Sir James Clarke still felt hopeful, and the queen went for a short walk. On her return, she found, the invalid "very restless and haggard and suffering, though at times he seemed better. While Alice was reading the 'Talisman,' in the bedroom, where he was lying on the bed, he seemed in a very uncomfortable, panting state, which frightened us. We sent for Dr. Jenner, and then Mr. Brown, of Windsor, came up, and was most kind and reassuring, and not at all alarmed. But Dr. Jenner said that the prince must eat; that the illness would be tedious, and that completely starving himself, as he had done, would not do."
Two days passed with little change, and the doctors pronounced the disease gastric fever. The queen was informed of it, but not the patient, who had a perfect horror of fevers. "What an awful trial this is," writes her majesty, "to be deprived for so long of my guide, my support, my all! My heart was ready to burst; but I cheered up, remembering how many people have fever.... Good Alice was very courageous, and tried to comfort me."
On the eighth the prince had requested to be removed to the "blue-room," because it was so large, bright, and cheerful, and then he asked for some music, saying: "I should like to hear a fine chorale, played at a distance." A piano was drawn to the next room and the Princess Alice played "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott" and another hymn, while the prince listened with tears in his eyes. Later in the day the queen read "Peveril of the Peak" to him, and he followed the story with much interest. When her majesty returned to him after dinner, she writes: "He was so pleased to see me,—stroked my face, and smiled, and called me 'liebeschauchen,'—precious love!"
Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Holland were now associated with the other two physicians, and for a few days the invalid seemed to improve, though his mind wandered at times in a most distressing manner. On the eleventh a bulletin was issued, informing the public that the prince was seriously ill, though his case was not yet considered dangerous. He could not bear to have the queen absent from his bedside for an instant, and constantly spoke kind and tender words to her. In the evening the symptoms were not so favorable, and great anxiety was felt.
Lord Palmerston was laid up with an attack of gout; but he was kept informed of the prince's condition, as were the rest of the ministers, inquiries being made regularly by them all.
Between frequent changes from better to worse and worse to better, two more days passed, and on the fourteenth, Dr. Brown, who had been in attendance on the royal family for more than twenty years, informed her majesty that the crisis was over, and there was ground for hope. This was good news indeed!
"I went over at seven, as I usually did," writes her majesty. "It was a bright morning, the sun just rising, and shining brightly. The room had the sad look of nightwatching, and the candles burnt down to their sockets, the doctors looking anxious. I went in, and never can I forget how beautiful my darling looked, lying there with his face lit up by the rising sun, his eyes unusually bright, gazing, as it were, on unseen objects, and not taking notice of me." It was true that the prince consort had rallied; but he was not really better, and the Prince of Wales, who, in answer to a telegram, had arrived during the night, had been informed by Sir Henry Holland of his father's state. During the day there was little change; the prince spoke from time to time to the queen, called her "Gutes Frauchen" and recognized each of the children as they came in and kissed his hand.
The next evening the queen was summoned from the adjoining room, where she had gone only a few moments before to give vent to her grief. She knew only too well what it meant. She entered, took the prince's hand, and knelt down. On the other side of the bed was the Princess Alice, and at the foot knelt the Prince of Wales and Princess Helena. Physicians and others stood near in different parts of the room. Not a sound was to be heard within that mournful chamber; the gentle spirit was passing calmly, peacefully away. The castle clock chimed the third quarter after ten. Two or three long but gentle breaths were drawn, the beloved features settled into a sweet repose, and all was over.
After what has appeared in these pages concerning the prince's character, and his qualities as a husband, a father, a friend, it is unnecessary to comment upon the loss those nearest and dearest to him had sustained. But his death took the nation by surprise; for they had not realized the seriousness of his illness, and there was not a home in the kingdom that was not saddened by it. The queen was and is dearly beloved, and her sorrow was shared by her people.
On the morning of Monday, December 23, the remains of the prince consort were removed in grand state from Windsor Castle, and temporarily deposited in the entrance to the royal vault in St. George's Chapel, where they were to remain until the completion of a mausoleum to be erected afterwards. On the eighteenth of December, her majesty, accompanied by the Princess Alice, drove to the gardens of Frogmore, where the Prince of Wales, Prince Louis of Hesse, Sir Charles Phipps, and Sir James Clarke awaited her. A spot was selected for the mausoleum, which was to contain the remains of the prince consort; and the following year, the work having been completed, they were removed to their final resting-place.