Imprudent Lady

by Joan Smith

  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 witho
ut 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.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Sunday, Prudence went to tea and met Mrs. Ashington, an invalid, half crippled, who obviously doted on her clever son.

  “Lawrence tells me you are a writer,” the woman said in awed accents, though in her position she must surely have met many writers.

  “Yes, ma’am, I write novels.”

  “Very good ones,” Dr. Ashington added. “Very good indeed for a woman. I shall bring Miss Mallow’s works home for you to read, Mama. You like to read a good lady’s book.”

  “Oh, yes, I read all Miss Burney’s books. Such nice stories, and Hannah More’s. Lawrence has written a very good piece about you, Miss Mallow. I copied it out for him. He says you write very well. Quite complimentary.”

  “Perhaps Miss Mallow would like to scan the article before it goes in for publication,” Ashington suggested. Before he took her home, he gave her his own copy, and as soon as it was possible she read it with great eagerness.

  There was not a single word of abuse in it, yet when she put it down, she was disappointed. It sounded as though he were reviewing books for children. The whole tone was condescending. She wrote “very well for a lady,” “did not concern herself with the serious problems of society,” “had a knack for turning a telling phrase,” “stuck to what she knew and did so well,” and “was a careful craftsman.” Had she been reading the article without knowing herself the subject, she would not have been tempted to run out and buy the books. She felt a bit dispirited. She gave it to her mama and Clarence to look over, and they expressed a view exactly contrary to hers. They were delighted with the criticism, and congratulated her on her good luck in being brought to public attention.

  She was talked around to thinking she was fortunate. She had expected too much. She knew her canvas to be small, that point was well taken. To a learned man like Dr. Ashington, her stories must indeed seem childish. Any lingering sense of pique she felt against the Doctor was banished when he called to pick up his copy a day later and invited her to a dinner party. Coleridge would be there, and Miss Burney, he told her.

  “It is time you met the other writers of your generation. One cannot write in a vacuum.”

  “I have met Miss Burney,” she replied.

  “Indeed?” He did not appear pleased with this. He had wanted to confer the treat himself. He stayed to tea, and impressed the family with his talk of philosophy and history, half of it in Latin quotations. Goethe and Kant rolled off his tongue, too, as easily as Smith and Brown and Jones. He mentioned rare tomes of which he had the only copies in existence. His library numbered five thousand volumes, he announced.

  Clarence didn’t bother mentioning the two shelves he had installed in his niece’s study, or take the Doctor to see them. In fact, Clarence was reduced to near silence, saying only ‘indeed,’ or ‘you are quite right,’ or ‘I have often thought so’ at suitable pauses, or nearly suitable. He sometimes erred, being Clarence. Prudence was invited to view the five thousand books and glean what knowledge she could from surveying their Morocco leather bindings and reading a dozen titles. Within the hour three books were opened for her inspection, but as they were in Latin, Greek and Russian, she could do no more than comment on the clarity of the print and say she wished she could read those languages. Ashington smiled grandly, saying that he would be happy to translate any passage she was interested in, as he was quite familiar with all three tongues, and three others. But one set of foreign symbols looked very much like another, and she selected no passage for translation.

  “A lady is better off not bothering her head with these things,” he said, nodding in approval, and they went to take a glass of sherry and a stale macaroon with his mother.

  When Prudence arrived home, she was told that Dammler had called, and taken his manuscript with him.

  “He will speak to you about it another time,” Clarence told her. “He is anxious to hear what you have to say a
bout it. I told him he would do better to hand it over to Dr. Ashington for criticism. He would know whether there is anything in it, but he declined. He was in a bad skin about something or other. Didn’t stay a minute.”

  “Did he say when he would come back?” Prudence asked.

  “No, but he will likely come by later in the day, or tomorrow. We had a little chat about Goethe and Kant, but he only stayed a minute.” Prudence’s eyes rounded at this, and she wished more than ever that she had been home, instead of inhaling dust and wisdom in Dr. Ashington’s library.

  “I have been thinking, Prue,” Clarence continued, “we ought to add another row of shelves in your study. I see you have those two shelves all filled up, and I daresay there are a dozen more books lying around the house that might be there. I have a Bible in my room, and there is a dictionary somewhere that Anne used to use, to say nothing of the Backwoods Review I have subscribed to. We will want to keep those issues to refer to.”

  “Have you subscribed to it, Uncle?”

  “Indeed I have. I have been letting up on my reading a bit lately, but there is nothing like books when you come down to it. I daresay all the titles would be listed there, and a word or two to tell you about them. I shall certainly put a book in Dr. Ashington’s hand when I paint him. What a lot of books the man reads. He is worn to the bone with them.”

  Two days later, the day of Dr. Ashington’s dinner party, the monthly copy of Blackwood’s Magazine was published and the Doctor personally brought a copy to Prudence. He caught her at work with her cap off and looked a little surprised. “Well, Miss Mallow,” he said, “I have caught you en dishabille. But we are old friends now, and you needn’t blush at my finding you so.”