"THE BAN OF CRAUNSTON."
"Well, Miss Ingelow. All alone and wrapped in meditation! Hope I
haven't disturbed the solution of some knotty problem."
"Oh, no, Mr Dorrien," answered Margaret gaily, turning away from the
window. "I haven't been long back from evensong, and the only problem I
was trying to solve was, what can have become of father. He ought to
have been back by now. And it has set in wet, and he didn't take an
umbrella."
"He will be sure to borrow one, I should think. But are your sisters
out in the rain, too?"
"I'm afraid I can't answer for that, they're too far away," said
Margaret, with a laugh. "They went up to London yesterday, to stay with
an aunt of ours."
"Went up to London? I had no idea of that," echoed Roland, with a
momentary flash of surprise, strongly dashed with disappointment,
crossing his face. "And do they make a long stay?"
"About a fortnight or three weeks. Ah--there is father!"
"Upon my word, Dorrien," began the rector, as Roy unceremoniously pushed
past him while entering, "I must again impress upon you the slur you
cast upon my hospitable gates by leaving this chap outside the same.
Now, Roy, old man, make yourself at home."
"No fear of his not doing that," laughed Roy's master, as the dog
deliberately curled himself up on the softest rug in the room. "But he
was rather wet, so I thought he'd better wait outside."
"Father, go at once and change your cassock," interrupted Margaret.
"It's wet through."
"Not a bit of it," replied the rector, stooping to inspect his flowing
skirt. "Brown lent me the very father of all ginghams. He buttonholed
me in his dim, mysterious way, and said he hoped I wouldn't be above,
etc, etc. I told him I should be more than glad to be beneath it, and
accordingly came along the street under full sail and a complete
shelter. Brown is the prince of opportune and considerate vergers. And
now, Dorrien, don't hurry off. Stay and have a chop with us, and cheer
an old man in his loneliness. My two youngest girls are away disporting
themselves in the gay metropolis, so I can promise you a little less
noise than usual. You've got your bicycle, I see, so you're
independent."
Roland accepted with pleasure. He and the rector were great friends,
and he was quite upon the "dropping in" footing by this time.
"Right. Margaret, take care of him for half an hour or so, during which
period inexorable duty will keep your humble servant in his study
chair." And the rector left the room, humming a bar or two of the old
plainsong hymn, whose melody lingered in his mind fresh from the dimly
lighted choir at the close of the evening office.
If disappointment as to the absent was weighing upon Roland's mind, he
was unconsciously exemplifying the axiom as to a compensating element in
all things. It was a few days after The Skegs exploration episode, and
he had been making up his mind to take an opportunity of getting the
rector to tell him the whole story of the legendary Ban, not that he
believed in it himself, or was inclined to, but it would be interesting
to hear the so-called facts. Here was just such an opportunity, as they
would be alone together after dinner.
"You'll have a wet ride back, Mr Dorrien, I'm afraid," said Margaret,
as they sat down to table. "It's coming down harder than ever."
"Oh, that's nothing to some of my old privations," he laughed, "except
that the very snugness now will make it all the rougher to turn out."
And snug it was. The drawn curtains only deadened the constant patter
of the rain upon the windows, and the suggestion of the sort of evening
outside thrown out by the sound, enhanced the sense of comfort and
restfulness within. Under these circumstances, three people,
sufficiently well known to each other to be able to converse without
restraint, are in a position to pass a thoroughly pleasant evening. Yet
to one, at any rate, of these three there was a sense of something
wanting--a vacant place, perhaps, as of somebody absent, whose absence
was really missed. Roy, the irrepressible, with his wonted
off-handedness, was begging impartially from everybody in turn.
"Bother that post!" exclaimed the rector, as a sharp double knock cut
across the conversation. "A man can't dine in peace without this age of
progress chucking its reprehensible invention into the flavour of his
sirloin. Here we are--a whole stack of hopes and fears"--he went on,
contemplating, with a whimsical expression, the sheaf of letters at that
moment brought in. "First, diocesan--that'll keep. Item--invitation to
preach--ditto, ditto. That's yours, Margaret--and--this is mine--from
Olive. No, it's for me, all for me," he cried gleefully. "Not for you
at all, Margaret, this time. Let's see what she says. Excuse me,
Dorrien--sink ceremony. By the way, I promised you a quiet dinner in
the absence of those two chatterboxes, and one of them sends us two
sheets of clatter by post--ha-ha!"
It was very pleasant to watch the affectionate delight with which the
old man read through his favourite child's letter.
"Why, they're only going to stay ten days after all," he cried in
astonishment. "The child isn't generally so eager to get back to her
old dad, after the joys and glories of the metropolis. Here's a message
for you, Dorrien: `Tell Mr Dorrien, I saw a love of a dog the other
day, that almost outshines Roy. Almost--not quite--mind you tell him
_almost_ or he'll never speak to me again.'"
Roland, who had been inwardly startled at the juxtaposition of ideas,
quickly recovered himself, and made some pleasant remark. Two things
occurred to him. It might be that there was some reason underlying
Olive's anxiety to return speedily, and the message, innocent as it
read, was to remind him that she did not forget him.
"Dad, Eustace is coming home next week," remarked Margaret, looking up
from a letter she had been reading.
"Is he? The rascal! it's about time he did. Dorrien, you will have the
dubious pleasure of making the acquaintance of my hopeful at the date
just named. He has been away yachting with a friend, and by this time
doubtless considers himself fully competent to take command of the
Channel Fleet."
Thus conversation flowed on, and at last Margaret rose. No, she would
not be lonely, she said, in response to an intimation to that effect.
She had more than enough to do to occupy all her time.
"Draw round the fire, Dorrien--fancy requiring one at this time of
year," said the rector, as the door closed upon his daughter. "Now to
try and unearth some cigars," diving into a chiffonier in the corner.
"Ah! here we are. Light up. Oh, and we'll put the decanters at the
corner here, where we can reach them."
Roland blew out a long puff of smoke, and lay back in easy content.
"I wish you'd tell me something, Dr Ingelow," he said.
"And that?"
"Why, I want to know the true version of that ridiculous story attached
to our family. You know--the ghost on The Skegs. You are sure to have
it at your fingers' ends."
"Does not your father know it?"
"I believe he does, but he promptly shelves the topic if you moot it.
And, you know, he isn't the sort of man to get anything out of that he's
bent on keeping dark."
"H'm! Well, the original version of the tradition is to be found in
Surinn's `Legends and Myths of Baronial Europe,' a very scarce and bulky
book, which came out between forty and fifty years ago, and the incident
occurred, if I remember rightly, in the middle of the last century. The
narrative is entitled `The Ban of Craunston.' It was a wild and lawless
period in out-of-the-way parts, and this corner of the world came in no
wise behind the spirit of the age, for the coast was the happy hunting
ground of wreckers and smugglers, and the roads of highwaymen and other
freebooters. At that time, one Richard Dorrien was Squire of Cranston.
He was a bachelor, and his younger brother lived at the Hall with him.
The latter, Hubert by name, was an open-hearted, bright-spirited
youngster, immensely popular with both sexes; whereas Richard, the
Squire, seems to have been a gloomy, violent-tempered man, disliked and
feared on all sides. Well, the brothers got on rather well together--
possibly on account of the total dissimilarity of their characters--
until the apple of discord was thrown into their midst in the shape of a
young lady who came to take up her abode in Wandsborough, then a
straggling little place, consisting of a score of houses. She was a
foreigner--though of what nationality the chronicle omits to state--of
extraordinary beauty, and lived alone with a _duenna_ of regulation age
and hideosity. It is said that this young woman was a Jacobite
emissary, and it was in that capacity that she and Richard Dorrien
became acquainted, for he was an ardent Jacobite, and over head and ears
involved in the plots of the day. But be this as it may, it was a case
of love at first sight. The churlish and misanthropical Squire became
violently enslaved; unfortunately, however, the lady declined his
addresses. More unfortunately still, she did not decline those of his
brother--quite the reverse. Well, now, this position of affairs could
but have one ending, in a state of society wherein men ran each other
through on far less provocation than would induce you in these days to
knock a fellow down. But there was no open quarrel. On the contrary,
the Squire was so studiously cordial to his brother that the latter was
thrown quite off his guard. Not so one or two of his intimates, who
went so far as to warn him--and nearly got run through for their pains.
Matters went on in this way till the day before Hubert was to wed the
fair unknown. On the afternoon of that day the two brothers put off in
their sailing cutter to tack about the bay. They were alone together,
and seemed on the best of terms. The afternoon closed in squally and
rough, and the boat and its occupants were lost to view in the mist.
Darkness came on, and still the Dorriens did not return. The seafaring
people at Minchkil began to get anxious, and talked of going in search,
but there was a high sea running and every sign of a rising gale;
moreover, they knew that the missing men were nearly as amphibious as
they themselves. Then suddenly there sounded through the night the wild
unearthly howling of a dog. Awed to the heart, it was some time before
the superstitious seafarers could make up their minds to investigate
further. The sound came from the cliff above them to westward, and
thither at last they all proceeded. There, at the very extremity of the
headland which looks down on The Skegs, stood a huge boar-hound, which
they recognised as the Squire's favourite dog, Satan, a savage brute, of
whom the whole neighbourhood stood in terror. The animal stood there on
the brink of the cliff--his neck stretched out over the churning waves
below--throwing out his long-drawn, deep-voiced bay into the misty
darkness. Then the men knew that something had happened. And now mark
this. At the very moment this discovery was made, Richard Dorrien
appeared suddenly before the young foreign lady, dripping and soaked
from head to foot, and told her, without the slightest warning, that her
lover was drowned. She seemed turned to stone. She gazed at him for a
moment with a wild stare, gasped out one word--`Murdered!'--and, still
fixing him with that glassy stare, fell prone to the floor in a swoon.
He never saw her again.
"A terrible gale raged all that night, and in the morning fragments of
the missing boat were washed ashore. The craft had been splintered
almost to matchwood. It was not till many days afterwards that Hubert
Dorrien's corpse came to light. At first the survivor would hardly
mention the subject, much less give any account of it. Eventually,
however, it leaked out that the boat had been driven upon The Skegs by
the gale, and its occupants, thrown into the water, were forced to swim
for their lives. And now, although nothing can be more reasonable and
probable than this solution of the matter, it was not long before dark
rumours began to get about. Of course, there could be no vestige of
proof either way; for the tragedy out there in the black and
storm-lashed bay was witnessed by no mortal eye. Months went by. The
survivor became more and more morose, shunned everybody, and took to
hard drinking. The cause of all the turmoil left the neighbourhood the
week following on the tragedy. One morning. Cranston was in a state of
alarm. The Squire was missing. Enquiry at length elicited that he had
put out to sea the previous night accompanied only by his huge hound.
Richard Dorrien was never seen again, neither was his dog. The night
was wild and tempestuous, and it was at first thought that his boat had
been swamped. But days and weeks went by, and no trace of wreckage came
to light--and finally all hope was abandoned.
"Then suddenly an awful state of scare arose among the seafaring
population. Ghostly bayings began to be heard at night on the cliff in
the neighbourhood of The Skegs. They were heard by fishermen in their
boats at sea and by belated wanderers out on the down. Some had even
made out the shape of a large dog resting on the summit of the loftier
of The Skegs. Forthwith, the theory took root that Richard Dorrien had,
beyond doubt, murdered his brother, and in expiation was doomed to haunt
the scene of the tragedy and take the shape of his huge and savage
boar-hound. Those who have any idea to what depths of superstition the
country population was in those days plunged, can easily imagine the
frantic terror which such an apparition would have for the pliers of a
dangerous calling. Why, to this day you can't induce one of the fisher
folk to venture too near The Skegs--let alone land there."
"But wasn't there a death warning conveyed by the apparition?" asked
Roland.
"Ah! now we come to the strangest part of the whole story. There got
about soon afterwards a curious prophecy; no one has ever been able to
tell with whom it originated. Perhaps you know it?"
"I know that this shape is said to appear whenever one of us had lived
long enough, and that it is predicted that we are none of us to die in
our beds, but yet bloodlessly, which is a consolation to any of us who
may be engaged in a scrimmage. But the prediction has been falsified--
on the last occasion at any rate. My brother Vernon tumbled into a
crevasse, you know, and as the poor chap must have been dashed to pieces
the tradition fails."
"Well, I don't want to encourage you in any uncomfortable apprehensions,
Dorrien; but what you say does not necessarily follow."
"Now you mention it, no more it does. And it is undoubtedly a queer
thing that we should all have come to grief by water. I suppose, as a
glacier is frozen water, the last instance holds good. Then there was
my uncle, who died suddenly on deck, and was buried at sea. My
grandfather, again, was drowned while skating, and they say the
tradition carries itself further back still. However, as we seem all
born to be drowned we can none of us be hanged, so there's a bright side
to even that situation. By the way, was the `Ban' to the fore on the
last occasion?"
"I only know that so it was reported. A shepherd came running in from
Durnley Downs one night, with a white face and chattering teeth, and
vowed he had seen and heard the dog on The Skegs. Two days afterwards
the news of the disaster arrived. But I wouldn't trouble my head about
the affair, if I were you."
"Not I. Life is a precious deal too prosaic and tangible a concern for
a man to bother himself about local superstitions."
"Well, I should have imagined that would be your idea, or I would not
have opened my mind upon a gruesome tradition which is supposed to
concern you and yours," was the rector's reply, in a more careless tone
than he had adopted yet.
One side of the prophecy, however, he withheld from his questioner.
This was, that though every male Dorrien should under it meet with a
bloodless death--presumably by water--the power of the "Ban" would at
last be broken--broken by some terrible and tragic eventuality,
obscurely and ambiguously hinted at.
"By Jove, Doctor, but you do know how to tell a ghost story," laughed
Roland, when the other had done. "Why, you spun that yarn as if you
believed every word of it yourself."
"Well? That's the right way to tell any story, isn't it?" said the
rector carelessly. And then, as it was getting late, Roland got up to
leave.
Later, as he was sending his bicycle through the pouring rain at a pace
which should make short work of the three miles of smooth but hilly road
which lay between the Rectory and Cranston--Roy, a draggled mass of
woolly mud, galloping behind--the incidents of the strange and gruesome
tale seemed to take hold of his mind in the darkness.
"Looks as if the prediction was going to be fulfilled again in my own
case at the rate this infernal rain's coming down," he said to himself,
half jocosely, half grimly.