Chapter 3
The June sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the little country town of Wychwood under Ashe. It lay innocently and peacefully in the sunlight; mainly composed of a long straggling street that ran along under the overhanging brow of Ashe Ridge. It seemed singularly remote, strangely untouched. Luke thought: I'm probably mad. The whole thing's fantastic.
He drove gently down the twisting road, and so entered the main street. Wychwood, as has been said, consisted mainly of its one principal street. There were shops, small Georgian houses, prim and aristocratic, with whitened steps and polished knockers; there were picturesque cottages with flower gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and Motley, standing a little back from the street. There was a village green and a duck pond, and presiding over them a dignified Georgian house which Luke thought at first must be his destination, Ashe Manor. But on coming nearer he saw that there was a large painted board announcing that it was the Museum and Library. Farther on there was an anachronism, a large white modern building, austere and irrelevant to the cheerful haphazardness of the rest of the place. It was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and Lads' Club. It was at this point that he stopped and asked the way to his destination.
He was told that Ashe Manor was about half a mile farther on; he would see the gates on his right. Luke continued his course. He found the gates easily; they were of new and elaborate wrought iron. He drove in, caught a gleam of red brick through the trees, and turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied by the appalling and incongruous castellated mass that greeted his eyes.
While he was contemplating the nightmare, the sun went in. He became suddenly conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe Ridge. There was a sudden sharp gust of wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and at that moment a girl came round the corner of the castellated mansion. Her black hair was blown up off her head by the sudden gust, and Luke was reminded of a picture he had once seen — Nevinson's Witch.
The long, pale, delicate face, the black hair flying up to the stars. He could see this girl on a broomstick flying up to the moon. She came straight toward him.
'You must be Luke Fitzwilliam. I'm Bridget Conway.'
He took the hand she held out. He could see her now as she was — not in a sudden moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate face with slightly hollow cheekbones, ironic black brows, black eyes and hair. She was like a delicate etching, he thought — poignant and beautiful. He said, 'How d'you do? I must apologize for wishing myself on you like this. Jimmy would have it that you wouldn't mind.'
'Oh, we don't. We're delighted.' She smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought the corners of her mouth half-way up her cheeks. 'Jimmy and I always stand in together. And if you're writing a book on folklore, this is a splendid place. All sorts of legends and picturesque spots.'
'Splendid,' said Luke.
They went together toward the house.
Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. He remembered that Jimmy had mentioned the house as having originally belonged to Bridget's family. That, he thought, grimly, was in its unadorned days. Inside, Bridget Conway led the way to a room with book shelves and comfortable chairs where a tea table stood near the window with two people sitting by it.
She said, 'Gordon, this is Luke, a sort of cousin of mine.'
Lord Easterfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking country clothes. They were unkind to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach.
He greeted Luke with affability, 'Glad to see you — very glad. Just come back from the East, I hear. Interesting place. Writing a book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many books are written nowadays. I say 'no, always room for a good one.''
Bridget said, 'My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,' and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged woman with a rather foolish mouth.
Mrs. Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted, body and soul, to gardening.
After acknowledging the introduction, she said now, 'I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate,' and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.
Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair. Lord Easterfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly.
'So you write books,' he murmured.
Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations, when he perceived that Lord Easterfield was not really seeking for information. 'I've often thought,' said His Lordship complacently, 'that I'd like to write a book myself. Trouble is, I haven't got the time. I'm a very busy man.'
'Of course. You must be.'
'You wouldn't believe what I've got on my shoulders,' said Lord Easterfield. 'I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I'm responsible for molding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I've intended to make them feel and think. That's a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I don't mind responsibility. I'm not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility.'
Lord Easterfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke. Bridget Comway said lightly, 'You're a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.'
Lord Easterfield replied simply, 'I am a great man. No, I won't have any more tea.'
Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest: 'Know anybody round this part of the world?'
Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added:
'At least, there's a man here that I promised to look up — friend of mine. Man called Humbleby. He's a doctor.'
'Oh!' Lord Easterfield struggled upright in his chair. 'Doctor Humbleby? Pity.'
'What's a pity?'
'Died about a week ago,' said Lord Easterfield.
'Oh, dear,' said Luke. 'I'm sorry about that.'
'Don't think you'd have cared for him,' said Lord Easterfield. 'Opinionated, pestilential, muddle-headed old fool.'
'Which means,' put in Bridget, 'that he disagreed with Gordon.'
'Question of our water supply,' said Lord Easterfield. 'I may tell you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that I'm a public-spirited man. I've got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town.'
Exhaustive details of Lord Easterfield's career were produced for Luke's benefit, and the former wound up triumphantly: 'Do you know what stands where my father's shop used to be? A fine building, built and endowed by me — Institute, Boys' Club, everything tiptop and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say he's made a bare plain job of it — looks like a workhouse or a prison to me — but they say it's all right, so I suppose it must be.'
'Cheer up,' said Bridget. 'You had your own way over this house.'
Lord Easterfield chuckled appreciatively.
'Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! When one architect wouldn't do what I wanted, I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well.'
'He pandered to your worst flights of imagination,' said Bridget.
'She'd have liked the place left as it was,' said Lord Easterfield. He patted her arm. 'No use living in the past, my dear. I always had a fancy for a castle, and now I've got one!'
'Well,' said Luke, a little at a loss for words, 'it's a great thing to know what you want.'
'And I usually get it too,' said the other, chuckling.
'You nearly didn't get your way about the water scheme,' Bridget reminded him.
'Oh, that!' said Lord Easterfield. 'Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pig-headed. They won't listen to reason.'
