Imprudent Lady

Chapter 10

Having whistled Mr. Seville’s fortune down the wind was in part forgiven when Lord Dammler returned, and when Prudence gave the news that she was to be interviewed for a famous magazine, she was once again Clarence’s niece, riding high in his favour.

“So we are to read about you in the Morning Observer?” he said, smiling fatuously.

“No, not a newspaper, Uncle, a literary magazine. It is called Blackwood’s.”

“The Observer is sure to pick it up and give it a column or two. They won’t pass up a story like that. Your name in the papers-next we will be seeing cartoons of you in the shop windows, like Dammler.”

“It is not that sort of a magazine-not a popular one, you know, but very prestigious in literature. Other writers and educated people read it, but it will not lead to cartoons in shop windows.”

“You are always putting yourself down, Prue,” he chided her. “You let on Mr. Seville and Dammler were only friends, too, but they see fit to send you diamonds and speak of their intentions.”

“Only Mr. Seville did so.”

"Dammler will take the hint and get cracking. I hope you told him.”

“Yes, I mentioned it.”

“That was prudent,” he joked across the table at Wilma, who smiled her agreement.

“Well, well, what a merry chase you are leading us all. How should we dress to meet Dr. Ashington for the interview tomorrow?”

The word “we” struck her ear a cruel blow. “I think I shall put back on my cap. Dammler says he is an older man-conventional, I believe.”

“There will be no need for us to do more than welcome him,” Wilma told her brother. She realized Prudence’s discomfort at her uncle’s intrusions. “We will say how do you do, and then leave them alone for the interview. It is literature they will be discussing. We know nothing about it.”

"I have been reading a good deal lately, and I will pick up a copy of the Backwoods Review, too. Odd name they have chosen for it.”

Mrs. Mallow rolled up her eyes, and Prudence swallowed her mirth. “Your ordinary clothes will be fine. The occasion doesn’t call for formal wear.”

“I shall get a new suit of formal wear made up all the same. We are doing a deal of running about lately, and my satin breeches are getting tight. So you mean to put on a cap to impress the Doctor, do you? Sly puss, I don’t know why you ever took it off. It is more appealing than anything else on a young lady, with pretty ribbons to give some colour, of course. I like it excessively.”

Prudence saw she could do no wrong, with or without her cap-or her gown for that matter. She was doing exactly right so long as she brought fame and glory to the house. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a rug laid on the study floor for her. It had at present a thread-bare scatter mat, but with the shelves and the oil paintings this antique was looking out of place.

The next afternoon Dammler came, but Ashington was not with him. Clarence, Mrs. and Miss Mallow were surprised when he entered the house alone. “Ashington is at a meeting and will meet us here shortly. I came on ahead to await him and make you introduced. I see you have put on your cap to impress him with your age and seriousness,” he teased Prudence.

“Aye, she looks well in her cap I am always telling her so,” Clarence assured Dammler.

“Andhere I have been leading her astray and advising her to remove it,” Dammler replied.

“Yes, I frequently tell her she looks too old in her cap,” Clarence said, with no awareness of his own contradiction.

“How does the painting go on, Mr. Elmtree?” Dammler asked, his motive not so innocent as his polite face would suggest.

“I have invented a new way of painting diamonds,” he answered wisely. “It is not done as Rubens and the old fellows thought at all-making it transparent like glass, with just a little dab of white or blue. And it isn’t done like a garnet or emerald either. It is a prism-that’s how it is done. All colours of the rainbow. I discovered it while holding my niece’s diamond necklace to the light. You heard about Seville offering for her?” Dammler nodded. “A great box of diamonds he sent her, big as eggs, but she didn’t care for him, being a foreigner, you know. There are queer knots in all foreigners, say what you will. He was pretty cut up, poor fellow, but he’ll get over it.”

“You were actually speaking to him about it yourself?” Dammler asked. This was proof positive that Hettie was wrong. He was relieved to hear it.

“We talked it over a dozen times,” Clarence told him misleadingly, with no intention of lying, but from a constitutional inability to distinguish fact from what he wanted to think. “He was always hinting around that he wanted to marry her.”

“The acquaintance surely was not a long one?” Dammler asked. Damme, Prue hadn’t known the fellow more than a couple of weeks.

“No, not long, but he was here all the time. Quite lived in her pocket.”

Some recollection of having seen Prue most days of the first week of her acquaintance with Seville caused Dammler to view Clarence’s words with suspicion, but the full extent of the inaccuracy of Elmtree’s story did not occur to him. He thought Seville must have spoken to Clarence once about the offer.

“That must be Dr. Ashington at the door now,” Prudence said with infinite relief.

He came in and was introduced, and when Dammler took his leave, Clarence and Mrs. Mallow left the room with him. Ashington was an intellectual-looking gentleman, almost an aesthete. Tall and cadaverously thin, with hollow cheeks, he had eyes that were bright and penetrating. His hair was brown, just turning grey. Prudence placed his age at forty or so. When they were alone, he said, “I did not expect to be meeting a young lady. Your books led me to expect a woman of more advanced years-well, let us say mature. I do not mean to imply they are old hat.”

“I am twenty-four,” Prudence said.

“You have accomplished a great deal for your age. Three books to your credit, and another in the works Lord Dammler tells me.”

“Yes, I am at work on another.”

“Good, good. Regular output, that is what it takes to establish a reputation. Oh, I don’t mean churning them out like sausages as Scott does, but a book a year or so to keep yourself in tune, to flex your muscles and learn your craft. I see an improvement, a logical growth in your books.”

“Thank you,” Prudence said, wondering what he meant. “I was surprised to hear you mean to write an article about my books. I did not look for such recognition from such a famous magazine.”

This artless praise went down well. “I confess I was not acquainted with your work till Dammler called it to my attention. There are so many novel writers you know, and in general one does not look to female writers for any purpose more serious than amusement.”

AsPrudence’s sole interest had been to amuse, she was lost for a reply. She said “Thank you,” again, and as she said it, she pondered his other comment. Dammler had called her to his attention. She owed this interview to him.

They talked for some time about her work. She was questioned closely as to her theme, when she had never thought an inch beyond plot and characters, and decided between them that her theme was no less than the whole fabric of upper-class English society, and what held it together. Next she was interrogated as to her views on Miss Wollstonecraft and feminism.

“I am scarcely familiar with her works at all,” she confessed. “I have glanced at her Vindication of the Rights of Women, but do not consider myself a feminist.”

“You do not advocate higher education for women then?”

“Good gracious, no! I only attended a seminary for five years myself. If the occasional few women want it, and it does not interfere with their lives-their duties-but in general, you know, I cannot think Latin and Greek of much interest to women.” She also thought it quite a waste of time for men to spend years learning a couple of dead languages, but wisely kept it to herself. The Doctor had a nasty habit of throwing a Latin phrase at her, and there was no point in antagonizing him.

He smiled benignly at her answers. “I notice you do not concern yourself with the broader problems of modem society-war, politics, economics, the general revolutionary trend of Western society.”

“My canvas is small. I have often heard it said that a writer should stick to what she knows, and my life has been sheltered. But I write for women-women are interested in the home, society in the limited sense of friends and neighbours, and in the case of young ladies, finding a husband. That is my subject. I leave the other fields to men.”

She spoke the simple truth. When he talked of “revolutionary trends” and “liberal minds” she scarcely knew what he meant. She just wrote about people-their minds and hearts as Shakespeare and other writers before her had done. Her answers pleased him. It allowed him to admire her achievement without fearing he had a feminist and an intellectual on his hands. He disliked feminists intensely. He was dyed deep in conventionality, felt threatened by women who challenged men's preserves, and was all for keeping them in the home. As a literary man, he liked a woman who read a little, and it was admissible in his scheme of things for a few women to write stories for the others to read. If they wrote it well, so much the better. He was willing to admit Miss Mallow wrote in a lively style. She had no pretensions, and he liked her. He liked that she lived with her family as a decent Christian, that she wore a cap, was modest and deferential to himself. He also liked her blue eyes and her trim figure, but that was quite a different matter. He stayed two hours, took tea with her, and left with a high opinion of Miss Mallow.

So high indeed that he returned the next afternoon with a few more questions, and an invitation to her to take tea with himself and his mama on Sunday. She accepted gladly, and never once suspected that beneath Ashington’s stiff facade a heart not quite old was beating a little faster.

On Saturday morning Dammler dropped in to see how the interview had gone, and at last to bring Shilla, whom he had forgotten when he came to introduce Ashington.

“How did it go with the Doctor?” he asked.

“Quite well, I think,” she answered.

Clarence and her mother were also present on this occasion.

“Ho, she is always putting herself down,” Clarence took it up. “He stayed forever. We had to add hot water to the tea twice, and finally drive him from the house.”

“Indeed!” Dammler answered, looking at her quizzingly.

“And was back the next day to go at it again,” Clarence added. “He is taking her to meet his mother tomorrow. He will be popping the question too before a week is out.” This good-natured hint was a warning to Dammler of the sort of competition he had.

“Another suitor, Miss Mallow?” Dammler asked with a twinkle.

“No! That is, he did drop by the next day to clear up a few points…"

“And about the tea?”

“Well, his mama is an invalid, you know, and cannot get about much.”

“No, I didn’t know. Strange he did not ask me to take tea with her.”

“He is sweet on Prue; there is no doubt of that. None in the world,” Clarence declared in a conclusive manner.

“Lord Dammler is not interested in all that, Clarence,” Wilma cautioned her brother.

“Indeed, I am interested,” Dammler countered playfully. “I came to see how the meeting went on, and am delighted it went so well. He can be a crusty old devil if he’s rubbed the wrong way.”

“Prudence is well named. She rubbed him the right way,” Elmtree asserted.

Dammler’s eyes just met Prudence’s at this remark, with a shared flicker of amusement. “I also came to see if you would take a look at this first act of my play,” he said, and arose to give it to Prudence.

“Why don’t you go into the study?” Clarence suggested. Prudence was surprised at her great fortune in being offered a release, until she realized her uncle meant to accompany them and show off his shelves and paintings.

“We are getting this little cubbyhole fixed up for my niece,” he said. “A private spot for her to work in. There are shelves there for her books, and a desk.”

“Very nice. Handy,” Dammler said, then as more praise seemed to be expected he added, “It’s good to have a desk to write at.”

“And a few fellow writers to keep her company,” Clarence pointed out. “My work.”

“I recognized the style. I have praised those portraits to your niece on a former occasion. Very nice."

“There is a lamp there you see, and a brace of candles, too, in case she wants to work nights.”

“Yes, she is ready for anything, rain or shine.” He looked over his head to see the lucky girl also had a roof over her head to pamper her. “You have no excuse to be slacking off, Miss Mallow, with such a room as this.”

“She never slacks off. She is always scribbling, when she is not out skylarking.”

“I never waste a minute,” Prudence said. “Well, I am wasting one now, am I not? Show me your manuscript, Dammler.”

Clarence finally took the hint and turned to leave, stopping at the door to admire the sight of his niece with a famous lord and poet, looking at home to a peg in her snug little study. For a wild minute he wanted to paint the whole scene for posterity-study, books, desk, poet, niece and all, but the moment passed, and he went instead to call on Sir Alfred and relate all the vicarious busyness of his day.

“Have a chair, Dammler," Prudence offered. “We are denied no luxury here in my study. Walls, floor, windows, everything.”

“Your success goes to your uncle’s head,” he answered, sitting down and throwing one leg over the other.

“The day he sees me as a cartoon in a window, I fully expect a set of matched diamonds. A pity he couldn’t paint them.”

“You’re not so up on his work as he is on yours. You must know the trick is a prism.”

“So it is, it slipped my mind.”

“Now come and tell me how you seduced the Doctor. I want to hear all about it.”

“Why, the secret is simple. You have only to nod and smile and say ‘yes’ to all his ideas, and he will turn you into a font of wisdom. Only fancy, Dammler, I have a theme, and didn’t guess it until he told me.”

“I think the cap helped, and the blue eyes, too. And your skill in rubbing the right way, of course. Which is the right way to rub the Doctor, Prudence? I seemed to get his hackles up right from the start.”

“Why, gently, of course, as though he were a cat.”

A smile, not quite pleasant, flickered over Dammler’s face and was gone in a minute. “What is your theme, in case he should ask me about it?”

“Ah, well, nodding and saying ‘yes’ is one thing, but explaining is something else. It has to do with the whole fibre of life, you see. Heavy stuff; no trite banalities for me. Wordsworth may content himself to say let nature be your teacher, and Dammler to urge a life of action on us all, but when you get into my tomes, you must dig deeper to discover the eternal verities.”

“He’s a humbug, and so are you, Prudence Mallow. Common sense, there’s your great theme. You take pretensions of all sorts and hold them up to ridicule.”

“Truth to tell, he spouted Latin at me half the time. Very likely that was what he meant, only I was too ignorant to realize it.”

“But he liked you-he will write well of your works?”

“I believe so. He said I had accomplished a good deal for one so young. I seem young to him.”

“You have accomplished a good deal.”

“I understand I am indebted to you for the article. No, don’t deny it; he let the cat out of the bag, and I mean to thank you.”

“He asked my opinion of the best new novelist the past couple of years, and I told him. Odd he hadn’t come across your work himself, as he is an expert in the field. I hold that a serious lapse on his part.”

“He does not look to a mere female writer for any seriousness of purpose. He admitted as much.”

“Who else does he think will explain their wily minds to us? No man begins to grasp their complexity. Scott, though I admire his work, hasn’t a notion of a woman, and Wordsworth deludes himself with writing about his sister.”

“Mmm, and Dammler's opinion is best left unstated in polite company.”

“You don’t mean to forgive me for telling the truth, do you? But I spoke of only one aspect of the female mind, if you recall.”

“Yes, the grasping aspect. I'm glad you don’t mistake your conception of love as having anything to do with the heart.”

“What a sharp tongue she has. I’ll bet Ashington was not treated to it. No sir, rubbed gently. You save your jibes for helpless victims like myself.”

“You recall the name is Prudence.”

“We are never allowed to forget it. Here, Spinster, see how the other half lives.” He tossed his manuscript on the desk.

She opened it and scanned the first page. “Gracious- my poor innocent eyes! You debase me entirely, Dammler, with such language. ‘Sensuous body,’ ‘voluptuous curves,’ ‘full lips,’ ‘amorous eyes’-and this is only the description of your Shilla. I tremble to hear the minx open her full lips.”

“Oh, God, did I write all that claptrap? She has changed. She’s undergone quite a metamorphosis since I began. I mean to rewrite that initial description. Skip over it and go on to the dialogue-that was just to help Wills in casting.”

“I know just the lady to fill the description given. Ah, no, but Shilla is an Easterner with black hair.”

Prudence turned a few pages without looking up to see Dammler’s scowl, then she continued to tease him. “She hasn’t much idea of propriety, has she? ‘Lounging at ease in a sinuous pose on an Ottoman.’ What is she doing lounging on a Turk? She sounds a very hussy.”

“An Ottoman is also a sort of sofa-a thing without a back on it. Like a bed, without the curtains, and sort of curved. I brought one back with me from the East.”

“I wager you did. It sounds the right place for her, but I think you’d best add the curtains if she means to carry on in this fashion. Hmm, and preferably close them before the stage curtain rises,” she added, reading on with great interest.

He tried to grab the pages from her fingers, but she held him off with a straight arm, laughing and reading aloud, “With a melting glance of languorous longing… Oh, really, Dammler. For shame!”

He grabbed her arm in a tight grasp and wrestled the pages from her. “All that is mere stage direction. It is not meant to be spoken aloud. God, how dreadful it sounds. I must have been bosky… I’m going to rewrite those first few pages. Start here…" He flipped through a few pages and pointed a finger to a passage of dialogue.

Prudence read for a few minutes, nodding and smiling. “Yes, I like her better as I get to know her. She is not quite so brash as those amorous eyes would indicate. She has a sense of humour I see. 'I don’t mean to be a bonne bouche for that pot-bellied Mogul.’ Would she know a French phrase?”

“She shouldn’t, of course. She picked it up from her reading, I expect. I’ll have to change that. She becomes more English as it progresses. She’ll be wanting a spencer and a half-dress before it’s over."

“Yes, and I wish you would give them to her, to cover those voluptuous curves.”

“Have pity on the male half of the audience. But I wanted your verdict on the tone, the way she thinks. Is it feminine? It’s hard for a man to know. The male writers usually fall down badly in that respect. I can’t think of one who presents a credible lady.”

“Not when they set out consciously to do it. I make no distinction between the way men and women think in general. We are all people. We speak a little differently, but we want the same things as men, and outside of a few conventions-usually to the man’s advantage, I might add-our minds operate in the same manner.”

“I’ll leave it with you. That’s the entire first act. I’m into the second and shan’t need it right away. Overlook that terrible description of her at the beginning if you can, and try to imagine her looking more…" He stopped and threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Less Phyrne-like?” she suggested daringly.

“Viper. She is not supposed to be anyone’s maiden aunt. That remains unchanged.” He picked up his hat and cane. “When am I to see your new work?”

"When it is printed between covers.”

“You don’t have this problem then, with your characters changing on you?”

“No, not at all, neither in appearance nor behaviour. They don’t always do what I want them to, but they stay in character. They don’t go reforming or turning bad on me without a good and sufficient reason that is inherent in the plot.”

“It never happened to me before. But this is my first attempt at developing a character. In the cantos the characters slipped in and out so quickly as Marvelman toured all over that he was the only constant, and he was in no danger of reforming. Well, I’ll pick Shilla up in a day or two. Be kind to her.”

“Still in love with her?”

“I become steadily more infatuated.” He bowed and left, softly closing the door behind him.

Prudence sat down and read the whole first act without a break. It was good-witty and sparkling, as Dammler’s work always was, but the problem was glaringly obvious. Shilla started out a hussy and in one act was changed into a conventional girl. The early pages would need a good deal of revision, but it would be a sensation. The settings and costumes would be exotic and different, and with the magic of Dammler’s reputation and some staggering beauty playing the lead, it would be the talk of the Season when finally presented.