Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘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.

[CHAPTER IV
THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED]

IN that home the lamp had been lighted for the evening, and the mother and daughter sat in silence at their work, for the timid efforts of poor Jenny at conversation had been negatived by the determined silence of her child. Yet, though Annie had been quiet, it had not been the quietness of resignation, she had trembled and quivered like a frightened animal; and during the uproar that had been three times repeated had been scarcely able to keep herself in her seat. It had not been terror by which she was moved, but rage; a rage that glowed in her eyes and worked in her troubled lips, a condition of feeling that was no doubt assisted by her physical weakness, but which was yet such shattering agitation as only the sensitive can feel. Her face had inherited much beauty from her mother, but it was a more vivid beauty, more easily seen and felt; and in its best moments had never the look of patience that had belonged to her mother in her girlish days. Yet, as I have said, the eyes of any stranger would, no doubt, have proclaimed her the more beautiful of the two.