The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in cinder-grey was effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger’s occupation.
The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with a sudden demonstrativeness, said, “Anybody may know my trade—I’m a wheelwright.”
“A very good trade for these parts,” said the shepherd.
“And anybody may know mine—if they’ve the sense to find it out,” said the stranger in cinder-grey.
“You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,” observed the hedge-carpenter, looking at his hands. “My fingers be as full of thorns as an old pincushion is of pins.”
The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the shade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took up the hedge-carpenter’s remark, and added smartly, “True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers.”
No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, the shepherd’s wife once more called for a song. The same obstacles presented themselves as at the former time—one had no voice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an extemporising gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantel-piece, began:
Oh my trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all—
My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take them up
on high,
And waft ’em to a far countree.
The room was silent when he had finished the verse—with one exception, that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer’s word, “Chorus!” joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish—
And waft ’em to a far countree.
Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish clerk, the engaged man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on the ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with some suspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger was merely singing an old song from recollection, or was composing one there and then for the occasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar’s Feast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, “Second verse, stranger,” and smoked on.
The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and went on with the next stanza as requested:
My tools are but common ones,
Simple shepherds all,
My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon
to swing,
Are implements enough for me.
Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that the stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and all started back with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down trembling.
“Oh, he’s the——!” whispered the people in the background, mentioning the name of an ominous public officer. “He’s come to do it. ’Tis to be at Casterbridge gaol to-morrow—the man for sheep-stealing—the poor clock-maker we heard of, who used to live away at Anglebury and had no work to do—Timothy Sommers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out of Anglebury by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer’s wife and the farmer’s man, and every man-jack among ’em. He” (and they nodded towards the stranger of the terrible trade) “is come from up the country to do it because there’s not enough to do in his own county-town, and he’s got the place here now our own county man’s dead; he’s going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.”
The stranger in cinder-grey took no notice of this whispered string of observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in the chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also held out his own. They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the room hanging upon the singer’s actions. He parted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint and hesitating.
The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife’s deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the welcome words, “Walk in!”
The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes.
“Can you tell me the way to——?” he began; when, gazing round the room to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-grey. It was just at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by bursting into his third verse:
To-morrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all—
To-morrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad
who did it ta’en,
And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!
The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before:
And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!
All this time the third stranger had been standing in the door-way. Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stood before them the picture of abject terror—his knees trembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly; his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed the door, and fled.
“What man can it be?” said the shepherd.
The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the odd conduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further and further from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself, till they formed a remote circle, an empty space of floor being left between them and him—
—circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.
The room was so silent—though there were more than twenty people in it—that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against the window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay.
The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun reverberated through the air—apparently from the direction of the county town.
“Be jiggered!” cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.
“What does that mean?” asked several.
“A prisoner escaped from the gaol—that’s what it means.”
All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the man in the chimney-corner, who said quietly, “
I’ve often been told that in this county they fire a gun at such times; but I never heard it till now.”
“I wonder if it is my man?” murmured the personage in cinder-grey.
“Surely it is!” said the shepherd involuntarily. “And surely we’ve seen him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and quivered like a leaf when he seed ye and heard your song!”
“His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,” said the dairyman.
“And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,” said Oliver Giles.
“And he bolted as if he’d been shot at,” said the hedge-carpenter.
“True—his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he bolted as if he’d been shot at,” slowly summed up the man in the chimney-corner.
“I didn’t notice it,” remarked the grim songster.
“We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,” faltered one of the women against the wall, “and now ’tis explained.”
The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-grey roused himself. “Is there a constable here?” he asked in thick tones. “If so, let him step forward.”
The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out of the corner, his betrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair.
“You are a sworn constable?”
“I be, sir.”
“Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him back here. He can’t have gone far.”
“I will, sir, I will—when I’ve got my staff. I’ll go home and get it, and come sharp here, and start in a body.”
“Staff! Never mind your staff; the man’ll be gone!”
“But I can’t do nothing without my staff—can I, William, and John, and Charles Jake? No; for there’s the king’s royal crown a-painted on en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en up and hit my prisoner, ’tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn’t ’tempt to take up a man without my staff—no, not I. If I hadn’t the law to gie me courage, why, instead o’ my taking up him he might take up me!”
“Now, I’m a king’s man myself, and can give you authority enough for this,” said the formidable person in cinder-grey. “Now, then, all of ye, be ready. Have ye any lanterns?”
“Yes—have ye any lanterns?—I demand it,” said the constable.
“And the rest of you able-bodied—”
“Able-bodied men—yes—the rest of ye,” said the constable.
“Have you some good stout staves and pitchforks—”
“Staves and pitchforks—in the name o’ the law. And take ’em in yer hands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell yea.”
Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was, indeed, though circumstantial, so convincing, that but little argument was needed to show the shepherd’s guests that after what they had seen it would look very much like connivance if they did not instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could not as yet have gone more than a few hundred yards over such uneven country.
A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill, away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.
Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of her baptism, the child who had been christened began to cry heartbrokenly in the room overheard. These notes of grief came down through the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below, who jumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents of the last half hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the room on the ground floor was deserted.
But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died away when a man returned round the corner of the house from the direction the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger of the chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The motive of his return was shown by his helping himself to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and which he had apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured out half a cup more mead from the quantity that remained, ravenously eating and drinking these as he stood. He had not finished when another figure came in just as quietly—the stranger in cinder-grey.
“Oh—you here?” said the latter smiling. “I thought you had gone to help in the capture.” And this speaker also revealed the object of his return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of old mead.
“And I thought you had gone,” said the other, continuing his skimmer-cake with some effort.
“Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,” said the other, confidentially, “and such a night as it is, too. Besides, ’tis the business o’ the Government to take care of its criminals—not mine.”
“True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without me.”
“I don’t want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows of this wild country.”
“Nor I neither, between you and me.”
“These shepherd-people are used to it—simple-minded souls, you know, stirred up to anything in a moment. They’ll have him ready for me before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.”
“They’ll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour in the matter.”
“True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and ’tis as much as my legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?”
“No, I am sorry to say. I have to get home over there”—he nodded indefinitely to the right—“and I feel as you do, that it is quite enough for my legs to do before bedtime.”
The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, shaking hands at the door, and wishing each other well, they went their several ways.
In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of the hog’s back elevation which dominated this part of the coomb. They had decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that the man of the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemed quite unable to form any such plan now. They descended in all directions down the hill, and straightway several of the party fell into the snare set by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblers over the lower cretaceous formation. The “lynchets,” or flint slopes, which belted the escarpment at intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and losing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, the lanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying on their sides till the horn was scorched through.
When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as the man who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided them round these treacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them in the exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and in this more rational order they plunged into the vale. It was a grassy, briary, moist channel, affording some shelter to any person who had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended on the other side.
Here they wandered apart, and after an interval closed together again to report progress. At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonely oak, the single tree on this part of the upland, probably sown there by a passing bird some hundred years before. And here, standing a little to one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself, appeared the man they were in quest of, his outline being well defined against the sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up and faced him.
“Your money or your life!” said the constable sternly to the tall figure.
“No, no,” whispered John Pitcher.
“ ’Tisn’t our side ought to say that. That’s the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on the side of the law.”
“Well, well,” replied the constable impatiently; “I must say something, mustn’t I? And if you had all the weight o’ this undertaking upon your mind, perhaps you’d say the wrong thing too—Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Fath—the Crown, I mane!”
The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time, and, giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting their courage, he strolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the third stranger; but his trepidation had in a great measure gone.
“Well, travellers,” he said, “did I hear ye speak to me?”
“You did: you’ve got to come and be our prisoner at once,” said the constable. “We arrest ye on the charge of not biding in Casterbridge gaol in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!”
On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not another word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd’s cottage.
It was eleven o’clock by the time they arrived. The light shining from the open door, a sound of men’s voices within, proclaimed to them as they approached the house that some new events had arisen in their absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd’s living-room to be invaded by two officers from Casterbridge gaol, and a well-known magistrate who lived at the nearest county seat, intelligence of the escape having become generally circulated.
“Gentlemen,” said the constable, “I have brought back your man—not without risk and danger; but every one must do his duty. He is inside this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward your prisoner.” And the third stranger was led to the light.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 62
