘Soon I shall be lying beside Mary Anne.’
His secretary came to his bedside.
‘Her Majesty would be pleased to come to see you if you were to ask,’ he was told.
He shook his head. ‘I am in no shape to receive Her Majesty. Besides,’ he added wryly, ‘she would ask me to take a message to Albert.’ He sighed. ‘I’d rather live,’ he said, ‘but I’m not afraid to die.’
Then he lay back, closed his eyes and did so.
The Queen wept. It was so sad. She could not imagine what it would be like without dear Lord Beaconsfield to come and talk to her. He was always so witty, so amusing and so respectful and affectionate. How she missed this in her present ministers.
‘His devotion to me, his wise counsels, his gentleness combined with firmness, his one thought of the honour and glory of the country make the death of my dear Lord Beaconsfield a national calamity,’ she said.
Mr Gladstone suggested that Lord Beaconsfield should be given a public funeral and be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Queen said this would please her and she thought it right and fitting. But she learned later that Beaconsfield had asked to be buried in the little church at Hughenden beside his wife, Mary Anne.
‘How characteristic,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes.
So Lord Beaconsfield was buried in Hughenden churchyard. The Prince of Wales, representing the Queen, attended the funeral and a wreath of primroses was laid on his coffin and on this was attached a message written in the Queen’s hand: ‘His favourite flower.’
Chapter XXI
THE JERSEY LILY
Prince Leopold was in love. He had met the most enchanting creature. He had never seen anyone quite so beautiful and a number of other people agreed with him; in fact he was only one of her admirers. She was the daughter of the Dean of Jersey and in her teens she had fascinated a widower, Mr Langtry, who came to the island in his yacht. He had urged her to marry him which she did and thus she came to London.
Mr Langtry was comfortably situated but not rich and when he brought his bride to London they lived quietly and did not move into society until one day at a museum they encountered a nobleman whom they had met when he had been in Jersey. He was so struck by the girl’s beauty that he asked her to a party at his London house. That was all that was needed.
Lillie Langtry’s beauty was so outstanding that no one could fail to notice her. People were soon talking of her, inviting her to their houses, calling her the Jersey Lily; she was photographed everywhere; artists sketched her; when she walked in the park she was recognised; everyone seemed to be talking about Lillie Langtry.
She had hosts of admirers, among them Prince Leopold. Leopold was different from his brothers. In the first place he was a victim of that dreaded disease which dogged certain male members of the royal family. All his life Leopold had been watched carefully; he must never be allowed to fall or cut himself lest he should begin to bleed. This could be fatal or at best mean a serious illness with a spell in bed and the doctors in attendance. Unable to play games, Leopold was more intellectually inclined than his brothers. He was a great reader, well acquainted with the works of Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott. At Oxford he had attended lectures on history, poetry and music; he had also studied modern languages.
He was inclined to be more rebellious and less afraid of the Queen than his brothers for as the invalid of the family he had been treated more gently. The Queen always questioned him in detail as to his health and did not like him to over-exert himself. It had been a very anxious time when he had almost died of the typhoid fever which had been responsible for his father’s death. He was a very good speaker; took an interest in social matters and had been elected President of the Royal Society of Arts.
‘Leopold,’ the Queen was fond of saying, ‘has inherited his father’s brains.’ But ever present in her mind was the memory of the time when he had one haemorrhage after another and they had all thought he would die. Ever since, the Queen had wanted him sheltered; she would have preferred to keep him near her. Bertie, however, said that it wasn’t good for him to be over-protected and Leopold agreed with Bertie. He wanted to live even if it meant doing so for a shorter period than he could expect shut up like a prize orchid in a hothouse.
So the Queen had given way; in fact Leopold was not one to have it otherwise; he had always been wilful; and one did not wish to upset him for if he grew over-excited he could bring on one of those dreaded haemorrhages.
So Leopold led a normal life and so it was that he met Lillie Langtry.
‘What a fantastic creature!’ he cried. He was sure he had never seen any beauty to compare with hers. Her figure was perfect; her bone structure was divine; her golden hair was abundant and curled delightfully about her enchanting Grecian-type face.
Leopold joined her suitors. Mr Langtry, a somewhat ineffective man whose great interest was sailing, suddenly realised what a treasure he had married and was naturally a little bewildered by all the fuss which was made of his wife. As for Lillie, accustomed to the quiet island life, she was dazzled by the invitations and offers which poured in. Every day she was at some social function. If she had not the adequate clothes what did it matter? She could attend as someone poetically put it, clothed in her beauty with which no court dressmaker could hope to compete. In a simple black dress she was overwhelmingly lovely; her golden hair and sparkling eyes outdid all the diamonds and emeralds and rubies.
Leopold acquired a sketch of her and hung it over his bed and the Prince of Wales returning from Sandringham, called on his brother, saw the picture, and wanted to know who the beauty was.
‘Lillie Langtry,’ said Leopold. ‘The most beautiful woman in London … I’d venture to say in the world.’
Bertie’s practised eye regarded the sketch. ‘The sketch makes her charming.’
‘A poor reflection on the reality,’ said Leopold.
‘I must meet your paragon.’
Leopold groaned. ‘That’s the end of my hopes,’ he said.
The Queen visiting Leopold saw the picture of Lillie over his bed.
‘And whom does that represent?’ she wanted to know.