Men and Angels

by Elizabeth Cadell

  Rae met Judy and walked with her towards the house.

  “Your uncle wants the painter fellow removed,” she said.

  “So do I,” said Judy gloomily. “Can you tell me what made me think of this? I’m stuck in the transport business—to and fro, this way and that, coming, going, hither and thither—and what for? A portrait that Mother doesn’t want, that Uncle’s already got, and that Richard isn’t jolly well going to get.—Did you remember about the party yesterday, Rae?”

  “Yes.” Rae spoke hesitatingly. “But I’m quite sure, Judy, that Uncle Fabian wouldn’t have gone to it.”

  “Why not? These ambitious coming-on actresses send out invitations to anybody they think is going to be useful to them. He’ll regard it as a sign of his popularity. He’ll think Rosanna saw him somewhere and said, ‘Tell me, who is that distinguished-looking man standing by that palm?’—Of course he’d go.”

  “I don’t feel that he—”

  “Look, Rae.” Judy broke into the soft tones with an unusual seriousness in her own. “You and I don’t feel the same way about this. You’re—don’t be offended but you’re one of those people who let other people push you here and there without doing anything to push back. I’m not—and there’s the difference. When I heard about Richard and Rosanna, I was nearly beside myself with rage and I thought that you would be, too, when I told you. But you weren’t. I don’t suppose you liked it, but you took it quietly and—and accepted it, and went on as if nothing had happened. I can’t do that. I don’t like to think that I harbour grudges, but I don’t think it’s right that Richard should put you down here to amuse him, and then calmly go off and amuse himself with someone else. It was a mean trick, and it needs—it needs paying off.”

  “He knew you were down here,” pointed out Rae. “It wasn’t as though I was to be entirely on my own.”

  “That’s merely making excuses, and he doesn’t—he really doesn’t deserve that calm sort of acceptance of any treatment he cares to hand out, Rae. It was a mean trick, and you know it.”

  “But I’m very happy, and I’m having a nice time and—”

  “That’s beside the point. I’m glad you are, even if I can’t understand how you have found anything here to be happy about. I don’t even understand how you could have—have stood up to Richard without—without getting bowled over, but thank heaven you did. Only—I’m not prepared to fold my hands meekly, like you, and let Richard get off scot-free. I suppose sending that invitation was childish and petty, and what Mother would call not the action of a lady, but ever since I posted it, I’ve felt better.”

  “Well, you needn’t have done it on my account. I’ve told you—I’m perfectly happy.”

  “I’m glad. But that doesn’t excuse Richard.”

  Rae walked to the car, shut Mr. Ferris in, and watched it out of sight. Passing the studio on her way upstairs, she saw the General, already changed, beckoning to her.

  “Come in here a minute,” he said. “Come and stand here and tell me what you think. Don’t say anything yet—just take it in and then tell me what you think.”

  Rae joined him in front of the easel; together they gazed at the half-finished portrait.

  “Now just answer my questions,” said the General. “Is that a good likeness?”

  “It’s hard to say yet. What do you think?”

  “I am not giving an opinion,” said the General heavily. “I gave up saying what I think twenty years ago. Twenty years ago I could discuss a great many subjects frankly and openly with my friends, but most of my friends have gone now; the old world’s gone, and if I utter an opinion in the new world, nobody knows what I’m talking about. So I say very little. But I’d be interested to know what you, with your young, your modern eye, can see in that. What, for example, do you call the object she’s holding?”

  Rae studied it.

  “I can’t quite say,” she said at last. “It looks a little bit— it can’t be, of course, but it does look like a flower-pot.”

  “A flower-pot—exactly!” The General’s voice was husky with suppressed triumph. “When I laid eyes on it just now, I said, ‘Good God, why on earth is she holding a flowerpot?’ But you see, the point is that she isn’t.”

  “Isn’t holding it?”

  “There is no flower-pot,” pronounced the General. “She’s holding that vase—the one you see over there. Now, look at that vase and tell me if you see the smallest resemblance between it and a flower-pot?”

  “No—none.”

  “Quite so. Why? Because there is none. None whatsoever. And yet this fellow, this much-lauded portrait painter, whose work Judy tells me is acclaimed everywhere, is going to present us calmly with a face—anybody’s face, because that looks like anybody’s face—and a flower-pot, and we shall be expected to thank him. And what’s more, we’ll be expected to pay him. And what’s worst of all, we shall be expected to like it. If we don’t like it, we shall be pointed out as uncultured boors who don’t understand a fine work of art when we see it. I’m relieved, my dear, very much relieved, to hear you say that it’s a flower-pot. Now wait here for a moment—I’ll go along and get Ambrose Fitzroy’s picture again and we’ll compare the two.”

  Rae waited, and the old work was placed beside the new. “Now compare them,” invited the General. “One is a woman holding a vase—we might almost say it’s my sister holding a vase, the resemblance is so striking. Now look at the other. A blur that’s the Chinese screen, mark you—a confused blur of colours, and look what Ambrose made of the same screen—you see? This feller gives us a blur, a face—I’ll go as far as to admit it’s a face of some sort—and a flower-pot.”

  Rae stood silent, pleased to provide an outlet for the old man’s anger. She cared little whether Lady Ashton held a vase or a flower-pot, or whether the portrait was good or bad; she was not a judge, and she was not much interested. But she could listen while the General worked off a little steam. So much better did he feel after it that he placed the Fitzroy carefully behind the bookcase and prepared to follow Rae downstairs. Lady Ashton and Miss Beckwith, changed and coming in from a last glance at the arrangements for dinner, met them in the hall.

  “Here we all are,” said Lady Ashton. “You’ve both been looking at the picture, I expect?”

  “Just glancing, just glancing,” said the General. “Where’s Judy—not back yet?”

  “She won’t be long, I expect,” said Lady Ashton. “Here she is now—I hear the car.”

  The car stopped at the door, and the General walked forward to admit his niece.

  “Well, Judy,” he began, and stopped. “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Hello Richard!”

  Richard stepped into the hall and dropped two suitcases on the floor.

  “Hello sir. Hello, Miss Beckwith—how smart you all look. Hello, Mother.” He stooped to kiss his mother’s cheek, and then took two more leisurely steps and, putting his hands on the frozen Rae’s shoulders, bent and kissed her firmly on the lips.

  “My dear Miss Mansfield,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here!”

  Chapter 10

  Dinner that night was not the usual sedate function to which Rae had become accustomed. Since Richard had given no notice of his coming, extra food had to be prepared; since he had not come alone, two places had to be added to the meal. The serious looking Edward, who had come, Richard informed them, for the weekend, stood talking to the General in the hall while the bustle of preparation went on around them.

  “I suppose,” said the General, “you’re glad to be back in England.”

  “Yes, sir—rather, sir” said Edward.

  “Used to feel the same myself every time I got back. Always used to feel, somehow, that there was something in the air I could recognise —blindfold me, I used to say, and put me down in one country after another, and I’ll tell you the minute I smell England.”

  This unusual way of recognising the mother country had obviously not struck Edward before, and he turned inv
oluntarily to the open hall door and sniffed tentatively the English air.

  “Clean sort of smell,” said the General. “Smell of home, somehow.—I suppose you’ve got a busy programme for your leave?”

  Edward attempted to give some hint of the joys before him, but found Lady Ashton waiting to take him to his room and followed her upstairs. Richard produced from the suitcase a tin of ham and took it out to the gardener’s daughter. Refusing Rae’s offer of help, Miss Beckwith went into the kitchen to assist her and the General followed Rae into the drawing-room and stood in front of a window—his eyes appeared to be on the scene before him, but Rae knew that he was looking at her covertly and struggling to interpret the greeting she had received from his nephew.

  Before he could bring the conversation round to Richard, Judy burst into the room. The sight of Richard’s car in the drive had informed her of his presence, and her first words to Rae plunged the General deeper into mystification.

  “What did I tell you?” she said. “It worked! Where is the beast?”

  “If you’re referring to your brother,” said the General, “he’s upstairs with your mother, showing his friend to his room.”

  “Friend?” Judy swung round to Rae. “What friend?”

  “The one we met—Edward.”

  “Him! What in Christmas,” demanded Judy angrily, “did he want to bring him down for?”

  “He’s brought him down for the week-end,” said the General. “He looks a harmless enough young man.”

  “Of course he’s harmless,” said Judy irritably. “That’s what’s wrong with him. Who’s going to look after him, I’d like to know?”

  “Since he’s Richard’s guest,” said the General, “I’ve no doubt Richard will.—What’s his name, by the way?”

  “Name? Oh—Peake, or something,” said Judy. “Rae, did Richard say anything?”

  A blush, which did not escape the General, overspread Rae’s cheeks.

  “No, nothing in particular,” she said.

  The door opened to admit Richard and his friend, and Judy gave her brother a cold glance.

  “London too warm?” she enquired.

  “By far,” said Richard with his usual lazy ease. “How’s the School of Art? Oh, by the way—you know Edward, don’t you?”

  “I’ve met him, yes. How d’you do,” said Judy, making an effort.

  Edward, gazing at her adoringly, was understood to say that he was very well. He was about to add a word or two about the weather, but having got as far as pretty warm, had to be rescued by the General.

  “The heat’s too sudden,” he remarked. “It’s drying everything up. Richard, have you asked Mr. Peake whether he’d care for a drink?”

  “Mr.—oh, Edward! No thanks, sir, we had a couple on the way down. Pity they’ve built round that old pub.”

  “The ‘Cock and Bull’? Yes, great pity,” said the General. “You’ll see a lot of changes for the worse, I’m afraid. They re pulling down all those lovely old thatched cottages near Marefield. Ah! here you are, my dear.”

  “Shall we go in to dinner now?” said Lady Ashton from the door. “Blanche is in the dining-room.”

  The men were left to their port after dinner, and the ladies pursued a stately way back to the drawing-room. Miss Beckwith got out her patience cards, Lady Ashton opened her cookery books and turned the pages placidly. Only Rae and Judy were restless.

  Judy was not looking forward to the week-end. Her first sense of triumph had passed, and she now realised that it was impossible to find out what had brought Richard home; she could mention the party, but was unwilling to risk making him suspicious, and she was beginning to realise that she would never learn more than she knew now. Her scheme had brought about the desired result: Richard was here, but if she wanted matters between him and Rae to advance, she must leave them together—and if she left them together she would have Edward on her hands. He was a guest in her home, and she would be expected to treat him with courtesy. Her only escape lay in avoidance, but this week-end there could be no escape; Richard would drive Rae about, and she would be, she reflected moodily, stuck with Edward.

  Miss Beckwith saw with pleasure that the dark man who had so puzzled her for the past three nights was now identified. The fair woman had pointed to Rae, but there was no accounting for the persistence with which the dark man had turned up again and again. Now, after that little scene in the hall, all was clear. She placed the two cards together and looked at them speculatively.

  Lady Ashton was also speculating, and her usual placidity was a little ruffled; she had distinctly noticed Richard kissing Miss Mansfield in the hall, and she wondered why she had never connected the two in her mind before. The girl was very pretty, and had a gentle manner that one didn’t often see nowadays; she and Judy were close friends, and it was natural that Judy should try to bring them together. Why Richard had let the girl spend nearly a week here without him was something his mother found it difficult to understand; perhaps she could have a word or two with Judy later.

  “What,” she asked, looking up, “is the name of that quiet young man?”

  “Who?” Judy looked up with a start. “Oh—him. Deane, or something. Came home on the boat with Richard. I can’t understand why somebody didn’t push him overboard on the way.”

  “He seems charming, Judy.”

  “Oh, Mother, he’s terrible! He’s practically inarticulate!”

  “That’s only shyness, dear,” put in Miss Beckwith.

  “That’s just it—he’s too old to be shy. People have to learn how to get over all that.”

  “He’ll get over it, I expect,” said Lady Ashton.

  “Well, he should stay away from people till he does,” said Judy. “Why should I have to bring him out? I’m not a charm school, am I? Before this week-end’s over he’ll—”

  She stopped as the door opened to admit the three men, Lady Ashton lifted the cookery books to make room for her son, but Richard shook his head.

  “No, Mother darling,” he said. “This is the Silence room and Edward’s a terror—talks his head off. I’m going to take him and the girls upstairs to the old playroom. Come on, Rae.”

  He held out a hand, and Rae found that she had risen and put her own into it. Richard led her out of the room with a backward glance at Judy and Edward.

  “Come on, you two.”

  The four went upstairs to the big playroom which Rae had seen on her arrival. Richard kicked aside the rugs issuing orders as he did so.

  “Go and get my wireless out of my bedroom, Judy. Edward, shove those chairs back—we’re going to dance.”

  There was a little difficulty in finding dance music; the wireless offered, in turn, a talk on the Development of Plastics, a lady singing English Folk Songs, and an endless series of voices talking at great speed in foreign tongues.

  “Listen to that, said Richard, pausing in his knob-turning. “Doesn’t he sound cross! ”

  “Oh, go on—music,” said Judy. “There—stop. No go back a bit—that’s it. That’s nice.”

  She watched Richard take Rae into his arms, waited for Edward’s hesitating approach and was thankful to find that his feet worked a great deal better than his tongue. She was the more thankful as it became obvious that there was to be no changing of partners. She watched Richard open a window and lead Rae to the balcony. It was still light, and the air which came in was cool and pleasant. Richard nodded towards the lovely scene.

  “Nice country,” he said. “Like it?”

  “Yes,” said Rae.

  “I thought you would. What have you been doing all the week?”

  “What have you?” asked Rae, to her own surprise.

  “Making love to Rosanna,” said Richard without the slightest hesitation. “D’you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind,” said Rae quietly. “All I mind is the fact that you made love to me first.”

  “That’s good,” said Richard. “I shouldn’t have liked it if you’d taken it
too calmly. Can you remember where we left off?”

  “No,” said Rae. “But we did leave off.”

  “When I was a little shaver,” said Richard, putting up a hand and gently pushing her hair off her face, “I used to put the nicest bit of my food into the middle of the plate—like that, see?” He indicated a spot on the balustrade. “Then I used to put all the other food round the titbit and eat it—and every now and then I’d go back and have a nibble off the titbit. You follow me, I trust?”

  “Perfectly,” said Rae. “What happened if you came back to the titbit and it wasn’t there?”

  “Wasn’t there?”

  “Supposing it had moved?”

  “That would have been awkward,” admitted Richard, “but unlikely. All the things that moved were taken out of our food before we got it.”

  “I see. Why aren’t we dancing?” asked Rae.

  “Because we’re enjoying this lovely June evening.—Did you mind being kissed in the hall?”

  “I thought it was a little unnecessary. Your mother—”

  “That’s the point,” said Richard. “In the eyes of the family, we’re linked for ever.”

  “Are we?—That’s a nice tune they’re playing.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Did you miss me?”

  Rae stared into the distance, a little frown on her brow. “A little at first,” she answered slowly. “Then I don’t think I did.”

  “And was Judy what might be called pettish when I didn’t turn up?”

  “Quite pettish. She thought I’d be bored if you weren’t here, but I wasn’t.”

  “Then you must have what are called inner resources. Home’s home, but it isn’t where you come when you want to be entertained. But speaking of actresses, we—”

  “Were we?”

  “I imagined we were. You must remember that I’ve come home after a long, long exile in places where one yearns in vain for the sight of an English face and the touch of an English skin and—”

  “Judy says there are lots of English girls in Nairobi.”