The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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reight," said Mr. Tatten. "I'm goin'. All t' same, I reckon 'at Mistress Perris is aimin' to be away to-morrow mornin'."
And instead of going straight to his own home in the lower part of the village, he went across the fields to a certain nook and corner behind the church, where, in a cottage tenanted by one Sal Bennett, the door of which was open to callers when that of the Dancing Bear was closed, and wherein many gallons of ale were consumed at hours when they could not be obtained on licensed premises, all the mischief of the village was concocted and all the best gossip and scandal discussed amongst a certain section of the baser sort.
Sal Bennett's only occupation in life, beyond that of wife to her husband, a meek and inoffensive old shepherd, who always retired to bed before the nightly orgies which were carried on in his cottage began, was the making of toffee, which she rolled up in long sticks of the thickness of the stem of a churchwarden pipe, and sold, carefully wrapped in fancy paper with a twirl at the end, to the children at the price of a halfpenny a stick or three sticks for a penny. She was engaged in the manufacture of this confection when Mr. Tatten entered the cottage, and she turned a crimsoned face upon him from the glowing fire whereon lay a frying-pan in which the ingredients of the toffee were fizzling and spitting. She was a gaunt and formidable female, and she ruled her satellites with an influence which none of them understood, though all felt it.
"Now then, what do ye want?" demanded Sal Bennett, regarding the visitor speculatively. "Hes owt happened, or what?"
"I cam' here afore I went home," Mr. Tatten said, in explanation of his presence. "If so be as ye're goin' to carry out what it were decided to do, like, up yonder at t' Cherry-trees and t' Limepits, ye'll hey' to do it to-neet. 'Cause I've fun' out 'at shoo's off first thing t'-morrow mornin', is t' woman."
Sal Bennett took her iron spoon out of the frying-pan, and, planting her great hands on her hips, looked Mr. Tatten searchingly in the face.
"Is that reight?" she asked. "Ha' yer made sure?"
"I'm as sure as I am 'at I see ye," answered Mr. Tatten. "Her and Tibby Graddige hes been gettin' her clothes ready all t'-day, and I see'd her packin' her box misen, and I gathered 'at shoo's goin' away to stop wi' rellytives, and shoo's paid me off, and g'ien me ten shillin' for misen, so theer. If it's goin' t' be done, it'll hev' to be done to-neet.
"Why, now, then!" said Sal Bennett. "It shall be done, reight enough. We'm all ready. T' images is already made, and they're in our shed at t' back theer, and theer's nowt to do now but to tell t' lads and them 'at's goin' t' tak' part. Ye mun go round, Bill, and give 'em t'word to be here as soon as t' darkness sets in. And tell 'em to bring as many owd cans and pans and tea-trays, and owt o' that sort as iver they can lay fingers to—it's no use wi'out theer's plenty o' noise."
"All reight," said Mr. Tatten. "I'll round 'em up. It's a rare good job 'at I fun' out shoo wor goin' t' mornin'."
"Well, as I say, all's ready," said Mrs. Bennett. "An' we'll gi' mi lady an' her fancy man summat to mak' 'em bethink theirsens."
When the darkness came on that night Rhoda and Tibby Graddige had just finished the labours of the day and were sitting down to supper. They had been ironing most of the afternoon, and the house-place was so hot from the bright fire which they had found it necessary to keep up that Rhoda had opened both door and window. Outside the house the night was very still, but a gentle wind was springing up from the south-west. And as it stole in, soft and warm, through window and door, it suddenly brought with it a strange and discordant sound which increased in volume with every passing second. It was a sound that seemed to be made up of various incongruous elements—the shouting of human beings, maddened or frenzied, the blowing of horns, the thumping of a drum, the beating of metal surfaces. And underneath and around it was the tramp of human feet.
Tibby Graddige, knowing old country woman that she was, was quick to hear and understand the first murmur of the approaching storm, and rose to her feet, white and trembling.
"Oh, missis, missis!" she gasped. "Oh, missis!
"What is it?" exclaimed Rhoda, rising just as hastily and upsetting the tea-pot which she was about to handle. "Tibby! What is it?"
Tibby Graddige listened for one brief second. The blare and the babel sounded more clearly with the next puff of wind. She gazed at Rhoda with horror-filled eyes.
"It's the stang!" she whispered hoarsely, "they're ridin' the stang for you and Taffendale. Eh, good Lord, what mun we do?—two helpless women! I heerd—I heerd a rumour 'at they would, but I never thought they'd do it: it's a good twenty year sin' it were ridden i' Martinsthorpe. Lord, ha' mercy on us!"
Rhoda scarcely comprehended the woman's meaning. But before she had time to speak Tibby Graddige clutched her by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs to a window which looked out upon the high-road. She pointed a finger to the vengeance which was coming, hydra-headed and brutal, through the night.
Rhoda looked fearfully out. The mob, led by Sal Bennett, had reached the top of the hill, and was sweeping forward on Cherry-trees in irregular formation. Some of its members carried torches; their yellow light glared upon two rudely-fashioned effigies, one of a man, the other of a woman, which were tied together, back to back and carried upon a short ladder supported on the shoulders of bearers. Around these things, mere bundles of straw stuffed into old garments and provided with masks, and swaying foolishly to and fro, a crowd of men, women, and young folk, lads and lasses, danced, leaped, skipped and ran, some beating old pans, kettles, tea-trays, some blowing horns and whistles, one at least thumping a drum; all screeching, howling, yelling, singing at the highest pitch of their voices. And now and then the sputtering torches threw into clear vision faces such as those folk saw in plenty who made a short journey from prison to guillotine in the times of the Terror.
"Lord, ha' mercy on us!" exclaimed Tibby Graddige for the second time. And she dragged Rhoda down the stair and out of the house and through the orchard. Hand-in-hand, sobbing from fright, the two women hurried into the fields in the direction of the Limepits.
Chapter XVII
That night Taffendale had been called into the stables to look at a sickly horse; coming away from the fold in company with his foreman, he heard the uproar which the stang-riders were creating around Cherry-trees. At his side the foreman uttered a sharp exclamation, and turned in the direction of the unholy sound.
"What's that?" asked Taffendale, with a sudden premonition of approaching trouble.
The foreman, an old Martinsthorpe man, made a noise in his throat, which was half a groan and half a laugh.
"I'm afraid they're up to summat down yonder, sir," he answered. "I know what yon row means. They're ridin' t' stang! It's many a year sin' that were done hereabouts. But I know t' sound. It'll be that theer Sal Bennett and her lot."
"But—where?" exclaimed Taffendale. "Where?"
Without further word the foreman climbed the steps of the granary, beneath which he and his master were just then walking, and looked out in the gloom across the darkening surface of the uplands. Taffendale followed him. He knew what the answer to his question would be. Standing at the foreman's side, he, too, gazed at the glare of the rude torches which the stang-riders carried. The points of light whirled and eddied hither and thither, but as the two men watched they became concentrated upon one spot in the darkness.
"They're at Cherry-trees," muttered the foreman. "Cherry-trees!"
Taffendale swore under his breath. He gripped the rail which protected the head of the granary steps, and stared at the yellow patch of light with straining eyes. In the silence of the countryside the blare of the horns and the trumpet, the metallic clatter of the pans and kettles, the insistent thumpthump-thump of the drum, grew louder and louder; his nerves began to grow raw under the irritation.
"If there's anybody at home, there," remarked the foreman, "it'll be a bad job for 'em."
"There's Mrs. Perris there,"