MADAME GOESLER IS SENT FOR.
When the elder Mr. Maule had sufficiently recovered from the
perturbation of mind and body into which he had been thrown by the
ill-timed and ill-worded proposition of his son to enable him to
resume the accustomed tenour of his life, he arrayed himself in his
morning winter costume, and went forth in quest of a lady. So much
was told some few chapters back, but the name of the lady was not
then disclosed. Starting from Victoria Street, Westminster, he walked
slowly across St. James's Park and the Green Park till he came out in
Piccadilly, near the bottom of Park Lane. As he went up the Lane he
looked at his boots, at his gloves, and at his trousers, and saw that
nothing was unduly soiled. The morning air was clear and frosty, and
had enabled him to dispense with the costly comfort of a cab. Mr.
Maule hated cabs in the morning,--preferring never to move beyond the
tether of his short daily constitutional walk. A cab for going out to
dinner was a necessity;--but his income would not stand two or three
cabs a day. Consequently he never went north of Oxford Street, or
east of the theatres, or beyond Eccleston Square towards the river.
The regions of South Kensington and New Brompton were a trouble to
him, as he found it impossible to lay down a limit in that direction
which would not exclude him from things which he fain would not
exclude. There are dinners given at South Kensington which such a
man as Mr. Maule cannot afford not to eat. In Park Lane he knocked
at the door of a very small house,--a house that might almost be
called tiny by comparison of its dimensions with those around it, and
then asked for Madame Goesler. Madame Goesler had that morning gone
into the country. Mr. Maule in his blandest manner expressed some
surprise, having understood that she had not long since returned from
Harrington Hall. To this the servant assented, but went on to explain
that she had been in town only a day or two when she was summoned
down to Matching by a telegram. It was believed, the man said, that
the Duke of Omnium was poorly. "Oh! indeed;--I am sorry to hear
that," said Mr. Maule, with a wry face. Then, with steps perhaps a
little less careful, he walked back across the park to his club. On
taking up the evening paper he at once saw a paragraph stating that
the Duke of Omnium's condition to-day was much the same as yesterday;
but that he had passed a quiet night. That very distinguished but
now aged physician, Sir Omicron Pie, was still staying at Matching
Priory. "So old Omnium is going off the hooks at last," said Mr.
Maule to a club acquaintance.
The club acquaintance was in Parliament, and looked at the matter
from a strictly parliamentary point of view. "Yes, indeed. It has
given a deal of trouble."
Mr. Maule was not parliamentary, and did not understand.
"Why trouble,--except to himself? He'll leave his Garter and
strawberry-leaves, and all his acres behind him."
"What is Gresham to do about the Exchequer when he comes in? I don't
know whom he's to send there. They talk of Bonteen, but Bonteen
hasn't half weight enough. They'll offer it to Monk, but Monk 'll
never take office again."
"Ah, yes. Planty Pall was Chancellor of the Exchequer. I suppose he
must give that up now?"
The parliamentary acquaintance looked up at the unparliamentary man
with that mingled disgust and pity which parliamentary gentlemen and
ladies always entertain for those who have not devoted their minds
to the constitutional forms of the country. "The Chancellor of the
Exchequer can't very well sit in the House of Lords, and Palliser
can't very well help becoming Duke of Omnium. I don't know whether he
can take the decimal coinage question with him, but I fear not. They
don't like it at all in the city."
"I believe I'll go and play a rubber of whist," said Mr. Maule.
He played his whist, and lost thirty points without showing the
slightest displeasure, either by the tone of his voice or by any
grimace of his countenance. And yet the money which passed from his
hands was material to him. But he was great at such efforts as these,
and he understood well the fluctuations of the whist table. The
half-crowns which he had paid were only so much invested capital.
He dined at his club this evening, and joined tables with another
acquaintance who was not parliamentary. Mr. Parkinson Seymour was
a man much of his own stamp, who cared not one straw as to any
difficulty which the Prime Minister might feel in filling the office
of Chancellor of the Exchequer. There were men by dozens ready and
willing, and no doubt able,--or at any rate, one as able as the
other,--to manage the taxes of the country. But the blue riband and
the Lord Lieutenancy of Barsetshire were important things,--which
would now be in the gift of Mr. Daubeny; and Lady Glencora would at
last be a duchess,--with much effect on Society, either good or bad.
And Planty Pall would be a duke, with very much less capability, as
Mr. Parkinson Seymour thought, for filling that great office, than
that which the man had displayed who was now supposed to be dying
at Matching. "He has been a fine old fellow," said Mr. Parkinson
Seymour.
"Very much so. There ain't many of that stamp left."
"I don't know one," continued the gentleman, with enthusiasm. "They
all go in for something now, just as Jones goes in for being a bank
clerk. They are politicians, or gamblers, or, by heaven, tradesmen,
as some of them are. The Earl of Tydvil and Lord Merthyr are in
partnership together working their own mines,--by the Lord, with a
regular deed of partnership, just like two cheesemongers. The Marquis
of Maltanops has a share in a bitter beer house at Burton. And
the Duke of Discount, who married old Ballance's daughter, and is
brother-in-law to young George Advance, retains his interest in the
house in Lombard Street. I know it for a fact."
"Old Omnium was above that kind of thing," said Mr. Maule.
"Lord bless you;--quite another sort of man. There is nothing left
like it now. With a princely income I don't suppose he ever put by
a shilling in his life. I've heard it said that he couldn't afford
to marry, living in the manner in which he chose to live. And he
understood what dignity meant. None of them understand that now.
Dukes are as common as dogs in the streets, and a marquis thinks no
more of himself than a market-gardener. I'm very sorry the old duke
should go. The nephew may be very good at figures, but he isn't fit
to fill his uncle's shoes. As for Lady Glencora, no doubt as things
go now she's very popular, but she's more like a dairy-maid than a
duchess to my way of thinking."
There was not a club in London, and hardly a drawing-room in which
something was not said that day in consequence of the two bulletins
which had appeared as to the condition of the old Duke;--and in no
club and in no drawing-room was a verdict given against the dying
man. It was acknowledged everywhere that he had played his part in a
noble and even in a princely manner, that he had used with a becoming
grace the rich things that had been given him, and that he had
deserved well of his country. And yet, perhaps, no man who had lived
during the same period, or any portion of the period, had done less,
or had devoted himself more entirely to the consumption of good
things without the slightest idea of producing anything in return!
But he had looked like a duke, and known how to set a high price on
his own presence.
To Mr. Maule the threatened demise of this great man was not without
a peculiar interest. His acquaintance with Madame Goesler had not
been of long standing, nor even as yet had it reached a close
intimacy. During the last London season he had been introduced to
her, and had dined twice at her house. He endeavoured to make himself
agreeable to her, and he flattered himself that he had succeeded. It
may be said of him generally, that he had the gift of making himself
pleasant to women. When last she had parted from him with a smile,
repeating the last few words of some good story which he had told
her, the idea struck him that she after all might perhaps be the
woman. He made his inquiries, and had learned that there was not
a shadow of a doubt as to her wealth,--or even to her power of
disposing of that wealth as she pleased. So he wrote to her a pretty
little note, in which he gave to her the history of that good story,
how it originated with a certain Cardinal, and might be found in
certain memoirs,--which did not, however, bear the best reputation in
the world. Madame Goesler answered his note very graciously, thanking
him for the reference, but declaring that the information given was
already so sufficient that she need prosecute the inquiry no further.
Mr. Maule smiled as he declared to himself that those memoirs would
certainly be in Madame Goesler's hands before many days were over.
Had his intimacy been a little more advanced he would have sent the
volume to her.
But he also learned that there was some romance in the lady's life
which connected her with the Duke of Omnium. He was diligent in
seeking information, and became assured that there could be no chance
for himself, or for any man, as long as the Duke was alive. Some
hinted that there had been a private marriage,--a marriage, however,
which Madame Goesler had bound herself by solemn oaths never to
disclose. Others surmised that she was the Duke's daughter. Hints
were, of course, thrown out as to a connection of another kind,--but
with no great vigour, as it was admitted on all hands that Lady
Glencora, the Duke's niece by marriage, and the mother of the Duke's
future heir, was Madame Goesler's great friend. That there was
a mystery was a fact very gratifying to the world at large; and
perhaps, upon the whole, the more gratifying in that nothing had
occurred to throw a gleam of light upon the matter since the fact
of the intimacy had become generally known. Mr. Maule was aware,
however, that there could be no success for him as long as the Duke
lived. Whatever might be the nature of the alliance, it was too
strong to admit of any other while it lasted. But the Duke was a very
old,--or, at least, a very infirm man. And now the Duke was dying.
Of course it was only a chance. Mr. Maule knew the world too well
to lay out any great portion of his hopes on a prospect so doubtful.
But it was worth a struggle, and he would so struggle that he might
enjoy success, should success come, without laying himself open
to the pangs of disappointment. Mr. Maule hated to be unhappy or
uncomfortable, and therefore never allowed any aspiration to proceed
to such length as to be inconvenient to his feelings should it not be
gratified.
In the meantime Madame Max Goesler had been sent for, and had hurried
off to Matching almost without a moment's preparation. As she sat in
the train, thinking of it, tears absolutely filled her eyes. "Poor
dear old man," she said to herself; and yet the poor dear old man had
simply been a trouble to her, adding a most disagreeable task to her
life, and one which she was not called on to perform by any sense of
duty. "How is he?" she said anxiously, when she met Lady Glencora in
the hall at Matching. The two women kissed each other as though they
had been almost sisters since their birth. "He is a little better
now, but he was very uneasy when we telegraphed this morning. He
asked for you twice, and then we thought it better to send."
"Oh, of course it was best," said Madame Goesler.