A SHREWD SCHEME.
There had been nothing very sentimental in the reconciliation scene
between parents and son. The earl and Lord Chandos walked home through
the quiet streets of Berlin, while my lady drove. They smoked the cigar
of peace, while Lord Chandos reported his social triumphs to his father.
No more passed between them on the most important of all subjects--his
love, his marriage, and the lawsuit; they spoke of anything and
everything else. The only words which went from the heart of the father
to the heart of the son, were these:
"I am glad you have made friends with my lady, Lance. She has pined
after you, and she is so proud. She says nothing, but I know that she
has felt the separation from you most keenly. I am glad it is all right;
you must not vex her again, Lance."
"I will not, if I can help it," replied the young lord; and so the
conversation ended.
Lord Chandos was a clever man, but he was in the hands of a far more
clever woman. When a woman has the gift of strategy, she excels in it,
and the countess added this to her other accomplishments. She was a
magnificent strategist. Her maneuvers were of the finest; quite beyond
the power of one less gifted to detect. A man in her skillful hands was
a toy, to be played with as she would. The strongest, the wisest, the
most honest, the best, were but wax in her hands. She did just as she
would with them, and it was so cleverly done, so skillfully managed,
that they never had the faintest idea my lady was twining them around
her little fingers. She had two modes of strategy. One was by grand
moves, one alone of which was enough to carry a nation. The other means
was by a series of finest possible details of intrigue.
She said to herself that her son's marriage with this person should be
set aside in some fashion or other, and in the end she prevailed. That
was by one grand move.
She was equally resolved that her son should marry Lady Marion Erskine,
the beauty, the belle, the wealthiest heiress of the season, and by a
series of fine, well-directed maneuvers, she was determined to
accomplish that.
The fates were propitious to her. Lady Marion Erskine was the niece and
ward of Lady Cambrey, and Lady Cambrey, though guardian of one of the
wealthiest heiresses in Europe, was herself poor and almost needy. She
was a distant relative of Lady Marion's mother, who had asked her to
undertake the charge of her child, and Lady Cambrey had been only too
pleased to undertake it. It was arranged that she should remain with
Lady Marion Erskine until her marriage, and Lady Cambrey was wise enough
to know that she must find her future fortune from the marriage. She
must use all her influence in favor of the lover who offered the
greatest advantages, and Lady Lanswell was the only woman in England who
had the wit to find it out.
That was the darling wish of her life, that her son should marry Lady
Marion Erskine, the belle, beauty and heiress; and she saw the beginning
of her tactics from this fact, that Lady Cambrey's influence would go
with the most munificent lover.
They had one interview in London. The countess had invited Lady Cambrey
to a five-o'clock tea.
"We have hardly met this year," said the countess. "We are staying in
London for a week or two, though it is quite out of season, and I am so
pleased to see you. Is Lady Erskine in town?"
"No; I merely came up to give orders for the redecoration of Erskine
House; Lady Marion is tired of it as it is."
"I call it a special providence that you should be in town just now,"
said Lady Lanswell; "I was quite delighted when I heard it. There is
nothing I enjoy more than a cup of tea and a chat with a congenial
friend."
This from the countess, to whom champagne and politics were baby play,
was refreshing. Lady Cambrey was delighted, and before long the two
ladies had opened their hearts to each other. The countess, in the most
ingenuous manner possible, told her friend the sad history of her dear
boy's entanglement and infatuation; how, in his simplicity, he had
positively married the girl, and how, fortunately, the law had freed
him.
"You know, my dear Lady Cambrey," she said, "it might have been his
ruin, but now, thank Heaven," she added, piously, "it is all over, and
my boy is free. I have looked all round England to find a suitable wife
for him, and there is no one I should like him to marry half so well as
Lady Marion Erskine. You see that I show you the cards in my hands very
freely."
"It would be a very good match," said Lady Cambrey, thoughtfully.
"If you use your influence, you will not find me ungrateful," continued
the countess; "indeed, I should consider myself bound to assist you in
every way--my home, carriages, purse, would always be at your services."
"You are very kind," said Lady Cambrey, and in those few words they
perfectly understood each other.
The mother knew that she had virtually sold the honor and loyalty of her
son, as Lady Cambrey had sold the free will of her niece.
Then they enjoyed a cup of tea, after which my lady became more
confidential.
"Promise," she said, "to persuade Lady Marion to spend the winter in
Rome and I shall be quite content."
"She will do it if I advise it," said Lady Cambrey. "She is very
docile."
"We can decide on our plans of action when we meet there," said the
countess. "The chief thing is to keep all idea of 'our ideas' from my
son. Instead of drawing his attention to Lady Marion, we must seem to
avoid bringing them together. I understand men. The first result of that
will be an intense anxiety on his part to see her. Do you understand?"
"Quite," said Lady Cambrey. "It is really a pleasure to meet some one
who understands human nature as you do, Lady Lanswell."
The countess smiled graciously at the compliment, feeling as though it
were well deserved.
So it was arranged, and Lady Cambrey's part of the plot was very easy.
She had but to suggest to her niece that she should spend the winter in
Rome and she would at once fall in with her wish.
Lady Lanswell had settled in her own mind the plan of the whole
campaign. She intended to go to Berlin, there to seek a reconciliation
with her son, and persuade him to go to Rome with them. She managed it
all so well, saying nothing at first of their intended journey, but
making herself very agreeable to her son. She brought to him all the
flattering things said of them. She studied every little whim, wish, or
caprice. She put him on a pedestal and made an idol of him. She was all
that was gay, amiable, pleasant and kind. She made herself not only his
friend and companion, but everything else in the world to him. She was
gay, amiable, gracious, witty. With her still beautiful face and fine
figure, she made herself so attractive and charming that Lord Chandos
was soon entirely under her influence.
How many mothers might have taken a hint for the management of their
sons from her. She found no fault with cigars or latch-keys. She was the
essence of all that was kind, yet, at the same time, she was so
animated, so bright, so witty, that the time spent with her passed
quickly as a dream. Lord Chandos did not even like to think of parting
from her; and then, when she was most kind and most attentive to him,
she mentioned Rome.
"We are going to Rome, Lance, for the winter," said the countess to her
son.
He looked up from the paper he was reading in blank amazement.
"To Rome, mother? Why, what is taking you there?"
"I find there will be some very nice English people there," she said; "I
am tired of Paris; it is one eternal glare; I long for the mysterious
quiet and dreamy silence of Rome. It will be a pleasant change. I really
like a nice circle of English people out of England."
That was the beginning. She was too wise and diplomatic to ask him to go
with them. She contented herself by speaking before him of the gayeties
they expected, the pleasures they anticipated; then, one day, as they
were discussing their plans, she turned to him and said:
"Lance, what do you intend doing this winter? Are you going back to
England to think over the fogs?"
"I am not quite sure," he said; and then he wondered why she said
nothing about going to Rome with them. At last, when she saw the time
had come, she said, carelessly:
"Lance, if you do not care about returning to England, come with us to
Rome."
"I shall be delighted."
He looked up with an air of relief. After all, he could not see Leone
until summer: why return to England and melancholy? He might just as
well enjoy himself in Rome. He knew what select and brilliant circles
his mother drew around her. Better for him to be the center of one of
those than alone and solitary in England.
"Of course," said the countess, diplomatically, "I will not urge you, I
leave it entirely to you. If you think what the fashion of the day calls
your duties demand that you should return, do not let me detain you,
even for one day."
"I have no particular duties," he said, half gloomily.
He would have liked his mother to have insisted on his going, to have
been more imperative, but as she left it entirely to him, he thought her
indifferent over the matter.
He was a true man. If she had pressed him to go, urged him, tried to
persuade him, he would have gone back to England, and the tragedy of
after years would never have happened. As it occurred to him that his
mother simply gave the invitation out of politeness, and did not care
whether he accepted or not, he decided on going. So when the festivities
of Berlin were all ended, he wrote to Leone, saying that he was going to
spend the winter with his parents in Rome; that if he could not spend it
with her, it mattered little enough to him where is was; but that he was
longing with all his heart for the thirtieth of June.