Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

And so the years slipped away slowly, one by one, in the simple employments of a workman’s wife, marked by the continual development of the children, and by drunken outbursts too frequently from Rob. But, as years went on he was still less at home, and even when he professed to be there he was not seen there often, though Jenny often sat up for him all the night that she might open the door as soon as his step was heard. No home in the village was kept more daintily, no children were prettier or more neatly dressed, the heavy poverty that pressed continually had nothing repulsive in its outward signs. But the neighbours complained that Mrs Salter kept herself too much apart; she had the reserve of sorrow, and preferred to be alone.

More than eighteen years had passed since Jenny’s wedding day, and she had lived in the same place all the time, for the vagaries and expenses of her husband had never left him able to provide a larger house. At the foot of the hill there is a public-house, and by the side of it is a tiny lane, a lane that is not many feet in length, and is closed by a gate that leads out into the fields. Rob owned the old, whitewashed, red-tiled cottage that was nearest to the gate, with a little garden at the side, between it and the field. It was not large enough for a growing family, but those who are poor must do the best they can.

And, certainly, if there was not much room in the cottage the same thing could not be said of the fields beyond, the wide, marshy fields that stretched down to the canal, and were known as the ‘Thackbusk’ by the village-folk. There were silver-grey willows in those wide-stretching fields, and masses of elder in the summer-time, and above could be seen the red roofs of the village, and far in the distance the grey cathedral towers. The Thackbusk allowed you plenty of room to play; the children of Jenny knew that very well.

But those children were almost man and woman on that July evening when Jenny left the train, and walked alone down the street beneath the hill with the bruise on her shoulder, and a sore weight on her heart. Some red cows passed peaceably by her as she went, with the urchin who drove them loitering behind; and a young workman was leaning outside the railings of the chapel, proud of holding his baby in his arms. Jenny went on alone, with her head bent always downwards, and her mind in her child’s sick-room, and in tender contrivances, and the burdens that were both of memory and foreboding pressing their habitual weight upon her heart till she did not hear the good-evening of a neighbour who stood at his door with his pipe in his mouth. The man’s eyes followed her curiously as she walked, but she did not turn round, so she was not aware of it.

‘Well, mother, you have been a while,’ were the words that greeted her, as she slowly opened her cottage-door at last, not prepared for the fever-worn face that raised itself from the cushions of the great wooden arm-chair on the hearth. ‘You wouldn’t expect to see me here downstairs, but I couldn’t rest after what Mrs Beeton said—she says that they’re going to Rantan us through the village—I wish I was a man, that I might kill them all! We’ll never get over this even’, never, never; we had best leave the place as soon’s this night is done!’

These were not the most cheering words to come as greeting to an anxious heart at the close of a weary day; but Jenny, although they struck her like a blow, was more alarmed for her daughter than herself. With renewed anxiety she laid aside her bonnet, and came to the hearth to bend above her child; and Annie raised slowly her languid, beautiful face, shaken with the sobs that she had till then restrained. We will leave them to cling to each other, and to whisper, and go out into the village street to learn the rest.

[CHAPTER III
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.