A RANTAN
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.