One morning two or three weeks after the disappearance of the Van Dyck, Betty was called by Sir Geoffrey to the picture gallery. ‘Well,’ he said, pointing, ‘what do you think of it?’
The nobleman in velvet and lace was once more hanging in his old place, but a rather different nobleman. He was much brighter in colour, with stronger and more vivid tones. In parts which had formerly been dark and confused by shadow, details were now visible. To some extent Betty thought this was an improvement, yet the picture as a whole seemed to have lost character. It was less mellow, and the brighter colours struck her as restless and crude.
She did not know what to answer. Sir Geoffrey was so obviously pleased with it and there was so little about the place which appeared to give him pleasure, that she did not want to damp his enthusiasm. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘I like seeing more of the detail, but it looks a little too much brightened up. You like it yourself?’
‘I do,’ he admitted. ‘But of course I’m not a judge.’
‘I wish Mr Barke could see it,’ Betty went on, ‘but he and Mrs Barke are just leaving for a tour in the East and I’m afraid he wouldn’t have time to come down.’
‘I should be pleased to have his opinion when he comes back,’ Sir Geoffrey said politely. ‘I’m getting one or two more done and then he could see them all.’
Betty felt she ought to protest, but after all it was not her business, and while she deliberated he changed the subject and the opportunity was gone.
During the next few weeks a number of other pictures were done, and the more she saw of them, the more strongly Betty felt that the work was a mistake. The pictures definitely were not improved. She was perturbed also by Sir Geoffrey’s choice. Broadly speaking, those which had been done were among the best of the collection. They included an admirable Goya, an undoubted Franz Hals, a Murillo, a Fragonard and a small Teniers. Terrible if they were really being damaged, yet once again it was Sir Geoffrey’s responsibility, not hers.
Time passed with increasing speed until November came in and Betty realized that she had been for six months at Forde Manor. She was liking the job more and more. Its advantages of a comfortable home, light duties and a settled income—the greater part of which she was saving—remained unaltered, while its earlier drawbacks of loneliness and boredom she had now entirely overcome. She could not be bored while she had for a spare time occupation the Great Work—which had now reached Chapter IX—and as for company, she had scraped acquaintance with a number of the local people and could always count on a cup of tea or a game of golf if she wanted either.
One unexpected friend she had made was Mrs Relf, the woman who lived in the Forde Manor gate lodge. Relf was a quiet individual with a pleasant smile who was employed at the Manor as a sort of handy man. He did everything that was no one else’s job. He looked after the boats and the lake sluices, stoked the central heating furnaces in the winter, knew where the switches and valves were situated, besides doing all sorts of small repairs both inside the house and out.
Betty had first got to know his wife when, caught one day in a shower close to the lodge, she had asked for shelter. She had taken an instantaneous liking to the kind, motherly woman with her soft Western accent—she was from Somerset—and her look of placid and dependable competence. She liked also the neatness of her dress and the spotless cleanliness and comfort of the kitchen. And when she had talked to her for a little—it was a long shower—she began to respect her for the breadth of her views and the charitable way she spoke of others.
All this time the deterioration in Sir Geoffrey was slowly continuing, and much as Betty regretted it, she did not see how she could help him. Gradually from moody he had become positively morose. He spent long periods alone in his workshop, which at least he ought to have enjoyed, as he turned out some beautiful work both in wood and metal. But otherwise he seemed increasingly unhappy. He now made no attempt to hide his disappointment at not entering the local society and seldom referred to his neighbours without some sarcasm or bitter gibe. Also he had grown more secretive, more furtive, more unwilling to speak of himself or his concerns. But he must, Betty felt sure, have friends somewhere. He was away much more, and so far as she could gather, the principal loadstone was in Paris.
At times Betty grew seriously upset as she thought over the situation. That things could go on indefinitely as they were, seemed impossible. A breakdown of some kind was inevitable.
In December it came. One afternoon at tea Sir Geoffrey told her quite casually and unemotionally that he was fed up with Forde Manor and had decided to leave. He would sell the entire place, lock, stock and barrel, and return to America with the proceeds. The one thing he would regret, he went on handsomely enough, would be to say goodbye to her, as she was the only person who had been really friendly to him since he had re-entered Britain.
‘Of course,’ he added, ‘there’s no hurry. I don’t know what you’ll want to do; go to friends or look out for a job or what, but whatever it is you’ll have plenty of time to make arrangements. So don’t let the idea upset you.’
It naturally did upset Betty, profoundly. Her search for a job was still too recent for her to have forgotten its terror. Now this would start all over again. It was true that she was in a much better condition to meet the strain’ than she had been six months earlier. All the same, to lose a job which suited her so ideally was a cruel blow.
She would have liked to have seen the Barkes to obtain their possible advice and certain sympathy. But they were in India and now talked of going to the Malay States. Betty felt driven back on herself, for though she had plenty of friends, she was not on such intimate terms with any of the others.
Then a further consideration struck her. Her book! She had got on well with it during these last months. Eighteen chapters out of an estimated twenty were finished. And they were good chapters, so she was convinced. Indeed, she was amazed at how good they were. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than to read over some of the earlier passages. She loved the sound of the words, she thrilled again at the skilfully built up crises, she was moved afresh by the pathos of the sadder scenes. Excellent work, certain of success!
And now the whole thing would be stopped. Its completion would be deferred, perhaps indefinitely. She certainly couldn’t write during the strain of looking for a job, and perhaps not even after she got one.
And there was another point. If the book were a success it would bring in money. What a pity if she could not have the time to finish it! It would not take long. Three or four weeks and the thing should be done.
It was then that her three great ideas occurred to her. First she thought, why not finish the book before looking for a job? She could well afford it. She had now £150 to her credit in the bank. The book once finished, she could close down temporarily on her writing.
Presently followed the second. Why should she not stay in this charming district which she knew and so greatly liked? A couple of rooms in some small house should not be hard to find.
The third completed the cycle. Mrs Relf’s! The gate lodge was a good-sized house, and as the Relfs’ son was away from home, only the elderly couple occupied it. Would Mrs Relf take her?
Next day she put up her idea to Sir Geoffrey. He gave it his unqualified approval, then paused and said seriously: ‘There’s no bathroom in that lodge.’
She laughed, then after agreeing that it was no laughing matter, went on: ‘I would have to do with what a lot of my ancestors had to do with: a portable bath. Sad and wholly to be deplored, but I’m afraid necessary under the circumstances. Of course, Mrs Relf mightn’t have me.’
He was still thinking. For a time he didn’t answer, while he glanced speculatively at her out of the corner of his eyes. She thought he looked unpleasantly shrewd, but when she heard what he had to say her delight overwhelmed every other feeling.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he went on at last. ‘I can see an unexpected advantage to myself in this. I’ll build a bathroom at the lodge and I’ll pay whatever Mrs Relf charges you, if in return you’ll keep an eye on the place till it’s sold, It wouldn’t mean very much, just a look over the house every now and then to see that the central heating was properly kept up and that damp wasn’t getting in, and perhaps a word to the gardener if he got slack. Also I should want you to show round prospective purchasers.’
‘Why,’ she cried, ‘that would be perfect. But it’s not a fair arrangement. You wouldn’t be getting anything like a return for your money.’
‘I think I should,’ he declared and again there was something in his manner which she found vaguely repellent. ‘I’m not proposing to pay you a salary, you know; only Mrs Relf’s charges. However, that’s my side of it, and if I’m satisfied you needn’t worry. The question is, what about you?’
‘Satisfied?’ she repeated. ‘I should just think so! More than satisfied. Why, it’s perfectly ideal for me. That is—’ she hesitated.
‘What’s the snag?’
‘Well, it’s just that I couldn’t promise to go on indefinitely. It might be some. time before the place was sold, you see.’
‘Naturally. You stay as long as it’s convenient to you, and if you leave,’ he smiled slightly, ‘my payment to Mrs Relf stops.’
‘Then I accept,’ she declared warmly, ‘and thankfully.’
‘Right,’ he returned, ‘that’s settled: Now I’ll tell you what I propose. I’m fed up with the place and I want to get out of it. I’ll ask you to supervise the dismantling or packing up or whatever you do to the rooms. By the time that’s finished the household staff will have worked their notice and they can clear out and I’ll close the house. I’ll keep the central heating going, as I’m advised it would be worthwhile for maintenance reasons. Also the garden should be kept up, as the first sight of a place has a deal to do with a person’s reactions to it.’
‘Sound psychology,’ she smiled.
‘Business at all events,’ he returned.
Half an hour later Betty found that Mrs Relf was even more delighted with the prospect than she herself, and a firm arrangement was made.
Events then moved quickly. No structural alteration to the gate lodge was found to be necessary and by some miracle the bath was ready within the week. In due course Betty moved to her new quarters, finding them extremely comfortable. Forde Manor was put on the agents’ books and its sale widely advertised. First Sir Geoffrey and then the servants left; she and Relf presently became the joint caretakers, and in a very few days she had settled down to a new phase of her life.
To the book the move proved very advantageous. Not only had she more time on her hands, but she was now able to plan her day with system. Finding that she could do better work in the mornings, she set apart the time between breakfast and lunch for the actual writing. After lunch she relaxed. It was then that she made her inspection of the house and grounds, called to see her friends and took such exercise as she desired. In the interval between tea and dinner she revised her morning’s work and considered next day’s quota. This second spell she did not mind breaking if she wanted to go to town or take a holiday, but the morning she did her best to keep inviolate. Her book remained her great thrill, and while she was working at it she envied no one in the world, not even Sir Geoffrey, who was in Italy.
He had taken up his quarters in Rome for the time being. Betty wondered if he were trying to get into English society there. If so, she hoped he would have more success than in Surrey. She had had a letter from him announcing his arrival and saying that he was considering moving on for a week or two to Capri. He kept her informed of his whereabouts, as one of her duties was to forward his correspondence.
During this period Betty was rather worried about her brother Roland. She had had a further long letter from him about his idea of forming a troupe to tour the Parisian suburban music halls.
‘I would manage it myself,’ he wrote, ‘and I’ve two splendid people in my mind for the leads, man and woman. Also for the three other parts we would need: six would be enough to start with. I’ve been round and I’ve found eleven houses that would give us one turn a week—if they liked the show, of course. That would be practically two turns a night, or four where there were double houses. With luck we might get on the air also. There’s money in it, old girl, if only we could get going. But that, as you can imagine, is the snag. My share would be £120, and I haven’t a bean. I know you’ve been having bad times yourself, but if you could do anything for this, you’d be no loser. Any help you could give us would remain your property, upon which we would pay interest as a first call on profits …’
She sighed as she thought it over. The letter was so like Roland: enthusiastic, but with an enthusiasm carefully controlled, plausible, persuasive, with a superficial air of hard-headed business ability. These traits no longer took Betty in. She felt sure that when the time came the leading lady would have left for America or the managements of the eleven music halls would have mysteriously filled their programmes. Never mind. Dear Roland! How gladly she would give him the money, if only she had it to give.
But she had, though of course £120 would make a big hole in her savings. She wished she knew more about the scheme. She did not exactly disbelieve Roland; it was just that his artistic imagination sometimes strained the facts. Often under similar circumstances she had thought of going over to Paris, but there were reasons against it. First there was the expense. Next, she shrank from seeing the conditions under which she believed Roland lived. And lastly, it would be no use for her to look into any of his schemes. In his presence she lost her critical faculty and he could put anything over on her that he chose.
On the other hand she believed from the tone of his recent letters that he was doing better. If so, and if this new scheme would give him a real chance to get his head above water, well, he ought to have that chance.
She would have liked to consult the Barkes about it, but though they were on their way home, some time would still elapse before they arrived. She therefore replied to Roland that she was not at present able to advance £120, but that she would be glad if he would keep her advised about the idea, as she might later be in a position to do so. Roland didn’t always reply to this kind of letter, but he did so on this occasion, so warmly and without further begging, that she could scarcely resist sending him the entire sum.
For Betty the time now began to pass very quickly indeed. Towards the end of January, Sir Geoffrey came home. He stayed in London and ran down occasionally to visit his beloved workshop and have a chat with Betty. So far not a single offer had been received for the place, though a number of people had inspected it. Then about the middle of February, Sir Geoffrey went back to Rome, which he appeared really to have liked.
Once again Betty settled down to work. She had now finished her first draft and was hard at work revising. This she found even more engrossing than the original composition, and the days fled happily by.
In the first week in March the Barkes returned, and from the note Betty received from Agatha it was evident that their Eastern tour had been even more successful than that to America. Agatha asked her to go up and see them and she decided to do so next day.
They were naturally full of the trip and during lunch the talk was of India and the Malay Archipelago and the people they met on the various boats. Then they discussed the closing of Forde Manor and Sir Geoffrey’s reactions to Rome, finally turning to Betty’s more personal affairs.
‘I was wondering if Charles would do me a great favour,’ she adventured when she thought the time was ripe. ‘It’s rather a lot to ask, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Agatha adjured her. ‘Of course he’ll only be delighted.’
‘Dear people,’ Betty returned gratefully. ‘I know how good you both are. It’s about that scheme of Roland’s. I told you something about it,’ and Betty explained the further details she had learnt.
‘A hundred and twenty.’ Charles looked grave. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘I don’t think it is really,’ Betty said more eagerly. ‘You see there are not only all the clothes and so on, but he has to live while they’re getting under way.’
Charles looked dubious. ‘I’m afraid,’ he was beginning, when Agatha interposed in her brisk forceful way. ‘You needn’t say anything. Don’t you see that she had decided to back Roland? Haven’t you, my dear, or am I wrong?’
‘I should like to,’ Betty admitted, ‘if only I was sure of the facts. I don’t mean,’ she added hastily, ‘that I doubt Roland. Only as you know, he gets carried away.’
‘We understand,’ Agatha nodded.
‘I wondered, Charles, whether next time you were in Paris, you’d let Roland call on you and hear what he has to say?’
‘Of course,’ Charles declared warmly. ‘You’d like me to report to you?’
Betty shook her head. ‘I want much more than that, I’m afraid. I want to give you the money before you start and to ask you either to hand it on to Roland or to say nothing about it as you think best.’
Charles gave a short laugh. ‘But, my dear Betty, that is asking rather a lot,’ he said ruefully. ‘You want to make me responsible for handing over most of your capital to a scheme of which I can’t possibly judge the chances of success.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Betty spoke earnestly. ‘I’ve already taken the decision. I’m going to pay unless there is some special reason why I shouldn’t. All I ask is that you hear Roland and hand him the money unless there’s something that strikes you as actually fishy.’
Charles was unwilling, but Agatha plumped for Betty’s plan and insisted that he must carry it out. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he agreed at length, ‘but I can’t guarantee that my decision will be wise. You’ll have to take the chance of that.’
‘I’ll take it and thankfully,’ Betty assured him. ‘And I just can’t say how grateful I am.’
‘Right,’ he smiled, though still rather ruefully, ‘I’ll let you know when I’m going over.’ Presently the conversation swung back to Forde Manor.
‘It doesn’t seem as if Sir Geoffrey was going to sell it, Betty declared. ‘It’s been on the market now for nearly three months and there hasn’t been a single offer.’
‘Too big for most people,’ Agatha suggested.
‘I should think so,’ Charles agreed, ‘and not in a good place for a residential hotel, which is about all it’s good for. I’m not surprised he’s having difficulty.’
Betty chuckled. ‘He said it would make a swell roadhouse,’ she told them, then suddenly remembering that her story would interest Charles, she went on: ‘But I didn’t tell you about the pictures. He’s had a lot of them cleaned.’
Charles Barke stared. ‘Cleaned?’ he repeated. ‘Very few of them wanted cleaning. He hasn’t done any of the good ones, I hope?’
‘I’m afraid he has. You remember the Van Dyck and the Goya? He’s had them done, as well as several others.’
‘Good lord! What was he thinking about?’
‘He was told they wanted it.’
‘No doubt. But not by anyone really qualified.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ Betty answered. ‘Also he’s done that small Teniers. I don’t know if you remember it? And a Murillo and a Fragonard, as well as several others. He’s done over a dozen altogether.’
This roused Charles, as Betty knew it would. ‘It’s a crime,’ he declared hotly, ‘that ignorant fools like Buller should have control of such work—work that they can neither understand nor appreciate. Have they been much damaged?’
‘I’m afraid they’ve not been improved,’ Betty admitted. ‘You can see more detail, but they somehow look cruder. I don’t know exactly what it is: the suggestion of complete perfection is gone.’
Again Charles raved. ‘That’s worse than ever! They’ve been restored. The man should be locked up in Broadmoor.’
‘They mayn’t be so bad as I think,’ Betty went on. ‘I’m not a judge, as you know.’
‘They’re worse, I should imagine, Charles returned gloomily, ‘and I don’t expect it would take a judge to see it.’
‘Why not go down and have a look at them yourself?’ Agatha suggested.
‘Yes, come down, both of you,’ Betty returned warmly. ‘I was going to ask you to come and have tea in my gate lodge in any case. Now you’ll have a motive and I’ll get you.’
‘I’d like that,’ Charles admitted. ‘As you may know, I’ve taken a strong line about unnecessary work of this kind, and I’d like to see if these support my case. But I can’t spy on this maniac.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Betty firmly. ‘Coming to tea with me would seem perfectly natural, even if it wasn’t’—Agatha made a face at her—‘and when you’re there you’d obviously like to have a look at the pictures. No spying about it.’
‘Of course not. Don’t be silly, Charles,’ came the wifely closing of the argument. ‘Let’s see now, this is Wednesday. When can we go?’
Charles took an engagement book from his pocket. ‘I’m lunching with the Spencers at Woking on Monday,’ he said presently. ‘I am advising him about a Claude that he wants to sell. You’re coming too, by the way, Agatha. Now suppose we come home via Ockham that afternoon and call on Betty?’
‘Quite an idea,’ Agatha approved. ‘That suit you, Betty?’
Betty declared that it was idyllic perfection for her and the talk drifted back to the Eastern tour.