Men and Angels Read online

  The family marched.

  Chapter 7

  When Rae returned to the Lodge that evening, her dread of the next three weeks had vanished. Hugh and Alan escorted her to the garden gate, and Rae, humming a tune, strolled up the garden, looking with a new interest at the strawberry beds.

  She glanced at her watch as she entered the house; the dressing bell must have gone, but she had ample time in which to put on the silk dress. On coming down to the drawing-room, she found the members of the household in a state which would not have been noticed at the flat but which on this calm surface made a distinct ripple. Lady Ashton, on her way upstairs to put on the grey lace, had heard the telephone and come down again. It was Judy, she told Rae, and Judy had made the extraordinary suggestion that she was to sit for her portrait.

  “Had she said anything of the sort to you?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, she did mention it,” said Rae. “She felt it would be a good opportunity to get hold of Mr. Ferris. She was going to do it for a present for Richard, and she was going to bring Mr. Ferris over at week-ends.”

  “That, I think, was her original intention,” said Lady Ashton. “But it seems that she’s changed her mind about giving it to Richard—she says I’m to keep it, which is very kind. And Mr. Ferris can’t manage the week-ends, because he goes out with the students; he’s only free on Wednesdays and Fridays, so Judy finds she has to drive him out here to-morrow and leave him for the day—she has to go back herself, of course, and that means two journeys for her, which is rather upsetting.”

  “You mean, this feller’ll be here all day tomorrow?” demanded the General.

  “I’m afraid so. It’s really a little inconvenient, because it’s going to be difficult to keep the meals running smoothly. I—”

  “Oh, you mustn’t worry about that, Dorothy,” put in Miss Beckwith. “We shall plan the whole thing tonight, and I shall see that there’s no hitch of any kind. I know very well how everything needs to be done.”

  The General, satisfied that his comfort was to be attended to, lost his look of strain, but remained dissatisfied.

  “You’ll never,” he told his sister, “get as good a portrait done by one of these modern johnnies as that one Ambrose Fitzroy did of Mother.”

  “Well, no that really was a charming one—you remember it, Blanche? Bertram, you must show it to Rae one of these days.”

  The gong sounded and the party moved into the dining-room.

  “Where’re you going to put the feller?” asked the General. He’ll ask for a north light—they always ask for a north light. I suppose the old playroom’s really the place.”

  “I thought of the little reading-room upstairs,” said Lady Ashton.

  “That would do, I suppose. What did you say his name was?”

  “Ferris. Aylmer Ferris. I think I’ve heard it somewhere or seen it, perhaps.”

  “More than I have,” said the General. “People tell you that this or that feller’s famous, and when you come down to it, nobody’s ever heard of them. Can’t say I want to see one of those artist johnnies all over the house—never could stand those ridiculous pinafores they wear, like a musical comedy ploughboy. Ambrose didn’t have to dress up and look the part—he simply turned out a first-rate picture, and none of this stuff to impress the observer. I remember that dreadful feller, Holmwood, who strutted about in this very room at Estelle’s wedding.”

  “He was a musician, wasn’t he?” asked Miss Beckwith.

  “Estelle told me he was a great artist, when I asked her.”

  The General looked at Rae with a twinkle, and she braced herself for the joke. “Said to her, ‘Great artist? Then how can anyone know, if he comes here without his pinafore?’ Ha ha ha.”

  Rae gave a very creditable little laugh, and the General went on with his dinner in great good humour, almost reconciled to the morrow’s upsetting prospect.

  Judy drove up to the house before ten o’clock next morning and the General went into the hall to receive the guest. Mr. Ferris was a tall, trim gentleman in the late thirties, looking, in a sports jacket and grey flannel trousers, so ordinary and inartistic as to arouse the General’s deepest suspicions. Mr. Ferris’s behaviour rapidly changed the suspicion to dislike. There was no polite lingering and no exchange of small talk. Having made a brief bow to the three ladies in the drawing-room, the artist approached his sitter. Wordlessly, he examined her face, walking round to observe it from every angle. This inspection over, he looked round the room with a frown of disapproval.

  “Is the sitting,” he asked, “to take place here?”

  “Oh no.” Lady Ashton, though a little puzzled, was still placid. “We thought you might like to use one of the rooms upstairs—would you care—”

  “Let us go up,” said Mr. Ferris.

  He followed Lady Ashton up the stairs, and Miss Beckwith went up after them. The General, after staring at the visitor’s receding back with a frown, stumped upstairs in the rear. Judy and Rae were alone.

  “Rae”—Judy swung round and studied her friend’s face intently—“are you all right? Has it been too frightful to bear, all this?” She waved a hand vaguely round the room. “I’ve been wondering whether you’d decide to kick the whole thing over and go back to Town. What’re you smiling at? You don’t like it?”

  At the incredulous tone, Rae smiled more widely.

  “I’m very happy, thank you,” she said calmly. “I’ve found a whole colony of friends.”

  “Where—here?”

  “Thorpe Farm.”

  “Thorpe Farm?” Judy frowned. “Thorpe Farm—name of Selwyn or something, isn’t it? Used to be a schoolmaster—that one?”

  “It’s too long a story if you’ve got to get back,” said Rae. “What time do you come back for Mr. Ferris?”

  Judy ran her hands through her hair, making it stand up stiffly.

  “Oh, Lord, I dunno,” she said wearily. “I wish I’d never got started on the beastly thing. It was only because I thought that Richard would like it—and I thought that if the price was too high for me, I could have asked him to pay something towards it. But now I’ve decided that Richard isn’t going to have it, and that’ll mean paying for it myself. He’s charging me forty pounds.”

  “Judy! Good heavens!”

  “Don’t say good heavens in that tone—it’s cheap at the price. You’ve got to remember that he’s a well-known and successful artist—you don’t imagine that he does all his princes and potentates for a miserable fee like forty pounds, do you? Of course he doesn’t! But the whole thing’s gone wrong; I thought Richard would be paying half, and I thought he’d be here and I could bring this Ferris at weekends and take him back with me and—oh! it was all going to work out wonderfully. And now look! I’m driving to and fro like a scalded cat, and you’re stuck here alone and—oh! what’s the use?” she sighed. “Come on upstairs for a minute, Rae, and lend me a comb.”

  Standing before Rae’s dressing-table, Judy got her hair into order, while Rae, in a way that would have distressed Miss Beckwith very much, lay on the smooth bedspread, watching idly.

  “Did Rose send you an invitation to that party of hers?” Judy asked.

  “She may have done, but I suppose it went to the flat,” said Rae.

  “Well I got one—in spite of having told her we’d both be out of town. It’s on Thursday—tomorrow. I supposed she wants us to go and see Richard dancing on her train.”

  “In her train.”

  “Round her train. In and out of her blasted train. The girl’s got a hell of a nerve, Rae—pale-blue invitation card, all done up with golden letters and—wait! It’s in my bag—I’ll show you.”

  Heads together, they looked at the blue-and-gold card.

  “At her age—she’s not more than four months older than I am—and with a bit part,” said Judy in a voice of bitter scorn. “Who does she think she is, throwing parties at smart hotels? I’d give something to know who was doing the paying, so I would!”<
br />
  “Doesn’t it all come under what they call publicity?”

  “She runs her own publicity—don’t you worry.” Judy gave the card a contemptuous spin and sent it flying across the room. She glanced at the clock and picked up her bag hastily.”

  “I’m off,” she said. “Oh—lend me some money, Rae—I’ll give it to you tonight, but I didn’t bring any with me.—Where d’you keep it?” Rae nodded towards the drawer, and Judy, opening it and taking out a hand-bag, extracted a notecase. “I’ll take a couple of pounds.” She pulled them out an a visiting card fluttered out with them and dropped to the floor. “Sorry!” she said, stooping to pick it up. “Here it—”

  She stopped, her eyes on the card, her brows drawn together in a puzzled frown. Rae spoke calmly.

  “It’s only one of Uncle Fabian’s,” she said. “You can tear it up—I must have kept it for the address or something.”

  “B-but it says Sir Fabian Hollis, Bart. You mean, he’s a—a baronet?”

  Rae looked puzzled in her turn.

  “Of course he’s a baronet,” she said. He s always been a baronet—well, I mean for about twenty—no, about eighteen years. You always knew he was.”

  “But I didn’t!” exclaimed Judy, her eyes wide and, Rae thought, a little blank. “I didn’t! I couldn’t understand all that bit about how women all got bowled over, old and young. I could understand the old, but I always thought to myself, when you said the girls went for him, that you’d somehow got it wrong—over forty, after all, was over forty and—”

  “And my Uncle Fabian, at over forty,” said Rae, unmoved “can make all the men we go out with look like schoolboys. I think that even if you put him beside—beside Richard, you’d see that—”

  “Oh, Rae!”

  It was a long, breathless cry. Rae saw that Judy was staring at her, her bag slipping to the floor and her hands clinging to the rails of the old-fashioned bed “Oh ... Rae! ...”

  There was a long silence. Judy had obviously thought of something—what it was, Rae had no idea, and strove for a few moments to guess. Unsuccessful, she spoke:

  “What is it?”

  “Your uncle.”

  “My uncle?”

  “Yes. Rae”—Judy leaned forward and spoke crisply and urgently—“talk fast—I haven’t much time. You said your uncle’s a killer?”

  “A—”

  “Oh—a lady-killer. Is he really a—a Casanova?”

  “In a way.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Very.”

  “Smart? I mean—man-about-town? I mean—”

  “Well-groomed? Yes. I told you—he looks like those advertisements in magazines—he really is awfully impressive.”

  “Rich?”

  “No—enough for himself in a very comfortable way, but nothing over to be generous with and leave himself short.—Why all this, Judy?”

  “Wait a minute. Now listen carefully. You say he’s the very devil with young actresses?”

  “Dev—”

  “Oh!” Judy made an impatient movement. You say he likes actresses, and that they really do go for him?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Don’t but anything,” said Judy, standing up with a sudden air of calm decision. “Hand me that card.”

  “Uncle Fabian’s?”

  “Yes. And now”—Judy swooped swiftly and retrieved the blue-and-gold invitation—“got an envelope?” she asked. “Yes, but—”

  “Oh, Rae,” cried Judy, “I’m in a hurry! I’ve got to get back to that blasted school. Give me an envelope and then read me out your uncle’s address.”

  “But—”

  “If you say but again,” said Judy fiercely, “I’ll scream. There's no but in the case. We’re sending your uncle to Rosanna Lee’s party.”

  “But—I mean—you can’t!”

  “I have,” said Judy at the writing-table, printing a block capital address on the envelope. “He’s going, is Uncle Fabian, to her party. There! That’s that. Got a stamp?”

  Rae, wordless, produced a stamp, and Judy stuck it on and tucked in the flap of the envelope. “Now I’ll drop that into a postbox on my way back, and then we’ll sit back and see what the explosion throws up. Where’s my bag?—oh, there.”

  She was at the door. Rae, standing in the middle of the room, took a step forward.

  “Don’t come down,” said Judy. “And don’t try to argue or anything. If I’d only had the least bit of sense, Rae, I should never have let you get stuck down here while Richard danced round with Madame Soublin’s most notable failure. All I had to do was to put your Uncle Fabian somewhere nearby, and Rosanna would have taken him at his face value and attached herself to him at once. But I didn’t dream. . . . You misled me, you see, by telling me everything about him except the one fact that would have put all the rest into place and explained his success with the young and lovelies. You left out his title. Rosanna has seen plenty of good-looking men; she’s even known good-looking men with Rolls-Royces. But perhaps she doesn’t know so many man who are good-looking and who have an impeccably-groomed air and a Rolls-Royce and a title. It gives that little bit of extra weight that sends the scales down. Our Rosanna’s background isn’t so secure that she can throw off baronets without thought. They’re not so great a prize when you compare them with what some actresses grab, but then, Rosanna’s only beginning. When Fabian gets this invitation, I’m pretty sure he’ll go to that party; if he goes, I’m pretty sure that Rosanna will see all his possibilities. If she does, and if she shows Richard she does, I’m absolutely sure of this: that’ll be the end, as far as Richard is concerned. I’m not as well up in my brother’s character as I once thought I was, but I know one thing about him well, and it’s this: he won’t stay up there to go shares with a middle-aged charmer. He’ll—”

  “One moment, Judy,” broke in Rae quietly.

  Judy, at the door, paused and looked round.

  “Well?”

  “If you’re doing this to detach Richard from Rosanna—”

  “I am.”

  “If you’re doing it on my account, I’d very much rather you left things as they are.”

  Judy studied her for a few moments without speaking.

  “You mean,” she said at last, “that you don’t care one way or the other?”

  Rae made an effort and spoke steadily.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “I don’t care—one way or the other.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t blame you,” said Judy, “but that’s your own affair. This is mine. I owe Richard something for getting you down here for nothing. I’m going to send this invitation. I don’t know what’ll come of it, but I know that it’s going to make me feel a whole lot better. Good-bye, Rae.”

  The door banged. Rae stood still, staring at it.

  Chapter 8

  It was obvious that Mr. Ferris thought very little of the room upstairs, but, beyond giving a disparaging glance round it and making a few adjustments to the heavy velvet curtains, he made no comment. Turning to his hostess, he addressed her in his polite but scarcely warm manner.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you will show me some of your dresses.”

  At this extraordinary suggestion, the General gave the artist a glare in which his dislike and suspicion were openly declared.

  “Show you?”

  “Something blue, if you’ve got it,” proceeded Mr. Ferris, ignoring the interruption. “Something of the shade of this lining here—or perhaps approaching that cushion. If you bring them, we’ll choose something.”

  “Oh! Oh yes, I’ll go and bring you a few to look at,” said Lady Ashton.

  “And a shawl,” added Mr. Ferris.

  “A shawl? I never wear a shawl,” said Lady Ashton in surprise. “I think I’d look a little odd in a—”

  “To drape; to drape behind you.” Mr. Ferris was obviously exercising the greatest patience and self-control. “And a screen, perhaps. Have you a screen?”


  “I’ve got a very good screen,” said the General. “Chinese. Carved.”

  “No colour,” commented Mr. Ferris.

  “Colour? It’s got some magnificent colour,” declared the General. “All its panels are full of colour—the finest colour you’ve”—there was a perceptible accent on the word “ever seen. I’ve got a picture of my mother painted against it—done by Ambrose Fitzroy—a fine piece of work.”

  “If somebody would fetch the screen,” said Mr. Ferris coldly, “I could decide whether it would make a suitable background.”

  “I’ll fetch it,” said the General. “It’s in my study.”

  He went along the corridor leading to his own part of the house and, entering the study, seized the screen and folded it. Lifting it was a difficult feat, but the General, supported by the thought of opening it with a flourish before the artist, bore it resolutely, if on a somewhat zigzag course, towards the studio. Mr. Ferris, receiving it coolly, pulled it to a place near the window and, hanging a shawl and dress upon it, studied the effect from several angles.

  “I’ll use it,” he said finally. “Now, if you will kindly sit here”—he motioned Lady Ashton to a chair—“I shall decide how I shall paint you.”

  He walked to and fro in silence, studying the effect of first one and then another dress against Lady Ashton. Lost in his work, rearranging the folds, draping fabric, he awoke at last to the fact that Miss Beckwith and the General were still in the room, watching his movements with wholehearted interest. With the utmost politeness, but without any attempt to disguise his purpose, he shepherded them both to the door and shut it after them. The General, breathing heavily, stood on the threshold and looked as though he was going to kick it open again.

  “I think,” said Miss Beckwith hurriedly, “I’ll see about the meals—do you think Mr. Ferris will be staying to dinner?”

  The General made no response. He joined Rae, who was coming slowly downstairs, and walked down beside her.

  “If Judy had said a word to me before she started this tomfoolery,” he said, “I could have given her a word of warning about these fellers. He’s up there now, stepping up and down on his toes like a ballet dancer, with his eyes half shut and his head on one side, but if he thinks that sort of thing takes me in, he’s making a mistake. I knew what a good painting was long before he came into the world, and for all his posturing, I’ll warrant you he doesn’t turn out half such a good finished article as Ambrose Fitzroy did with half the fuss. You wait and see.—Not looking forward to my lunch, with that jackanapes at the table,” he ended gloomily.