THE dying sunlight was bright on fields and Fens, and had still a radiance for roofs and corners of walls, when a motley assemblage of men, and lads, and children gathered together by degrees before a public-house. They were in the principal street of the village, some little way up the hill; they had brought with them banners, and sticks, and many pots and pans; and, to judge from the shouts of laughter that echoed continually, the highest good-humour prevailed. The merriment was occasioned chiefly by the lads, some of whom had blacked their faces, whilst some wore their coats inside out; and others had decorated themselves with wigs and whiskers, or had improved their eyebrows by great smears of burnt cork. A prominent figure was a hideous effigy, who was stuffed with rags, and clothed with coat and trousers, with a pipe stuck in his mouth beneath a battered hat, and a great stick fiercely brandished in his hand. This effigy was to be carried in the midst of the procession, the object of it, and the mark for general scorn; this frightful figure embodying the Moral of all the fun and excitement of the night. For this was a Society that had a Moral, as the flags and banners abundantly proclaimed.
These were many and various, but the numerous inscriptions all tended to the same end, or gave the same advice—the object apparently being to terrify those guilty of the special sin that was rebuked. The largest proclaimed the name of the Society, ‘Society for promoting Peace between Man and Wife’—another asked what should be the penalty of wife-beaters, and answered, ‘Lynching,’ in enormous letters of red—whilst a third contained a rude but spirited picture, which represented a criminal being hanged. The others bore similar mottoes, and were composed of odds and ends both of paper and of stuff, and those who carried them appeared highly proud to exhibit their burdens to all who came to look. The enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when the effigy was placed on a ladder and carried shoulder high; it was greeted with howls, and a clash of sticks and pans, and the procession formed hastily, and started on its way. With tumult, shouting, indescribable uproar, the Rantan proceeded on its course up the hill.
It passed the green, with its old steps, and village pump, and the old church, dusky against the dark trees of the Hall, and still wound upwards with clashing of pans and kettles, and incessant hooting and groaning from the lads. At the top of the hill it turned round to the right, where trees looked over the wall of the Manor Farm, and in front of the red school-house before which white lilies gleamed, it came for the first time to a halt. By this time the crowd had become very much augmented, some one or two hundred being assembled now.
The procession had paused, and now were begun some fresh arrangements which appeared to indicate an intended speech, since a young man, most fiercely adorned with burnt cork smudges, mounted up on a white gate to the right hand of the house. But it was not easy to check the enthusiasm of the lads, which expressed itself in brays, and hooting, and clashing of the pans; and for some while he remained on his elevation without any possibility of making himself heard. At last, after frantic waving of his arms, some sort of silence was produced, and he began:
‘We are the Society—’
‘Go it, Bill, go it,’ cried the lads in great excitement; ‘don’t spare the langwidge, let’s have yer tongue a bit.’
‘We are the Society for preserving Pe-ace; we do-ant believe in strife betwixt man and wife; we says when a man’s bin an’ swore like to a woman—’
‘Go it, Bill, then, go it,’ shouted all the lads in chorus. ‘We’ll all support yer; give it ’em well; ’ooray!’
‘—— ye all,’ cried Bill, beginning to swear in earnest, ‘what do ye mean by interruptin’ me? I’ll leather ye when I get ye,’ cried Bill, forgetting his peacefulness; ‘ye young uns shall feel my hands, I tell ye that!’
‘Hold back there, ye fools,’ proclaimed an older man; ‘can’t ye let a man be when he sets forth to speak? There isn’t a grain o’ sense amidst the lot; one ’ud think ye were bred upon folly, and not on milk.’
‘We’re on’y supportin’ of him,’ a lad urged, sulkily, ‘we thort it ’ud do him good to have a cheer. Here, Bill, ye get up,’ for Bill was going to descend, ‘an’ we’ll let be for a while, an’ hear ye out.’
Bill ascended once more, but his ardour was gone. His speech came with abruptness, snappily, in this wise:
‘It’s a known fack as men marry. A man as marries had better live at peace. And him as doesn’t set for to do his dooty had best be taught in this manner so to do. That’s all.’
‘Why, Bill, it’s not over,’ cried out the lads; ‘ye don’t mean to say as ye’ve got done a’ready.’ But Bill was not to be tempted to proceed.
‘A man speaks short,’ he replied, candidly, ‘when he spe-aks to fools. Help me down.’ With that he descended from his elevation, and the Rantan proceeded upon its way again.
It reached in due course the corner of the road, where the sunlight was golden between the trees on the left, and golden radiance and vivid shadows of trees fell in light and darkness upon the Manor wall. And now, down below, could be seen the distant country, bright and dim like some beautiful fairyland, and the long soft shadows upon the field of grass, and on the other side the Squire’s house, grey among the trees. They went down the steep road, shouting, clashing, hooting, the evening stillness rebuking them as they went, and reached the bottom of the hill without any interruption, and turned forthwith into the lower village street. Men and women stood at their gates to see them pass, the mothers holding their babies in their arms; and little children, too young to join in the tumult, babbled at them with great excitement and delight. There were none who objected to the discordant interruption that might have been heard for miles around; the sympathy of the villagers went with it, and no one would have ventured to attempt to interfere. This was partly due to a primitive sense of justice, and partly because Rob Salter had the unpopularity he deserved, but partly also to a sort of pleasure in the excitement, which in the quiet village made a kind of festival. The procession clashed onwards, gathering numbers as it went, and turned down by the public-house to Rob Salter’s home.
So quiet and still! the cottage stood in the shadows, with the evening light upon the gate and field beyond, with bolted door, and with blinds closely drawn—there was no sign of any drunken outbreaks here. But here, as at a resting-place, the procession halted, and gathered together all its strength, and rattled, hooted, groaned, shouted, and clashed, until its hideous clamour might be said to surpass itself. There was no answer, no sign that they were heard, the two women cowered together in their home; and after some five minutes of serenading had elapsed, the procession turned round, and went on its way again. It went along the road to the Fens as if it would get out into the country; and then, once more turning, proceeded up the hill, this time by more devious ways to the left of the village, with fields on one side of it, and the glowing Fens below. To the right, below a wall, there was a deserted stone-pit, all covered and shrouded with ivy and trees, and beneath that wall crouched an unseen auditor, a young lad who lay and listened, but who dared not raise his head. The procession of men would have known him if he had shown his face; he was Nat Salter, who was Rob Salter’s son.
There was another witness of whom they were more aware, for as they passed once more by the bushes of the Manor Farm it was observed by a few amongst the lads that the dark eyes of a girl were peeping from over the fence at them. The boys who observed her whispered amongst each other, and cast furtive glances, and appeared to feel interest; but the demands of business would not allow of delay, and they were obliged to go onwards with the rest. For one moment the dark face was raised to look after them; then it disappeared, and was not seen again.
Unheeding, the Rantan went round and round the village, for the enthusiasm was not exhausted soon; and with tumult, shouting, and some attempts at speeches, the hours of the evening were uproariously worn away. Once, twice more it paused before Jenny Salter’s home, and brayed, and clashed, and groaned out its loudest there; but the cottage remained, as before, closed and dark, and after a prolonged pause each time it went on again. The red, lovely glow that hovered round the horizon turned pale and faded, and the dimness of twilight came, the first stars began to shine out in the sky, and slowly the darkness of night encompassed all. And then the procession poured into a field upon the hill, and there gave vent to some final hoots and groans, and then all dispersed in their several directions, and left the fields and the village to the silence of the night. The boy who had been in hiding by the stone-pit, had waited to be sure that they had all dispersed; he raised his head now, and looked around with caution, and then through the darkness and stillness he stole off to his home.