Chapter V: Part 5

I resigned my seat, and stole a hasty glance at the other end of the room. Mrs Rodwell was busily engaged upon her knitting, and Bruce was sitting on an ottoman close by Amy’s side; so, gasping for fresh air and one moment’s solitude, and unperceived by the laughing group of children, I left the apartment and ran hastily up to the bedroom which I had first entered. The gas was lighted there, and the fire burned warmly on the hearth, but in my present state of feeling neither warmth nor light was what I most desired. I felt as though I were choking—as though, if no relief were at hand, I must scream aloud, or dash my head against the wall, for my nerves were overstrung, and the demon of hysteria was gaining strength with every minute, and I almost feared would win the victory. But pride came to my assistance—that mighty supporter of human weakness—and flying to the window, I raised the sash and leaned my head out of it, drinking in deep draughts of the foggy night air. And as I did so, watching the bustle in the street below, and the calm stars in the sky above, I felt strength return to me,—strength, not to avoid suffering, but to suffer in patience. The tears rose to my eyes and fell quietly over my cheeks, and as they fell they seemed to dissolve the hard, dry lump which had settled in my throat and threatened to deprive me of breath. I thought of Bruce Armytage as I had known him in the past, and my tears fell fast for the loss I had sustained in him; but I thought of him also as I saw him in the present, and pride and jealousy made me dash them from my eyes, and resolve that if I died—yes, if I died of grief and love and longing combined—he should never have the gratification of knowing that I had retained one particle of my old affection for him. With which intent I hurried on my walking things, determined not to expose myself any longer to the danger of betrayal; but before I had finished doing so, Mrs Rodwell was in the room, all anxiety to know what had occasioned my sudden absence.

‘What is the matter, Lizzie? Did you feel the heat of the room? Why, my dear child, you are never going! It is only just nine o’clock.’

‘Yes, dear Mrs Rodwell, I think I had better do so. Lady Cunningham will not be late to-night, and you know how particular she is about my being home before her. Please let me go.’

‘Well, dear, it must not be so long again before we see you. We must try and get up a few parties this winter, as it will be Amy’s last in the home circle. And mind, Lizzie, you are to be one of her bridesmaids; she insists upon it.’

‘Ah! She is very kind, as you all are, but we will talk of that when the time comes. Good-night, dear Mrs Rodwell. Kiss the girls for me. I won’t go into the drawing-room, such a figure as I am.’

But Mrs Rodwell accompanied me down the stairs, conversing as she went.

‘I am sorry the doctor is from home, my dear; he would have seen you round to Northampton Lodge; but he is never to be depended on from one hour to another, you know.’

‘Oh, it is of no consequence, Mrs Rodwell; I am used to going alone.’

‘But I don’t half like your doing it, Lizzie: the night is so very dark, and—’

‘Allow me to have the pleasure of accompanying Miss Lacy, Mrs Rodwell,’ said the voice of Bruce Armytage. We had reached the drawing-room floor by that time, and he stood on the threshold of the open door.

‘No, no!’ I exclaimed, as I shrank backward; ‘I do not desire it—I would rather go alone;’ and with a hasty kiss on Mrs Rodwell’s cheek, I ran down the remaining stairs and out at the hall door. The wind was blowing fresh and cold as I turned into the open air, and the night was very dark, but I thought of nothing but his offer to accompany me, and I hurried onward. Did he wish to add insult to injury?

But I had not gone far when I heard the sound of footsteps running after me; and I had hardly realised it was indeed himself before he was by my side, apologising for his presence by the excuse that Mrs Rodwell had desired him to overtake me and see me home. Would I forgive what might otherwise seem an intrusion to me? I was too indignant to vouchsafe him any answer.

We walked on in silence side by side for several minutes, I with my head bent down and holding my thick cloak around me, and he vainly endeavouring to look me in the face. At last, as though making a great effort, he cleared his throat, and said,—

‘I suppose, after the manner in which you spoke to me at the piano this evening, my pride ought to forbid my attempting any further explanation with you, but in this case I have one feeling more powerful than pride, Miss Lacy, and I must ask you what you meant by saying that all that this world could give of solace was yours?’

‘I meant what I said,’ I answered abruptly, ‘or rather, that I require no pity from you or any other stranger. Our paths in life are widely enough divided now: let each walk in his own track, without interfering with the other.’

‘That is easier said than done, perhaps,’ he replied; ‘it is difficult in this world for people to forget what they have been.’

‘It does not appear so to me.’

‘Ah, perhaps you are differently, more happily, constituted than most. They told me so long ago, though I did not believe them. Will you consider an old friend impertinent for asking if that from which you derive your solace now is the same from which you derived it then? and if so, why I still find you unsettled in life?’

‘You are speaking in riddles,’ I replied. ‘I do not understand you.’

‘Your present engagement—is it the same which separated us? Do not be afraid to tell me the truth, Lizzie. I have borne a good deal in my lifetime, and am proof against suffering.’

His voice was so tender and kind, so much like the voice which I remembered in the old days of our love, that it won me to listen to him quietly.

‘My engagement!’ I echoed in surprise. ‘What are you talking of? I have never been engaged—never since’—and then I halted, fearing what my revelation might suggest to him.

‘What do you tell me?’ he exclaimed. ‘What object have you in deceiving me? Were you not engaged, even before your parents’ death, to young Hassell, of Fairmead, and was it not by his father’s means that your present situation was procured for you? I little thought to meet you here,’ he added bitterly. ‘I imagined you were married long ago, or I should have been more careful of my own feelings. And now you are engaged for the third time! How easily life runs for some people!’

‘Who could have told you such a falsehood?’ I said, turning to him. ‘It is true that old Mr Hassell stood my friend when I had not one in the world, and that he found my present situation for me; but as to being engaged to his son, why, he is a married man—he married my own cousin.’

‘Could the mistake have arisen so?’ said Bruce Armytage, as he seized my hand. ‘Oh, Lizzie, do not be angry; think what I have gone through! When I returned home from that wretched foreign tour, during which I was not allowed to correspond with you, the first news which I heard from my own family was, that your father and mother had died some eighteen months before, and that you were engaged to Robert Hassell, and living with some old lady (no one could tell me where) until the time for your marriage arrived. I would not believe them; I rushed down to Fairmead myself to make inquiries, and reached there on the very day of young Hassell’s wedding with Miss Lacy. Do you think I was a coward not to stop and see the bride, believing her to be yourself? Perhaps I was; but I flew from the spot as though I had been haunted; and I suffered—ah, Lizzie, I cannot tell how much! It is so fearful, so awful a thing to teach one’s self to believe the heart in which we have trusted to be faithless and unworthy.’

‘I know it,’ I said in a low voice, which was nearly choked by my tears.

‘How I have lived since that time I can hardly tell you,’ he continued as he pressed my hand. (I knew it ought not to remain in his, but it was so sweet to feel it there.) ‘I have had very little hope, or peace, or happiness, though I have struggled on through it all, and made myself a name in my profession. And then to meet you again to-night so unexpectedly, still free, but promised to another, myself and my love so evidently forgotten, and to feel that it has been but a chance that separated us! Oh! Lizzie, it is almost harder than it was at first!’

‘I am not engaged,’ I answered, sobbing; ‘you choose to take my words at the piano as meaning so, but it was your mistake, not mine. I have lived much in the manner you describe yourself to have done—not very happily, perhaps, and finding my best relief in work. But I am glad to have met you, Bruce—glad to have heard from your own lips what parted us; and I thank you for this explanation, though it comes too late.’

‘But why too late, my dearest?’ he exclaimed joyfully. ‘Why, if you are free to accept my hand, and can forgive all that has made us so unhappy in the past, should we not bury our mutual trouble in mutual love? Oh, Lizzie, say that you’ll be mine—say that you’ll be my own wife, and help me to wipe out the remembrance of this miserable mistake!’

I thought of Amy. I looked at him with astonishment; I recoiled from him almost with disgust. Was I to accept happiness at the expense of that of my dear friends, of the only creatures who had shown me any affection during my long years of exile from him? Oh no. I would rather perish in my solitude. The very fact that he could propose it to me made him sink lower in my estimation.

‘Bruce,’ I exclaimed, ‘you must be mad, or I am mad so to tempt you from your duty. Think of all your offer involves—of the distress, the disappointment, the shame it would entail on those who have been more than friends to me; and consider if it is likely I could be so dishonourable to them as to take advantage of it.’

‘I don’t understand you, my darling,’ he said, with a puzzled look.

‘Not understand?’ I reiterated, in surprise, ‘when your engagement to Amy Rodwell was only settled this morning, and the preliminaries for your marriage are already being talked of! Would you break her heart in the attempt to heal mine? Bruce, we must never see each other again after this evening.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!’ he said, shaking his head, ‘we are playing at dreadful cross-purposes. Did it never enter into your wise little pate to inquire _which_ Mr Armytage was going to marry Amy Rodwell? I can assure you I have no desire or intention to risk getting a pistol-shot through my heart for stepping into my cousin Frederick’s shoes.’

‘And is it really—is it really, then, _Frederick_ whom she is going to marry?’ I exclaimed, breathless with the shock of this new intelligence. ‘Oh, how can she?’

‘It is indeed,’ he answered, laughing. ‘Lizzie, did you seriously think that it was I? Why, what a taste you must give me credit for, to choose that pretty little piece of white-and-pink china, after having had the chance of such a woman as yourself! And now, what is my answer?’

What it was I leave for my readers to guess. Let those who have thirsted until life’s blood lay as dry dust in their veins, thrust the chalice of sparkling wine from their parched lips if they will: I am not made of such stern stuff as that.

THE END.

LEOPOLD-FERDINAND, DUC DE BRABANT.

The death of a child is at all times a subject of mournful interest: it is so sad to see the hereditary curse falling on the innocent heads of those who in themselves have done nothing to merit the punishment of sin. But when the lost child is an only child, or an only son, our sympathies with the bereavement are increased tenfold; so proud do we know each other to be, of perpetuating the frailties of which we are but too conscious, and leaving behind us an inheritor of the misery we have endured. And if ordinary children (of which a few hundreds more or less in the world make little difference) are to be thus bewailed, what words can paint strongly enough the condolence with which we should approach the subject of that royal parent who so lately lost at one stroke his only son, and (in the direct line) the sole heir to his throne! The interest felt by all Englishmen in the royal family of Belgium lies deeper than in the mere fact of their near connection with our own Sovereign and her lamented consort. From the time that the first Leopold came over, a gallant bridegroom, to our shores, to wed the Princess Charlotte (that darling of the nation), and left them so shortly afterwards widowed and childless, we have taken almost as keen an interest in all that concerned him and his children as though death had never stepped in to sever the link between us. And this feeling has been warmly kept up as much by the condescension with which Leopold II. has followed in the footsteps of his father, by taking an interest in all things British, and showing the utmost courtesy to, and consideration for, the foreigners of that nation residing in his dominions, as by the intimate relations maintained between the royal families of England and Belgium.

It may be said, then, and without exaggeration, that when the sad news that the young Duc de Brabant had at last succumbed to the cruel malady which had kept him in constant suffering, and the nation’s hopes in a state of fluctuation for nine months past, was disseminated throughout Brussels, his royal parents received as much sympathy in their sorrow from the English residents in that capital as from their own people. The Belgians mourned their future king; but we wept with the father and mother over the cradle of their only son.

The loss was not an ordinary one, for the child was not an ordinary child; and this assertion is made, not from newspaper gleanings, but the report of those who knew him intimately. His photograph confirms this fact; for the calm, sensible face depicted there has none of the careless, laughter-loving expression which characterises his age; although when in health the Duc de Brabant is said to have been as playful and merry as other little children. But sickness came too soon to rob his features of all but the serene patience which became habitual to them, and before any change could arrive to restore their original expression he has passed away from amongst us, and nothing remains to recall his memory but the few words which can be written of so innocent and uneventful a life.

Leopold-Ferdinand-Elie-Victor-Albert-Marie, Duc de Brabant, Comte de Hainaut, and Duc de Saxe, was born at the palace of Laeken, on the 12th of June 1859. He was the second child of his parents, after ten years of wedded life, consequently his birth was hailed with all the greater acclamation for fulfilling hope deferred to the hearts of his people. When born, he had every appearance of possessing a robust constitution, being plump and well made, with broad shoulders and an open chest; with a formation, in fact, containing the promise of so much muscular strength, that the obstinate ravages of the fatal disease which has taken him from us have been a matter of surprise to all who knew the child as he once was.

The method of his bringing up, also, and the careful manner in which his studies and employments were regulated, should have tended to increase, rather than detract from, the bodily health which he bid fair to enjoy. His education, entrusted to M. le Comte Vanderstraeten-Ponthoz, and to Monsieur le Lieutenant Donny, was skilfully directed in such a way as to maintain a wholesome equilibrium between the development of his physical force and that of the brilliant mental faculties with which the young prince was gifted. The employment of his time was carved out with the greatest minuteness, and out-door exercises alternated with mental labour so as to procure for both mind and body the repose they needed. The prince invariably left his bed at six in summer, and seven in winter, and breakfasted an hour after he rose; when he worked with his tutor till ten o’clock. A run in the park or a ride on his pony served him for recreation; and at one he joined his father and mother at luncheon—a meal which the king and queen always took _en famille_. Before resuming his studies, the little prince went out again with his tutor, dined at six, and was then at liberty to amuse himself until his bed-time, which was fixed for eight o’clock. Such a life could hurt no one: no enforced studies were exacted from his tender brain, nor was the heir of Belgium sacrificed to the desire to see him turn out a prodigy; he lived as other happy and well-cared-for children live, making his short life one long holiday; and, until within ten months of his decease, showed no symptoms whatever of ill-health.

Then the first signs of sickness, said to be consequent on the suppression of some childish disorder, became apparent, and increased until they culminated in pericarditis, or inflammation of the membranes of the heart, the affection which ultimately destroyed him. At its commencement, this complaint had all the appearance of a heavy cold, accompanied by a dry, violent cough, which was soon followed by a pallid face and wasted figure, the sure signs of impoverished blood.

When the first grave consultation had confirmed the diagnostic of the attendant physicians, that the pericardium or membrane of the heart was affected, all the efforts of science were immediately put in requisition to arrest the progress of the evil; but without avail, for they proved powerless to stay the rapid decline of his natural powers, by dropsy, the usual effect of heart disease. The swelling of the stomach and chest of the poor little invalid now became enormous; the respiratory organs no longer performed their office, and the cough redoubled in intensity. It became most distressing, scarcely ceasing day or night; and the gravest fears began to be entertained for his lungs. The apartments of the prince, though large and airy, and situated on the ground floor of the right wing of the palace of Laeken, and opening on the park, did not contain sufficient vital air for his need. When it was necessary to close the windows of the chamber, which was only done at night (for the suffering child found no relief except in a free current of air), servants placed on either side his bed kept up a continual fanning, and by that means occasionally gained him a few moments of repose. Every morning, under the guardianship of his tutor, Monsieur Donny, the prince was taken into the park in a little pony-carriage led by a groom, and made the tour of the domain four or five times. Towards the middle of the journey the pony and servant were changed, for the promenade was long, and often occupied several hours; and, occasionally, the poor father and mother, so soon to be bereaved, might be seen following on horseback, and wistfully regarding the little carriage which held the object of their dearest hopes. It was a _triste_ and melancholy procession, and resembled a funeral _cortége_ more than anything else.

Towards one o’clock the prince would stop, generally near the aviary of pheasants, and lunch with his preceptor; for, strange to say, his appetite, though feeble, never abandoned him until the very last. Soon the carriage was again in motion and making the circuit of the park, for it was only by a continual change of air that the poor child was enabled to breathe with any ease. The affection of the prince for Monsieur Donny was incredible. Throughout his illness he insisted upon his being continually at his side, would not take his meals without him, and obliged him to sleep in his apartments; and Monsieur Donny (although he had been married but a few weeks when the first serious symptoms of illness appeared) never quitted the royal child for a moment until he was carried out of the palace of Laeken for the last time. About the month of October there appeared to be some amelioration in the prince’s condition, and hopes were almost confidently entertained of his ultimate restoration to health. But these hopes were of short duration, although the bulletins, issued daily, fluctuated so much in their statements that it was difficult to arrive at a knowledge of the truth. The king is said to have had no hope from the commencement of the disorder, and his despair was proportionately great. His grief was so profound that he became a mere shadow of himself; and yet, with that manly fortitude which resists an open expression of what it feels, might be seen at all times, pacing the palace and gardens of Laeken with calm dry eyes, but a fixed, mournful look, which seemed as though he had always before him a vision of the pitiless death which was about to strike him in his tenderest affections.

At night he would constantly rise from his own bed to go with bare feet and noiseless step, and hang over the couch where his child, with angelic patience, was awaiting his doom. This patience, so calm as to appear almost unnatural, and which excites surprise in those who have not nursed little children through mortal illnesses, seems to have been a characteristic of this little child. Numberless anecdotes have, of course, been related of him during the last months, many of which are totally without foundation, but one in particular was so widely spread that it gained general credence. It was the fact of his feigning sleep when suffering great pain if he heard the approach of his father’s footstep, lest he should be questioned relative to his state, and read the disappointment his answer must have caused. ‘If I pretend to sleep,’ he used to say to his attendants, ‘my father will think that I am better.’

But during the daytime his father was seldom absent from his side, and was never weary of trying to extract some slight support on which to hang hope by questioning the child as to his feelings and symptoms. One day, when the little tragedy was drawing very near its close, and the prince was suffering from one of those attacks which so often threatened to be fatal, the king approached the bed to learn some news of his condition, and receiving, for the first time, no reply save such as was conveyed by the languid, half-raised eyes.

‘Je vous ennuie, n’est ce pas, mon enfant!’ he exclaimed; and unable to control his feelings, rushed away into the park in order to conceal them.

On Christmas-day the king, in an attempt, if possible, to distract the child’s mind, had a large Christmas-tree set up in the midst of his apartment, made brilliant with wax tapers, and hung with numbers of beautiful playthings and other ornaments calculated to attract one of his age.

The Duc de Brabant, after having duly admired the tree and its belongings, and appearing to take pleasure in examining and handling the playthings with which it was laden, asked his attendants to bring a large box to his bedside; and having seen all his presents packed away in it, gave it to Doctor Henriette (one of his attendant physicians), and begged him to distribute its contents amongst the little invalids in the hospital. This is but one trait amongst a thousand from which might have been predicated what sort of king this child, if spared, would eventually have made. He was positively adored by the people of the royal household—those servants who were under his control; and by seeing him play at sovereign with whom one read the natural nobility of his yet undeveloped character. When any of his servants had committed a fault and deserved a reprimand from the officer on duty, the Duc de Brabant would accuse himself of the negligence in order to save the real offender from punishment. He was nursed throughout his illness by two Sœurs de Charité, who paid him the utmost attention, and of whom he became proportionately fond. It was said that on the first of January the Duc de Brabant asked his father for the sum of six thousand francs: ‘Pour ces deux anges qui me veillaient.’ This anecdote was afterwards contradicted; but it possesses at least the merit of giving the general idea of the disposition of Leopold-Ferdinand. His was the most generous little heart possible, and he would have despoiled himself of everything to make one creature happy.

On Thursday evening, the twenty-first of January, when it became known in Laeken that the prince was really dying, the whole community was in commotion; and when towards nine o’clock the report was spread that all was over, nothing was to be seen but mournful and downcast countenances, and the commissioner of police was forced to reassure the people by telling them that the child still lived. These sentiments were but natural, for the progress of the disease had been suspended during so many months that the dangerous state of the royal invalid was but thoroughly realised. The public had begun to think that the doctors must be mistaken in their diagnostics; and thus, when the bulletins from the palace intimated that there was a fatal aggravation of the symptoms, the news could not fail to throw the whole country into a state of consternation. The last agony of the unfortunate child (whose sufferings had been greatly accelerated ever since the fourteenth of January) commenced at five in the evening of the twenty-first, and did not terminate till forty minutes past twelve, at which time he drew his last breath in a long sigh of relief. MM. Henriette and Wimmer, who had so assiduously tended the royal child since the appearance of the disease to which he succumbed, were summoned to the palace of Laeken by a despatch from M. le Comte Vanderstraeten-Ponthoz a few minutes after the last crisis had commenced, and did not again quit the bedside of the invalid, though they had the grief of seeing all their science powerless to do more than assist at the last moments of him whose life but a few months before they had hoped to save.

From the time the crisis set in, Prince Leopold-Ferdinand recognised no one, although his intelligence was not completely obscured; for when the king or queen spoke to him, he appeared to understand what they said, although it was impossible for him to respond, even by a gesture, to the loving words which were lavished upon him. He died, as so beloved a child should die, between his father and mother, who, during the last hours, never quitted his side. In his chamber at this time were Madame la Duchesse d’Ursel, mistress of the queen’s household; Monsieur le Comte Vanderstraeten-Ponthoz, maréchal of the palace; Monsieur Donny, the prince’s preceptor; MM. Henriette and Wimmer, the two Sœurs de Charité who had nursed him through his illness, and the two _valets-de-chambre_ of the Duc de Brabant. All were silent, as, awe-stricken, they waited, in the midst of that calm night, to hear the rustling wings of the Angel of Death; and the peaceful solemnity of the last hour was undisturbed, save by the voice of the chaplain who recited the prayers for the dying. Monseigneur le Comte de Flandre, brother to the king, who had been summoned to the palace by the same despatch which had brought MM. Henriette and Wimmer, arrived there at half-past ten, and quitted Laeken again at midnight; he was not, therefore, present at the last moments of his nephew. It was the same with Monsieur Devaux, the king’s secretary, who retired at half-past nine to his own apartments.

When all was over, and life had finally quitted the poor little body which had suffered so much, the father and mother, one after another, strained the corpse in their arms, and covered it with kisses, until the king, desirous of sparing the queen so mournful a spectacle, led her by force from the couch where rested the inanimate remains of the sole heir to their crown. On the morning following his decease the body of the little prince was completely robed in white, and placed on the bed in the chamber where he had died, and which is next to that in which his grandfather, Leopold I., drew his last breath. A crown of white roses, fresh and pure as his own brief life, was placed on the pillar immediately above his head, and a little virgin, with several playthings with which he had essayed to wile away some of the weary hours of pain, were placed at the foot of his couch. An altar was improvised on a large chest of drawers, placed between two windows of his bedroom, where a crucifix hung in the midst of lighted candles, converting the chamber of death into a temporary chapel. Here the Sœurs de Charité watched the dead child through the night, as they had watched him for so many previous months.

The body of the little prince was not embalmed, as the queen steadfastly set her face against such a proceeding, but was interred in the same condition in which he had died. The corpse was not at all decomposed, but it was terribly thin. The face wore the pallor of marble, and was not at all swollen or otherwise disfigured. The child appeared to sleep, and so he did, although the sleep will be eternal. On the same day the following proclamation was placed on the walls of the capital:—

‘AUX HABITANTS DE BRUXELLES.

‘CONCITOYENS,—Le pays vient d’éprouver une perte immense. Le
Prince Royal a succombé cette nuit au mal cruel qui menaçait
depuis longtemps une existence si précieuse à tous les Belges.
La population de Bruxelles, fidèle aux sentiments inaltérables
qu’elle a voués à une dynastie bien-aimée pleurera longtemps le
jeune Prince dont elle avait entouré le berçeau de tant d’amour
et de si chères espérances.

‘Fait à l’Hôtel de Ville, le 22 Janvier, 1869.
‘Par le Collége, le Secrétaire, ‘Le Collége,
‘A. LACOMBLE. JULES ANSPACH.’

The following letter of condolence, addressed by the permanent deputation of the Provincial Council of Brabant, to their bereaved king and queen, appears to me so touchingly worded, that I give it in the original, fearful of spoiling by translating it:—

‘SIRE, MADAME,—Il a plu à la Providence de nous envoyer au
milieu de nos prospérités, une bien douloureuse épreuve.
Le Prince Royal est mort! ... mort avant d’avoir accompli
sa dixième année!... Ce coup cruel, que nos vœux n’ont pu
conjurer, nous frappe tous au cœur. Il ravit un fils à votre
amour, à nous le jeune Prince promis à de hautes et si
précieuses destinées. Dans une adversité si grande, nous le
savons, toutes les paroles sont vaines. Il y a des afflictiones
que rien ne console. Nous pouvons, du moins, mêler la tristesse
de nos regrets à l’amertume des vôtres, et, associés à votre
légitime douleur, souffrir et pleurer avec vous.

‘Oui, pleurons! Mais gardons une entière confiance dans
l’avenir! Dieu n’a pas cessé de protéger la Belgique et la
dynastie qui lui est inséparablement unie.

‘La députation permanente du Conseil Provincial du Brabant.’

After which followed the signatures of the president and those members of the council who signed the address in the name of the entire body.

But the loyal sympathy of the Belgians did not vent itself in words only. As soon as the death of their young prince was officially announced, black flags on the Belgian colours, smothered in crape, were displayed from the balconies of the principal houses, whilst the fronts of many of them were completely hung with funereal drapery, and most of the shops and all places of amusement were closed. The ships lying in the Belgian ports lowered their flags half-mast high, in sign of the general mourning; and all the principal families in Brussels, and most of the English residents appeared in black.

The bells of the cathedral and other churches kept tolling at intervals during the first and succeeding days, to announce the melancholy news; all fêtes and public rejoicing were suspended, as well as private balls and concerts; and the ministerial conferences were adjourned.

Meanwhile the body of the young prince, which had been watched ever since his death by the officers of the household, was placed in a triple coffin, lined with white silk, in the presence of the king and queen, the Archbishop of Malines, and several members of the royal household. This melancholy ceremony of bidding the last earthly adieu, is said to have been, as is natural, the occasion of a most heartrending scene. The young prince had received the insignia of the Chevalier de la Toison d’Or d’Espagne, shortly after the ascension of his father Leopold II. to the throne; and this insignia was placed on his coffin during the funeral obsequies—which were fixed to take place at eleven o’clock on Monday, the twenty-fifth; at which time also was to be performed (according to the rites of the Roman Catholic religion), in the church of Notre-Dame at Laeken, the first funeral mass for the repose of his innocent soul.

Accordingly, before eight o’clock on the morning of the day appointed, a procession of people eager to witness the ceremony lined the road to the church and palace of Laeken. At the palace, the guests were received in the rotunda, where they had to await the arrival of the body, to form themselves in _cortége_. Monsieur le Baron Prisse, adjutant of the Palace, and Monsieur de Wyckersloth were appointed to receive them. Only a very few were admitted into the temporary chapel, where rested the mortal remains of the little prince; and which was most tastefully decorated. The walls and ceiling were draped with black; an altar had been erected between the two windows, before which stood the coffin, supported on a small black bier. It was covered with a white pall, embroidered with a large golden cross, upon which lay a wreath of white roses. This erection, lighted by four gold candelabra on black pedestals, and a chandelier from the ceiling, under which the coffin rested, had a very solemn and imposing effect. On the black drapery with which the room was hung, were shields emblazoned with the royal arms. At a quarter to eleven the clergy arrived. They consisted of the Archbishop of Malines, the Bishops of Belgium, accompanied by their canons and secretaries; the rectors of the parishes of Laeken and the capital; several envoys from the provinces, and a representative of each of the religious orders now established in Brussels. At their arrival at the palace, which they entered two by two, the principal members of the clergy were admitted into the temporary chapel, where were already assembled H.M. the King; H.R.H. the Comte de Flandre; Monseigneur la Prince de Ligne; and several officers of the household, amongst which was Monsieur Donny, the prince’s tutor, who since the morning could not be persuaded to quit the remains of his beloved pupil. After the usual prayers, the coffin was delivered into the hands of some of the non-commissioned officers of the army, and such of the Garde-Civique as had been deputed to carry it to its last resting-place. The coffin was of black wood, with silver nails and ornaments; lions’ heads formed the handles, and a splendid ivory crucifix was on the lid, but there was no plate, descriptive of the name or distinctions of the deceased child.

As soon as the coffin had been placed on the bier on which it was to be carried, the white pall with its golden cross was thrown over it, and the funeral _cortége_ was set in motion. The pall was held by MM. les Généraux Chazal and Pletinckx; MM. Frère-Orban, Minister of Finance, and Bara, Minister of Justice; Dolez, President of the Chamber, and Omalius d’Halloy, President of the Senate.

The king, with the Comte de Flandre, headed the procession. He was pale, and appeared sadly changed; his step was slow and faltering, and he was obliged to lean for support on the arm of his royal brother. They were attired in the uniform of lieutenant-generals of the army, and opposite to where they wore the ribbon of the Order of Leopold hung a long black crape scarf. Both seemed much affected, but the father had evidently great trouble in keeping back his tears; and one can well imagine that it must have been real courage on his part to attend the sad ceremony in person. Immediately after the king and his brother, who walked behind the little coffin, came the officers of the household of the king, queen, and Comte de Flandre; the ambassadors or plenipotentiary ministers of the various Powers, the generals of the army, and several other persons of distinction.

Amongst the representatives of the different Powers were two special envoys: these were M. de Jamund, aide-de-camp of the Prince Royal of Prussia, to represent his Prussian Majesty; and M. Schreckenstein, who did the same for the Prince of Hohenzollern. It was painful to see M. Donny, who formed part of the melancholy procession: his face bore such evident traces of the suffering he had passed through; and when the mortal remains of the little prince passed him in leaving the palace, he burst into tears. This long _cortége_ was brought up at the rear by the invited guests and clergy already enumerated, after which came an empty hearse: first an ordinary one, of which the drapery had been exchanged for ornaments of black and gold, and escutcheons, with the Belgian lion placed on each side of the seat; whilst six horses, caparisoned with black, their heads surmounted with plumes, drew the funeral car. The dead child’s little pony, sitting astride which he had been photographed in various positions, covered with crape and led by two grooms, followed the hearse; and twelve court carriages, their lamps enveloped in crape, and their coachmen in deep mourning, came after it. In this order, preceded and followed by troops of horse, as guards of honour, the procession slowly wended its way towards the church by Montagne du Tonnerre. Its departure from the palace was proclaimed by volleys of artillery, which continued throughout the ceremony, and indeed from daybreak canons fired at intervals, had announced the coming solemnity; first, every half-hour, and afterwards, every five minutes. The bells of all the churches, also of the capital and its suburbs did not cease tolling until the funeral obsequies of the young prince were completed. At the gate of the palace a company of Grenadiers presented arms to the coffin, and a little farther on the barrack-guard went through the same ceremony. Along the whole length of the road was assembled a silent crowd: at every window appeared eager and interested faces, amongst whom was a large number of women,—all dressed in deep mourning, and many weeping. It was reckoned, and without exaggeration, that more than forty thousand people went to Laeken that day to see the child of their king buried. From the palace to the church the _coup d’œil_ of the procession was very imposing.

A veil of black seemed to hover over the vast multitude, who, with uncovered heads, paced slowly beneath the wintry sky; and the rays of frosty sunshine, powerless as they were to warm on such a day, had yet sufficient brilliancy to outshine the lights which flickered in a sickly manner in the carriage lamps, overshadowed by their coverings of crape.

When the coffin arrived at the church, it was already nearly filled with the functionaries of the different administrations of Brussels and the provinces. There were also representatives of all the constituted bodies, most of the governors of the province, and deputations of the communal and provincial councils. MM. le Capitaine Nicaise and Lahure, junior, were appointed to keep order in the church; and the places for each body of functionaries were marked beforehand by printed bills. The king and the Comte de Flandre occupied seats in front of the altar; those belonging to their households sat behind. The diplomatic body was to the right of the bier, on which rested the coffin—the various deputations to the left; and all the rest of the assemblage were disposed in the two aisles of the church.

The building was completely hung with black: each pillar bore an escutcheon, in the centre of which was blazoned a golden lion, surmounted by the word ‘Obiit,’ and the date of the child’s death. The bier, placed in the middle of the church, and at the entrance of the choir, was raised upon a pedestal covered with black velvet, bordered with ermine and embroidered with lions. The bier itself was covered with a white pall, on the top of which was placed a wreath of roses, just like the one which lay upon the coffin whilst in the temporary chapel, and was surmounted by a black canopy bordered with heavy gold fringe, from which fell four large curtains, enveloping the pedestal. Round the coffin burned numerous wax tapers, and on the four panels of this funereal erection, and at each corner of the altar, were the royal arms of Belgium. The Archbishop of Malines was the principal officiator at the ceremony, and it was he who pronounced the Absolution, standing beneath a canopy of crimson velvet fringed with gold, which had been raised for him, to the right of the altar. The suffragan bishops took a part in the service; but the mass was sung.

Directly it was concluded, the coffin was placed in the chapel in front of the vault where King Leopold I. and Queen Marie-Louise already rest, and there it will remain until the three coffins can be together moved to the permanent vault in course of erection in the new church at Laeken.

Then the king came forward, and, having placed on the coffin of his child a wreath of white flowers, left the church to return to the palace. He was terribly moved, and had difficulty in restraining his tears until he should have regained his carriage.

The Mass for the Dead was then resumed, and lasted for an hour and a-half; and it was two hours before the funeral ceremonies were finally completed.

On the following Wednesday, the church of Ste Gudule and St Michel at Brussels, having been hung in the same lavish manner with black and white, a second Grand Mass was said and sung there for the repose of the little prince’s soul; and then the whole business was over, and people began to talk of something else. But it will be a long time before Belgium forgets her Prince Royal or the bereavement of her king.

The funeral was, perhaps, as grand a one as ever was given for a child, and the decorations of the churches, biers, and coffin, things to be remembered; but the way in which true Belgians will love best to think of Leopold-Ferdinand, Duc de Brabant, will be the recollection, treasured by his father and mother—the recollection of a pure dead face, freed from all suffering and pain, lying on its once familiar bed, a little virgin clasped in the inanimate hand, and a wreath of white roses laid upon the pillow; but above all, of a happy soul freed from the suffering of sin, and in the enjoyment of a kingdom from the possession of which the temptations attendant upon wearing an earthly crown might have debarred him.

THE END.

LITTLE WHITE SOULS.

I am going to tell you a story which is as improbable an one as you have ever heard. I do not expect anybody to believe it; yet it is perfectly true. The ignorant and bigoted will read it to the end perhaps, and then fling it down with the assertion that it is all nonsense, and there is not one word of truth in it. The wiser and more experienced may say it is very wonderful and incredible, but still they know there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy. But no one will credit it with a hearty, uncompromising belief. And yet neither ridicule nor incredulity can alter the fact that this is a true history of circumstances that occurred but a few years since, and to persons who are living at the present time.

The scene is laid in India, and to India, therefore, I must transplant you in order that you may be introduced to the actors in this veracious drama, premising that the names I give, not only of people but of places, are all fictitious.

It is Christmas time in a single station on the frontiers of Bengal, and a very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal Muftis find it in consequence. For to be quartered in a single station means to be compelled to associate with the same people day after day and month after month and year after year; and to carry on that old quarrel with Jones, or to listen to the cackle of Mrs Robinson, or be bored with the twaddle of Major Smith, without any hope of respite or escape, and leaving the gentlemen out of the question, the ladies of the 145th Bengal Muftis are not in the best frame of mind at the time my story opens to spend the day of peace and goodwill towards men together. Regimental ladies seldom are. They are quarrelsome and interfering, and backbiting enough towards each other in an English garrison town, but that is a trifle compared to the way in which they carry on in our outlying stations in India. And yet, the ladies of the 145th Bengal Muftis are not bad specimens of the sex, taken individually. It is only when they come in contact that their Christian love and charity make themselves conspicuous. Mrs Dunstan, the wife of the colonel, is the most important of them all, and the most important personage, too, in this little story of a misfortune that involved herself, therefore let Mrs Dunstan be the first to advance for inspection.

As we meet her, she is seated in a lounging chair in her own drawing-room, at Mudlianah, with a decided look of discontent or unhappiness upon her countenance. The scene around her would seem fair enough in the eyes of those who were not condemned to live in it. Her room is surrounded by a broad verandah, which is so covered by creepers as to be a bower of greenery. Huge trumpet-shaped blossoms of the most gorgeous hues of purple, scarlet and orange, hang in graceful festoons about the windows and open doorways, whilst the starry jessamine and Cape honeysuckle fill the air with sweetness. Beyond the garden, which is laid out with much taste, though rather in a wild and tangled style, owing to the luxuriance of the vegetation, lie a range of snowy hills which appear quite close in the transparent atmosphere, although in reality they are many miles away.

Mrs Dunstan’s room is furnished, too, with every luxury as befits the room of a colonel’s wife, even in an up country station. The chairs and sofas are of carved ebony wood, and cane work from Benares; the table is covered with flowers, books, and fancy work; a handsome piano stands in one corner; the floor is covered with coloured matting, and in the verandah are scattered toys from various countries, a token that this comfortable home does not lack the chief of married joys, a child-angel in the house.

The mistress, too, is still young and still handsome, not wanting the capacity for intellectual nor the health for physical enjoyment, there must be some deeper reason than outward discomfort therefore for that sad far-away look in her eyes and the pain which has knitted her brow. Yes, ‘Mees Mar-gie MacQueerk’ (as she would style herself) has been giving Mrs Dunstan an hour of her company that morning, and as usual left her trail behind her.

‘Mees Margie’ is a tall, quaint, ill-favoured Scotchwoman on the wrong side of fifty, who has come out to India to keep the house of her brother, the doctor of the 145th. She is a rigid Presbyterian, with a brogue as uncompromising as her doctrine and a judgment as hard as nails. Never having been tempted to do anything wrong, she is excessively virtuous, and has an eye like a hawk for the misdoings of others; indeed, she is so excellent a detective that she discovers the sins before the sinners have quite made up their minds to commit them. She is the detestation of the regiment, and the colonel’s wife has been compelled in consequence to show Miss MacQuirk more attention than she would otherwise have done to make up for the neglect of the others. For never does Miss Maggie pass half-an-hour without hinting at a fresh peccadillo on the part of somebody else. She has a rooted conviction that all soldiers are libertines, not fit to be trusted out of sight of their wives or sisters, and if she has no new misdemeanour to relate on the part of the masters, the servants are sure to come in for their share of abuse, and so Miss Maggie MacQuirk manages to find food for scandal all the year round. Ethel Dunstan ought to know her foibles well enough to mistrust her by this time, and had the doctor’s sister come in with some new story of young Freshfield’s flirting, on Mr Masterman’s card-playing, she would have been as ready as ever to laugh at the old Scotchwoman’s mountainous molehills, and to assure her she was utterly mistaken. But Miss MacQuirk’s discourse this morning had taken a different turn. She had talked exclusively of the latest arrival in Mudlianah: lovely Mrs Lawless, who has just returned with her husband, Jack Lawless, from staff duty in the Northwest Provinces, and how her beauty seemed to have addled the heads of all the men of the 145th Bengal Muftis. And there was a great deal of truth in Miss MacQuirk’s assertions, and that is what has made them go home to the heart of Ethel Dunstan. We are all so ready to believe anything that affects our own happiness.

‘Deed, and it’s jeest freetful,’ said Miss Margie, in her provincial twang, ‘to see a set o’ dunderheids tairned the wrang way for the sake o’ a wee bit o’ a pasty face wi’ two beeg eyes in the meedle o’ it. It’s eno’ to mak’ a God-fearing woman praise the Laird that has kept her in the straight path. For I’ll no affairm that it’s by mee ain doin’ that I can haud up my heed the day with the Queen o’ England herself if need be.’

‘But Mrs Lawless is very, _very_ lovely—there cannot be two opinions on that subject,’ cried generous-hearted Mrs Dunstan. ‘For my own part I never saw a more beautiful face than hers, and my husband says just the same thing.’

‘Eh! I nae doot it! The cairnal’s heed is tairned like all the rest o’ them. But he cannot ca’ it reet that men should rin after a leddy that has a lawfu’ meeried husband o’ her ain.’

‘But you have such strange notions, Miss MacQuirk. If a gentleman shows a lady the least attention you call it “running after her.” We are like one family shut up in this little station by ourselves. If we are not to be on friendly terms with each other, we are indeed to be pitied.’

‘Friendly tairms,’ exclaimed Miss Margie. ‘Do you call it “friendly tairms” to be walking in the dairk with anither mon’s wife? An’ that’s jeest what my gude brother saw yester e’en as he was comin’ hame fra’ mess.’

‘What man! whose wife?’ asked Ethel Dunstan, for once interested in Miss MacQuirk’s scandal.