So stucco
and ashlar masked the brick; some indifferent Roman marbles were
planted about in the entrance-hall and gardens; a reproduction of the
Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli was erected on the opposite bank of the mere;
and Castringham took on an entirely new, and, I must say, a less
engaging, aspect. But it was much admired, and served as a model to a
good many of the neighbouring gentry in after-years. One morning (it was in 1754) Sir Richard woke after a night of
discomfort. It had been windy, and his chimney had smoked persistently,
and yet it was so cold that he must keep up a fire. Also something had
so rattled about the window that no man could get a moment’s peace. Further, there was the prospect of several guests of position arriving
in the course of the day, who would expect sport of some kind, and the
inroads of the distemper (which continued among his game) had been
lately so serious that he was afraid for his reputation as a
game-preserver. But what really touched him most nearly was the other
matter of his sleepless night. He could certainly not sleep in that
room again. That was the chief subject of his meditations at breakfast, and after
it he began a systematic examination of the rooms to see which would
suit his notions best. It was long before he found one. This had a
window with an eastern aspect and that with a northern; this door the
servants would be always passing, and he did not like the bedstead in
that. No, he must have a room with a western look-out, so that the sun
could not wake him early, and it must be out of the way of the business
of the house. The housekeeper was at the end of her resources. “Well, Sir Richard,” she said, “you know that there is but the one room
like that in the house.”

“Which may that be?” said Sir Richard. “And that is Sir Matthew’s—the West Chamber.”

“Well, put me in there, for there I’ll lie tonight,” said her master. “Which way is it? Here, to be sure;” and he hurried off. “Oh, Sir Richard, but no one has slept there these forty years. The air
has hardly been changed since Sir Matthew died there.”

Thus she spoke, and rustled after him. “Come, open the door, Mrs Chiddock. I’ll see the chamber, at least.”

So it was opened, and, indeed, the smell was very close and earthy. Sir
Richard crossed to the window, and, impatiently, as was his wont, threw
the shutters back, and flung open the casement. For this end of the
house was one which the alterations had barely touched, grown up as it
was with the great ash-tree, and being otherwise concealed from view. “Air it, Mrs Chiddock, all today, and move my bed-furniture in in the
afternoon. Put the Bishop of Kilmore in my old room.”

“Pray, Sir Richard,” said a new voice, breaking in on this speech,
“might I have the favour of a moment’s interview?”

Sir Richard turned round and saw a man in black in the doorway, who
bowed. “I must ask your indulgence for this intrusion, Sir Richard. You will,
perhaps, hardly remember me. My name is William Crome, and my
grandfather was Vicar here in your grandfather’s time.”

“Well, sir,” said Sir Richard, “the name of Crome is always a passport
to Castringham. I am glad to renew a friendship of two generations”
standing. In what can I serve you? for your hour of calling—and, if I
do not mistake you, your bearing—shows you to be in some haste.”

“That is no more than the truth, sir. I am riding from Norwich to Bury
St Edmunds with what haste I can make, and I have called in on my way
to leave with you some papers which we have but just come upon in
looking over what my grandfather left at his death. It is thought you
may find some matters of family interest in them.”

“You are mighty obliging, Mr Crome, and, if you will be so good as to
follow me to the parlour, and drink a glass of wine, we will take a
first look at these same papers together. And you, Mrs Chiddock, as I
said, be about airing this chamber…. Yes, it is here my grandfather
died…. Yes, the tree, perhaps, does make the place a little dampish…. No; I do not wish to listen to any more. Make no difficulties, I beg. You have your orders—go. Will you follow me, sir?”

They went to the study. The packet which young Mr Crome had brought—he
was then just become a Fellow of Clare Hall in Cambridge, I may say,
and subsequently brought out a respectable edition of
Polyaenus—contained among other things the notes which the old Vicar
had made upon the occasion of Sir Matthew Fell’s death. And for the
first time Sir Richard was confronted with the enigmatical _Sortes
Biblicæ_ which you have heard. They amused him a good deal. “Well,” he said, “my grandfather’s Bible gave one prudent piece of
advice—_Cut it down_. If that stands for the ash-tree, he may rest
assured I shall not neglect it. Such a nest of catarrhs and agues was
never seen.”

The parlour contained the family books, which, pending the arrival of a
collection which Sir Richard had made in Italy, and the building of a
proper room to receive them, were not many in number. Sir Richard looked up from the paper to the bookcase. “I wonder,” says he, “whether the old prophet is there yet? I fancy I
see him.”

Crossing the room, he took out a dumpy Bible, which, sure enough, bore
on the flyleaf the inscription: “To Matthew Fell, from his Loving
Godmother, Anne Aldous, 2 September, 1659.”

“It would be no bad plan to test him again, Mr Crome. I will wager we
get a couple of names in the Chronicles. H’m! what have we here? ‘Thou
shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.’ Well, well! Your
grandfather would have made a fine omen of that, hey? No more prophets
for me! They are all in a tale. And now, Mr Crome, I am infinitely
obliged to you for your packet. You will, I fear, be impatient to get
on. Pray allow me—another glass.”

So with offers of hospitality, which were genuinely meant (for Sir
Richard thought well of the young man’s address and manner), they
parted. In the afternoon came the guests—the Bishop of Kilmore, Lady Mary
Hervey, Sir William Kentfield, etc. Dinner at five, wine, cards,
supper, and dispersal to bed. Next morning Sir Richard is disinclined to take his gun with the rest. He talks with the Bishop of Kilmore. This prelate, unlike a good many
of the Irish Bishops of his day, had visited his see, and, indeed,
resided there, for some considerable time. This morning, as the two
were walking along the terrace and talking over the alterations and
improvements in the house, the Bishop said, pointing to the window of
the West Room:

“You could never get one of my Irish flock to occupy that room, Sir
Richard.”

“Why is that, my lord? It is, in fact, my own.”

“Well, our Irish peasantry will always have it that it brings the worst
of luck to sleep near an ash-tree, and you have a fine growth of ash
not two yards from your chamber window.