by Joan Smith
The Nabob was all complaisance with her every whim. He was gratified to see several eyes turn to watch them. Miss Mallow was becoming known to Society, more through her association with Dammler than through her writings, and Seville was not the only gentleman who was beginning to look in her way. He lacked distinction and knew it. He wanted a mistress who would set him above the common herd, and thought he had hit on a capital idea in having Miss Mallow fill the position. She was not a common lightskirt but a rising star in the literary firmament. As a writer, and such a worldly creature, she would not be aghast at the idea of union out of wedlock, though he fancied he would be her first. The uncle and mother might be a bit of a nuisance, but it was clear as a pikestaff she couldn’t stand the uncle, silly old fool, and the mother could be bought off. Well, the girl had as well as said he’d have to come down heavy. Diamonds and a rigout for the horses were only the beginning of it. He’d have to set her up in style, and let her entertain her friends. Not Dammler, though. He’d draw the line at that.
Before he took her home, he invited her to a play the next evening, but she was wary of going into public with him again alone and claimed a previous appointment. He took this in good part as coyness, and felt the time had come to begin distributing his largesse.
The next morning yet another arrangement of flowers arrived, and concealed among the stems was a blue velvet box. Miss Mallow was struck dumb, upon opening it, to see a fine set of matched diamonds sparkling at her. She lifted them out and beheld a necklace. Her first thought was that it was a mistake. The box had somehow been put in with her flowers by accident. She ran to her mother, asking if she should not go back to the flower stall and return them. Clarence had to be called in on such a momentous decision as this to give the male viewpoint.
“What would a set of diamonds be doing at the flower stall?” he asked reasonably.
“They must have been meant to go in some other arrangement of flowers,” Prudence suggested. “They are likely a wedding gift or some such thing. Will you come with me, Uncle? I dislike to go into the streets carrying anything so valuable, and we cannot send a footboy on such an errand.”
“That must certainly be the explanation,” her mother agreed, fingering the stones lovingly.
While they talked, Prudence opened the little card that accompanied the flowers, and her eyes widened. Mr. Seville had laboured long over a suitably discreet message to send along with his bribe and come up with the words, “Pray accept this small necklace as a token of my esteem, and an indication of my intentions.” She handed the card to her mother. “It is no mistake,” she said. “Mr. Seville sent the necklace.”
Mrs. Mallow had time to read half the message before Clarence had the card out of her hands. “The fellow is a rascal!” he charged angrily.
Mrs. Mallow retrieved the card and read the rest of it. “It is no such a thing, Clarence,” she answered. “See, he speaks of his ‘intentions.’ It is an engagement gift.”
“We are not engaged,” Prudence said, horrified. “Why, I scarcely know the man. It is ludicrous to speak of an engagement on such short acquaintance.”
Clarence was again examining the card. “You’re right, Wilma. ‘An indication of my intentions,’ he says. He means to have Prudence.
“I don’t mean to have him!” Prudence replied.
“Not have him? Nonsense,” Clarence declared. “He is a fine fellow. Knows everyone. Ho, what a joke it is, us thinking he meant it as an insult. He would not dare to insult Prue. He knows pretty well I am connected with Sir Alfred and Lord Dammler. Well, this will teach Dammler to shilly-shally around with his courting. Snapped right up under his nose. Serve him right.”
“Uncle, I do not mean to accept Mr. Seville or the necklace.”
He was deaf to her protests. “Wait until Mrs. Hering hears this. Her feather is dry. I’ll take her picture round to her myself this afternoon and tell her what my niece is up to. Real diamonds,” he said, opening the blue velvet box. “It is a pity I couldn’t paint them. I must do a portrait of Mr. Seville. Some little symbol of Seville being named after him can be slipped in. A corner of the old Gothic cathedral perhaps, or the Alcazar. I daresay I have a picture of it somewhere about the house. I might do him in costume as a grandee—Lawrence is always dressing his models up in costumes of some sort or other. I don’t like to satisfy him to copy his trick. No, I will do Mr. Seville in modern dress, with the Alcazar in the background, and a nice piece of gold in his hand. Gold paints up nicely.”
“I will return the necklace,” Prudence said.
Her mother regarded her in uncertainty. “It seems a pity, Prue. Can you not care for him? He seems a very nice gentlemanly sort of a man, so lively and good-natured. You are getting on..."
“No, Mama. I will not be bought.”
Clarence, holding the necklace to the light muttered to himself. "There’s yellow and orange in them. I never tried yellow and orange to do a diamond. And blue and green and purple. It’s a rainbow is what it is. A prism. There is the secret of doing a diamond! Come to the studio, Prue. We will paint you in the diamond necklace, with Seville in the background—the city I mean."
“I’m giving them back,” Prudence said, snatching them from his fingers.
“Think what you are about, Prue,” he warned. “You’ll never get another offer like this. The man is rich as Croesus. You’ll never have to write another word. Burning out your eyes with that scribbling... You will be dashing off to balls and coronations and Spain.”
“He is a mere commoner, Uncle,” Prudence reminded him, to mitigate the blow of her refusal.
“I daresay he is a marquis or some such thing—whatever sort of a handle they use in Spain, if the truth were known. They wouldn’t have named a city after him for nothing. On your honeymoon you ought to nip over to Seville and look into it. He has a Spanish look about him, now I come to think of it. The eyes are dark, and the face quite swarthy.”
“There will be no honeymoon.”
“And even if he ain’t,” Clarence rattled on, deaf to any drum but his own, “he can buy up a title. They are for sale if the pockets are plump enough. Everyone knows that. He might start off with a simple ‘Sir’ and work his way up to a lordship.”
“I am returning this necklace immediately,” Prudence said, and left with it in her hand.
Her mother rushed after her. “He will be calling today, after this. Wait and hear what he has to say, Prue. Think about it a little. Be wise, my dear. You were always so prudent before.”
“I am being prudent now, Mama. I do not wish to marry Mr. Seville. Indeed I do not. I don’t care for him in the least—in that way I mean.”
“My dear, you must not hope Dammler means to have you. He is quite above your touch. He thinks of you only as a friend. It is clear from his manner.”
Prudence looked aghast. She had not thought she was so transparent as that. “I think of him as a friend, too.”
“A little more than that on your side, I think,” her mother said gently. “I do not mean to force you. Such a thought would be quite repellent to me. You are all grown up now. You must do as you think best, but don’t be rash, my dear. Think of it a bit. It would be very fine to be independent—not to have to worry about the future. We are very comfortable now, but Clarence will not live forever. Sooner or later his son George will be taking over, and he will not want to be saddled with us.”
Prudence did not change her mind, but she agreed to think about it before acting. Every word her mama said was true. They faced a bleak future of comparative poverty. It could be removed by her accepting an offer from a gentleman she did not actively dislike—one who could and would give her everything she wanted, and more importantly, would let her give Mama what she wanted. But the price was too high. She could not consider it independence to be bound leg and wing to Mr. Seville. She did not admit to any other reason for refusing him in her ruminations.
In the afternoon he called, and to remove him from Uncle C
larence’s congratulations, she grabbed her wrap and went out with him.
“You had my little gift?” he asked, as soon as the coach bowled away from the house.
She had it right in her reticule to return. “I cannot accept it, Mr. Seville.”
“It is a mere bauble. When the matter is settled to our mutual satisfaction, I will give you a real necklace. I am not a skint, Miss Mallow. You will not find me clutch-fisted.”
“I know I would not. You are very generous, Mr. Seville, but I cannot feel we would suit.”
“I know I am not clever like you, but you would be able to smarten me up if you felt it worth your while. We would be happy together. A nice apartment—house if you wish—either in the city or country. All would be to your orders.”
She repined, but she did not weaken a whit. “No, really. I think of you only as a friend. I had not thought of any closer association.”
“If it’s money that worries you..."
“No, it’s not that. I know you are wealthy—generous.”
“A cash settlement beforehand. Everything in order right and tight.”
“No, please, it sounds so very mercenary. I do not wish to haggle over it. I am flattered—honoured, but I cannot accept your offer.”
“Is it your family that worries you?”
“Oh, no, they thought it a very good thing. They were not in the least averse. It is quite my own decision.”
This easy capitulation of the family bothered him. “I felt your uncle would not mind, but mothers sometimes throw a rub in the way.”
“Mama is anxious to see me settled. She worries about the future.”
“I would take good care of you.”
“I cannot feel it would answer.” She took the velvet box from her reticule and handed it to him.
“Keep it,” he said magnanimously. “I don’t despair yet. I will have at you again, Miss Mallow. I don’t give up easily.”
“No, it would be improper in me to keep it when I don’t mean to marry you,” she said, and shoved it to him.
Looking with downcast eyes at the box, she did not see his eyes start at the dread word “marry.” He could scarcely believe his ears. No mention had been made of marriage. What had she got into her head—to think he would marry a little nobody without a connection in the world? He feared Miss Mallow was making sport of him. But when she did finally look up, the innocent lustre of her eyes disabused him of that idea. He felt weak, and very fortunate indeed to have escaped so easily from his unprecedented predicament. Only think if she had accepted! He took the box without a word and stuck it into his pocket.
“I expect you would like to go home?” he said a moment later.
She nodded. "I'm sorry,” she said, before she descended from the coach. “I hope we may continue friends?”
“You should be more careful in your friends, Miss Mallow,” he ventured to warn her. Why, the chit was not up to snuff at all. Leading him on—no one with the least bronze would have mistaken his intentions. Her, gallivanting with Dammler and the wildest bucks in town. Who would have thought her still wet behind the ears?
“I am careful, Mr. Seville,” she answered calmly. “Goodbye.”
He didn’t bother going with her to the door, though he descended and handed her down from the carriage. He brushed his brow when she was gone, and thanked a merciful providence at his close escape.
Prudence longed to go to her room, to lie down and worry whether she had done the right thing, but no such luxury was allowed her. Clarence and her mother had to be told the whole story, and berate her with words and glances respectively for her folly. To escape them, she said that now she had chosen a career over marriage, she must get to work, and went to her study.
“I hope your daughter knows what she is about,” Clarence said to his sister. She was not his niece today, turning off a Nabob.
Prudence closed the door behind her and sighed. What a dear refuge her study was! Shakespeare, Milton and Aristotle chided her silently from matching frames with their subtle smiles, but she ignored them and pulled out her manuscript.
It was a quarter of an hour before she was sufficiently calmed to work, and immediately she was interrupted. But it was a happy Interruption. Dammler tapped on the door and stepped in, having dispensed with even the appearance of formality by telling Rose she needn’t bother announcing him.
“Hello, Miss Mallow,” he said smiling cheerily. “Shilla and I bring our humblest apologies for missing our appointment, but we have an excellent excuse.”
An excuse she felt was the right word for it, for the reason she still held to be Phyrne. “But before we get on with the good news, I will convey the bad,” he said, assuming an aspect of severity that was at odds with his jaunty manner. “It has come to my burning ears that you did not heed my warning. You’ve been gallivanting with the Nabob again. Don’t deny it!” His finger waved at her in a playful manner. “Riding in the park with him yesterday and hanging on his arm in the most vulgar manner. I mean to be firm with you and Shilla in future. Give you an inch and you take a mile. You girls are all alike. Next thing he will be offering you a carte blanche. There I go depraving you again. I daresay you think a carte blanche is no more than a little white card.”
“You overestimate the depths of my innocence.”
“Say height rather.”
“Say what you like, you do Mr. Seville an injustice.”
“I wonder. He is trotting after you pretty hard, and his intentions you know...”
“Don’t judge everyone by yourself, Lord Dammler," she shot back angrily.
“Oh, ho, I’ve touched a nerve! This bower of bliss in which you create, I suppose was provided by the Nabob.” He looked around at the vases of flowers, two of which had been put in her study. “When a man starts sending too many flowers it is time to beware. He is up to no good. Next it will be a diamond bracelet, and from there—it is well known no lady can resist diamonds—it is the love nest, and a garish turnout for the park with matched horses. Are you sure you’re not hiding a diamond bracelet up your sleeve?” He grabbed her hand, and looked at her wrist, his eyes narrowed in playful suspicion.
“I see you know the procedure well, milord.”
“I am familiar with the moves of the game, shall we say?”
“By all means, let us talk at cross purposes. We wouldn’t want to sink into too clear an understanding. But you look in the wrong place for diamonds. It was a necklace offered, not a bracelet. Mr. Seville meant to treat me more lavishly than you treat your flirts.”
“You are joking, of course. He wouldn’t dare..."
“His daring knows no bounds. He dared to offer me his hand in marriage.”
“Prudence!” It was a shout of abundant but undefined passion. He looked to see if she joked, but read a contradiction on her face. “You hussy! You didn’t bring the Nabob round your little ink-stained thumb! Good God, how Hettie will stare. So you are an engaged woman, and truly rid of the opprobrious title of Spinster.”
“I do not find it opprobrious, nor am I so anxious to relinquish it as you seem to think I should be.”
“Well, you surely never rejected him?”
“I have not accepted his flattering offer.”
“Prudence, you fool! It would be the making of you.”
“Et tu, Brute.”
“I lag Clarence in my sentiments, I collect? But he’s right, you know. It would be no poor thing for you to be set up so richly for life. I can’t credit it yet that it was marriage he had in his mind. Quite sure you understood the nature of the offer?"
"There is no doubt in my mind, and I find it unflattering that you choose to doubt it.”
“You needn’t rip up at me. It is only what anyone would think.”
“How can you think I should have accepted, if he is so ramshackle?”
“Oh, well, if it was marriage he meant all along, that’s different.”
“You called him a jackrabbit!”
“A
very rich jackrabbit. I should have known when he treated you so very properly it wasn’t a left-handed marriage he had in mind. What a feather in your cap. Are you holding out for a title then, or why did you refuse?”
“I don’t love him.”
“Oh love, what is that? Everyone prattles on about it, but I don’t think there is any such thing in the whole world. I never met a man yet who was in love for two days running with the same woman, nor any woman who did much better.”
“Strange talk for the Romancer of the Western World.”
“Romance, that is something quite different. Fiction, in fact, of the sort you and I in our different ways deal in. It’s easy to be in love with a paper character. I adore Shilla—have been in love with her for a week—a new record for me. We can make them into our idealized version of a mate, with the dull and annoying bits left out. We have them at our beck and call, and if we choose to let them run amok a little, we know with the stroke of a pen we can bring them to their senses. What has that to do with love?"
“We don’t see eye to eye on the matter. I conceive of love as something quite different.”
“What?”
“Caring for someone else more than you care for yourself.”
“But that’s not love—it’s a maternal instinct or devotion or some such thing—another form of self-love really. Our children are parts of ourselves. I’m talking about mature love between a man and a woman.”
“So am I.”
“Then you’re talking nonsense, and I expect you know it very well, or you wouldn’t be blushing like a schoolgirl. Never mind, I never did understand women. But I know this, when they talk of love they only want you to take them out to show off to their friends, or to buy them some new jewels or an annuity. They’re after something.”
“If a woman is interested in a man at all, she takes what is offered by him. If those are the terms in which you couch your offers, then you can’t blame a woman for accepting them. For myself, I shouldn’t have thought it had anything to do with love.”
