The Three Strangers episode 3
The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in cinder-gray 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 drunk his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger’s occupation.
The latter did not immediately repy, and the man in the chimney-corner, with 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-gray.
"You may generally tell what a man is by his claws," observed the hedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. "My fingers be as full of thorns as an old pin-cushion 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 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 sing. 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 waist-coat, he waved the other hand in the air,and, with an extemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantlepiece, began:-
‘O 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 were 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.
"O, he’s the – -!" whispered the people in the background mentioning the name of the ominous public officer. "He’s come to do it! ‘Tis to be at Casterbridge jail tomorrow – the man for sheep-stealing – the poor clockmaker we heard of, who used to live away at Shottsford and had no work to do – Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer’s wife and farmer’s lad, and every man jack among ’em. He ( and they nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) is come up the country to do it because there’s not enough to do in his own county-town, and he’s going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall."
The stranger in cinder-gray 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 welcoming 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-gray. 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:-
‘Tomorrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all –
Tomorrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did 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 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 doorway. 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 a 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.
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 jail – that’s what it means."
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