“They’re old enough, I dare say,” Cecil admitted, indifferently. “A century, or a century and a half, or perhaps even more. They’re purely a Ravensthorpe product. I’ve never seen one of them outside the boundary.”
Sir Clinton left the path and made a closer examination of the tiny hut; but it presented very few points of interest in itself. Out of curiosity, he turned the handle of the door and found it moved easily.
“You seem to keep the locks and hinges oiled,” he said, with some surprise.
Pushing the door open, he stooped down and glanced inside.
“Very spick and span. You keep them in good repair, evidently.”
“Oh, one of the gardeners has the job of looking after them,” Cecil explained, without showing much interest.
“I’ve never seen anything of the sort before. They might be Picts’ dwellings, or something of that kind; but why keep them in repair? And, of course, they’re not prehistoric at all. They’re comparatively modern, from the way they’re put together. What are they?”
“Ask me another,” said Cecil, who seemed bored by the subject. “They’re an ancestral legacy, or an heirloom, or a tenant’s improvement, or whatever you like to call it. Clause in the will each time, to provide for them being kept in good repair, and so forth.”
Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears when he heard of this provision, though his tone showed only languid interest when he put his next inquiry.
“Anything at the back of it all? It seems a rum sort of business.”
“The country-people round about here will supply you with all the information you can believe about it—and a lot you’re not likely to swallow, too. By their way of it, Lavington Knoll up there”—he pointed vaguely to indicate its position—“was the last of the fairy strongholds hereabouts; and when most of the fairies went away, a few stayed behind. But these ones didn’t care much for the old Knoll after that. Reminded them of past glories and cheery company too much, I suppose; and so they made a sort of treaty with an ancestor of ours. He was to provide houses for them, and they were to look after the general prosperity side of Ravensthorpe.”
Sir Clinton seemed amused by Cecil’s somewhat scornful summary.
“A case of ‘Farewell rewards and fairies,’ it seems, Cecil.”
Then, half to himself, he hummed a few lines of Corbet’s song:
Witness those rings and roundelayes
Of theirs, which yet remaine;
Were footed in queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth . . .
“Do you go as far back as Elizabeth, here at Ravensthorpe, by any chance, Cecil?”
“So far as the grounds go, yes. The house was partly destroyed in Cromwell’s time; and some new bits were built on in place of the old stuff. But there’s a lot of the old part left yet, in quite good repair.”
Sir Clinton still seemed interested in the compact with the Fairies.
“Was there any penalty clause in the contract about these Houses? There’s usually some drawback to these affairs—like the Luck of Edenhall, for instance.”
“There used to be some legend or other that unless the Fairies found their houses always in good order, the Family Curse would come home to roost, one-time. No one believes in that sort of stuff nowadays; but it’s kept alive by this clause that’s put into every will—a kind of family custom, you know, that no one cares to be the first to break. If you call it a damned old wives’ tale, I shan’t blame you.”
Sir Clinton could not be sure whether Cecil’s indifference in the matter was natural or assumed; but in any case he thought it tactful to pursue the subject no further. Closing the door of the Fairy House again, he made his way back to the path where his companion was waiting for him.
As the Chief Constable rejoined him, Cecil looked round the horizon with feeble interest.
“Not much else to show you, I’m afraid,” he said. Then, with an after-thought: “Care to see rather a good view? The best one hereabouts is just up above us—through the wood here—if you think it worth the trouble of the climb. It’s not very far. We’ve plenty of time before lunch.”
Sir Clinton acquiesced, and they began to mount a further slope in the path which now led them up through a sparse pine-wood.
“There seems to be a good sound foundation to this path,” the Chief Constable commented, as they walked on.
“There used to be a carriage-drive, at one time, leading up to the top. I suppose the old birds used to drive up here and sit out having tea and admiring the view on fine days. But it’s been neglected for long enough. Hardly anyone goes up to the top now, except once in a blue moon or else by accident.”
Sir Clinton gave a nod of acquiescence.
“Anyone can see the path’s hardly ever used.”
“Just beyond this brow,” Cecil explained as they moved on, “there’s an old quarry cut in the further side of the hill. It’s a very old place, rather picturesque nowadays. Most of the stone for Ravensthorpe came from it in the old days, and during the rebuilding. After that, the quarry dropped out of use gradually; and finally someone had the notion of letting water in at the foot of it and having a sort of model lake there, with the cliff of the quarry at one end of it. We’re making for the top of the cliff by going this way; and when you get out of the wood into the open, you’ll find rather a good outlook over the country.”
A short walk took them through the rest of the pine-wood. On the further side they came into a belt of open ground beyond which, on a slight eminence, a little spinney blocked part of the view.
“That’s where we’re making for,” Cecil explained. ‘The best view-point is on the other side of these trees. The old birds, a century back, chose it carefully and did some laying out at the top; so I suppose they must have been keen on the place.”
As they approached the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed a fence running down from each side of it. Cecil followed the direction of the Chief Constable’s glance.
“That’s barbed wire,” he pointed out. “The spinney’s at the top of the quarry; but there’s a bad drop down towards the hollow on either side—a dangerous bit, practically precipitous—and so the wire was put up to prevent anyone wandering near the edge and tripping over.”
Cutting through the fringe of trees, they emerged at the top of the cliff. Here the ground had been levelled and paved. Along the precipice, a marble balustrade had been erected as a safeguard. Further back, a curved tier of marble seats faced the view; and here and there in the line rose pedestals carrying life-sized marble statues which faced out towards the gulf.
“This is really very elaborate,” Sir Clinton commented. “Evidently your ancestors liked the view, if they took so much trouble to put up this affair.”
He moved across the paved space, leaned on the balustrade, and looked down into the depths.
“I don’t wonder you fenced that in with barbed wire on each side,” he said. “It’s a nasty drop down there—well over a fifty-foot fall at least.”
“It’s nearer a hundred, really,” Cecil corrected him. “The height’s a bit deceptive from here. And a fall into that pool would be no joy, I can tell you! It’s full of sharp spikes of rock jutting up from the bottom. You’d get fairly well mauled if you happened to drop on any of them. You can’t see them for that green stuff in the water; but they’re all present and correct under the surface.”
Sir Clinton looked down at the weed-grown little lakelet. The dense green fronds gave the water an unpleasant appearance; and in some tiny backwaters the surface was covered with a layer of scum.