Imprudent Lady (13 page)

“Oh, no, an offer in form she tells me. I trust the lady knows the difference."

“Is it possible you trust too much in her worldliness?"

“She tells me I overestimate her innocence."

“Does she indeed? Well, she sounds brassy enough, if
that
is the sort of conversation she carries on. I hadn't thought her so bold."

“No, no, she is not bold; just bright and clever. Quite a greenhead, actually."

“Is she a greenhead, or is she not? You can't have it both ways, Dammler."

“She is a strange combination of innocence and worldliness. But in any case she says old Seville always treats her with respect and propriety, which he wouldn't have done if he'd had in mind to set her up as his mistress. She hardly seems the mistress type, you must confess."

Lady Melvine sat digesting the matter. “I recall her little joke at the opera—your Maidenhair Phyrne, you recall. Their conversation cannot have been entirely innocent if that is the sort of thing they were discussing. And there was her drawing the line at
five
bastards at my ball, too. I personally should draw the line much higher, and I do not consider myself naive."

“That was joking, Hettie. She is always joking—it is her liveliness that leads her on to say things a little out of line sometimes. Well, I do the same myself."

“And as
you,
of course, are as innocent as a new-born
lamb—voila!
It is settled. She is as innocent as Lord Dammler—a minx, in other words. And would have rubbed along very well with Seville. The wonder of it is that she turned him off, if it was
marriage
he had in mind."

“She doesn't love him."

“If
that
is her only reason, she has reached a pitch of innocence almost beyond pleasing."

“It pleases her,” he answered, and from the satisfied look on his face, Hettie thought it seemed to please Dammler pretty well, too.

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.

“And here
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."

As Prudence'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."