she could n&apos;t understand that any woman could resist for a moment the prospect of an association - any sort of association - with the wonderful , the handsome , the fascinating Connor Winslow . and Con ? well , as far as I could judge , Con thought exactly the same . fatted calf or no fatted calf , Annabel &apos;s homecoming would certainly be a riot . chapter 5 . oh , the oak and the ash , and the bonny ivy tree , they are all growing so green in the north country . traditional . the approach to Whitescar was down a narrow gravelled track edged with hawthorns . there was no gate . on the right of the gap where the track left the main road , stood a dilapidated signpost which had once said , private road to Forrest Hall . on the left was a new and solid-looking stand for milk-churns , which bore a beautifully-painted legend , Whitescar . between these symbols the lane curled off between its high hawthorns , and out of sight . I had come an hour too early , and no one was there to meet the bus . I had only two cases with me , and carrying these I set off down the lane . round the first bend there was a quarry , disused now and overgrown , and here , behind a thicket of brambles , I left my cases . they would be safe enough , and could be collected later . meanwhile I was anxious to make my first reconnaissance alone . the lane skirted the quarry , leading downhill for perhaps another two hundred yards before the hedges gave way on the one side to a high wall , and on the other - the left - to a fence which allowed a view across the territory that Lisa had been at such pains to picture for me . I stood , leaning on the top bar of the fence , and looked at the scene below me . Whitescar was about eight miles , as the crow flies , from Bellingham . there the river , meandering down its valley , doubles round leisurely on itself in a great loop , all but enclosing the rolling , well-timbered lands of Forrest Park . at the narrow part of the loop the bends of the river are barely two hundred yards apart , forming a sort of narrow isthmus through which ran the track on which I stood . this was the only road to the Hall , and it divided at the lodge gates for Whitescar and the west Lodge which lay the other side of the park . the main road , along which my bus had come , lay some way above the level of the river , and the drop past the quarry to the Hall gates was fairly steep . from where I stood you could see the whole near-island laid out below you in the circling arm of the river , with its woods and its water meadows and the chimneys glimpsed among the green . to the east lay Forrest Hall itself , set in what remained of its once formal gardens and timbered walks , the grounds girdled on two sides by the curving river , and on two by a mile-long wall and a belt of thick trees . except for a wooded path along the river , the only entrance was through the big pillared gates where the main lodge had stood . this , I knew , had long since been allowed to crumble gently into ruin . I could n&apos;t see it from where I was , but the tracks to Whitescar and west Lodge branched off there , and I could see the latter clearly , cutting across the park from east to west , between the orderly rows of planted conifers . at the distant edge of the river , I caught a glimpse of roofs and chimneys , and the quick glitter of glass that marked the hot-houses in the old walled garden that had belonged to the Hall . there , too , lay the stables , and the house called west Lodge , and a footbridge spanning the river to serve a track which climbed through the far trees and across the moors to Nether Shields farm , and , eventually , to Whitescar . the Whitescar property , lying along the river-bank at the very centre of its loops , and stretching back to the junction of the roads at the Hall gates , was like a healthy bite taken out of the circle of Forrest territory . lying neatly between the Hall and west Lodge , it was screened now from my sight by a rise in the land that only allowed me to see its chimneys , and the tops of the trees . I left my view-point , and went on down the track , not hurrying . behind the wall to my right now loomed the Forrest woods , the huge trees full out , except for the late , lacy boughs of ash . the ditch at the wall &apos;s foot was frilled with cow-parsley . the wall was in poor repair ; I saw a blackbird &apos;s nest stuffed into a hole in the coping , and there were tangles of campion and toad-flax bunching from gaps between the stones . at the Hall entrance , the lane ended in a kind of cul-de-sac , bounded by three gateways . on the left , a brand-new oak gate guarded the forestry commission &apos;s fir plantations and the road to west Lodge . to the right lay the pillars of the Hall entrance . ahead was a solid , five-barred gate , painted white , with the familiar Whitescar blazoning the top bar . beyond this , the track lifted itself up a gentle rise of pasture , and vanished over a ridge . from here , not even the chimney-tops of Whitescar were visible ; only the smooth sunny prospect of green pastures and dry-stone walling sharp with blue shadows , and , in a hollow beyond the rise somewhere , the tops of some tall trees . but the gateway to the right might have been the entrance to another sort of world . where the big gates of the Hall should have hung between their massive pillars , there was simply a gap giving on to a driveway , green and mossy , its twin tracks no longer worn by wheels , but matted over by the discs of plaintain and hawkweed , rings of weed spreading and overlapping like the rings that grow and ripple over each other when a handful of gravel is thrown into water . at the edges of the drive the taller weeds began , hedge-parsley and campion , and forget-me-not gone wild , all frothing under the ranks of the rhododendrons , whose flowers showed like pale , symmetrical lamps above their splayed leaves . overhead hung the shadowy , enormous trees . there had been a lodge once , tucked deep in the trees beside the gate . a damp , dismal place it must have been to live in ; the walls were almost roofless now , and half drifted over with nettles . the chimney-stacks stuck up like bones from a broken limb . all that had survived of the little garden was a rank plantation of rhubarb , and the old blush rambler that ran riot through the gaping windows . there was no legend here of Forrest to guide the visitor . for those wise in the right lores there were some heraldic beasts on top of the pillars , rampant , and holding shields where some carving made cushions under the moss . from the pillars , to either side , stretched the high wall that had once marked the boundaries . this was cracked and crumbling in many places , and the copings were off , but it was still a barrier , save in one place not far from the pillar on the lodge side of the gate . here a giant oak stood . it had been originally on the inside of the wall , but with the years it had grown and spread , pressing closer and ever closer to the masonry , until its vast flank had bent and finally broken the wall , which here lay in a mere pile of tumbled and weedy stone . but the power of the oak would be its undoing , for the wall had been clothed in ivy , and the ivy had reached for the tree , crept up it , engulfed it , till now the trunk was one towering mass of the dark gleaming leaves , and only the tree &apos;s upper branches managed to thrust the young gold leaves of early summer through the strangling curtain . eventually the ivy would kill it . already , through the tracery of the ivy-stems , some of the oak-boughs showed dead , and one great lower limb , long since broken off , had left a gap where rotten wood yawned , in holes deep enough for owls to nest in . I looked up at it for a long time , and then along the neat sunny track that led out of the shadow of the trees towards Whitescar . somewhere a ring-dove purred and intoned , and a wood-warbler stuttered into its long trill , and fell silent . I found that I had moved , without realising it , through the gateway , and a yard or two up the drive into the wood . I stood there in the shade , looking out at the wide fields and the cupped valley , and the white-painted gate gleaming in the sun . I realised that I was braced as if for the start of a race , my mouth dry , and the muscles of my throat taut and aching . I swallowed a couple of times , breathed deeply and slowly to calm myself , repeating the now often-used formula of what was there to go wrong , after all ? I was Annabel . I was coming home . I had never been anyone else . all that must be forgotten . Mary Grey need never appear again , except , perhaps , to Con and Lisa . meanwhile , I would forget her , even in my thoughts . I was Annabel Winslow , coming home . I walked quickly out between the crumbling pillars , and pushed open the white gate . it did n&apos;t even creak . it swung quietly open on sleek , well-oiled hinges , and came to behind me with a smooth click that said money . well , that was what had brought me , was n&apos;t it ? I walked quickly out of the shade of the Forrest trees , and up the sunny track towards Whitescar . in the bright afternoon stillness the farm looked clean in its orderly whitewash , like a toy . from the top of the rise I could see it all laid out , in plan exactly like the maps that Lisa Dermott had drawn for me so carefully , and led me through in imagination so many times . the house was long and low , two-storied , with big modern windows cut into the old thick walls . unlike the rest of the group of buildings , it was not whitewashed , but built of sandstone , green-gold with age . the lichens on the roof showed , even at that distance , like patens of copper laid along the soft blue slates . it faced on to a strip of garden - grass and flower-borders and a lilac tree - whose lower wall edged the river . from the garden , a white wicket-gate gave on a wooden footbridge . the river was fairly wide here , lying under the low , tree-hung cliffs of its further bank with that still gleam that means depth . it reflected the bridge , the trees , and the banked tangles of elder and honeysuckle , in layers of deepening colour as rich as a Flemish painter &apos;s palette . on the nearer side of house and garden lay the farm ; a courtyard - even at this distance I could see its clean baked concrete , and the freshness of the paint on doors and gates - surrounded by byres and stables and sheds , with the red roof of the big Dutch barn conspicuous beside the remains of last year &apos;s straw stacks , and a dark knot of Scotch pines . I had been so absorbed in the picture laid out before me , that I had n&apos;t noticed the man approaching , some thirty yards away , until the clang of his nailed boots on the iron of the cattle-grid startled me . he was a burly , middle-aged man in rough farm clothes , and he was staring at me in undisguised interest as he approached . he came at a pace that , without seeming to , carried him over the distance between us at a speed that left me no time to think at all . I did have time to wonder briefly if my venture alone into the Winslow den was going to prove my undoing , but at least there was no possibility now of turning tail . 