CHAPTER XLVII.

Were the inventors of automatic machines to be ranged according to the

excellence of their devices for producing sound artistic torture, the

creator of the man-trap would occupy a very respectable if not a very

high place.

It should rather, however, be said, the inventor of the particular form

of man-trap of which this found in the keeper’s out-house was a

specimen. For there were other shapes and other sizes, instruments

which, if placed in a row beside one of the type disinterred by Tim,

would have worn the subordinate aspect of the bears, wild boars, or

wolves in a travelling menagerie, as compared with the leading lion or

tiger. In short, though many varieties had been in use during those

centuries which we are accustomed to look back upon as the true and

only period of merry England—in the rural districts more especially—and

onward down to the third decade of the nineteenth century, this model

had borne the palm, and had been most usually followed when the

orchards and estates required new ones.

There had been the toothless variety used by the softer-hearted

landlords—quite contemptible in their clemency. The jaws of these

resembled the jaws of an old woman to whom time has left nothing but

gums. There were also the intermediate or half-toothed sorts, probably

devised by the middle-natured squires, or those under the influence of

their wives: two inches of mercy, two inches of cruelty, two inches of

mere nip, two inches of probe, and so on, through the whole extent of

the jaws. There were also, as a class apart, the bruisers, which did

not lacerate the flesh, but only crushed the bone.

The sight of one of these gins when set produced a vivid impression

that it was endowed with life. It exhibited the combined aspects of a

shark, a crocodile, and a scorpion. Each tooth was in the form of a

tapering spine, two and a quarter inches long, which, when the jaws

were closed, stood in alternation from this side and from that. When

they were open, the two halves formed a complete circle between two and

three feet in diameter, the plate or treading-place in the midst being

about a foot square, while from beneath extended in opposite directions

the soul of the apparatus, the pair of springs, each one being of a

stiffness to render necessary a lever or the whole weight of the body

when forcing it down.

There were men at this time still living at Hintock who remembered when

the gin and others like it were in use. Tim Tangs’s great-uncle had

endured a night of six hours in this very trap, which lamed him for

life. Once a keeper of Hintock woods set it on the track of a poacher,

and afterwards, coming back that way, forgetful of what he had done,

walked into it himself. The wound brought on lockjaw, of which he died.

This event occurred during the thirties, and by the year 1840 the use

of such implements was well-nigh discontinued in the neighborhood. But

being made entirely of iron, they by no means disappeared, and in

almost every village one could be found in some nook or corner as

readily as this was found by Tim. It had, indeed, been a fearful

amusement of Tim and other Hintock lads—especially those who had a dim

sense of becoming renowned poachers when they reached their prime—to

drag out this trap from its hiding, set it, and throw it with billets

of wood, which were penetrated by the teeth to the depth of near an

inch.

As soon as he had examined the trap, and found that the hinges and

springs were still perfect, he shouldered it without more ado, and

returned with his burden to his own garden, passing on through the

hedge to the path immediately outside the boundary. Here, by the help

of a stout stake, he set the trap, and laid it carefully behind a bush

while he went forward to reconnoitre. As has been stated, nobody passed

this way for days together sometimes; but there was just a possibility

that some other pedestrian than the one in request might arrive, and it

behooved Tim to be careful as to the identity of his victim.

Going about a hundred yards along the rising ground to the right, he

reached a ridge whereon a large and thick holly grew. Beyond this for

some distance the wood was more open, and the course which Fitzpiers

must pursue to reach the point, if he came to-night, was visible a long

way forward.

For some time there was no sign of him or of anybody. Then there shaped

itself a spot out of the dim mid-distance, between the masses of

brushwood on either hand. And it enlarged, and Tim could hear the

brushing of feet over the tufts of sour-grass. The airy gait revealed

Fitzpiers even before his exact outline could be seen.

Tim Tangs turned about, and ran down the opposite side of the hill,

till he was again at the head of his own garden. It was the work of a

few moments to drag out the man-trap, very gently—that the plate might

not be disturbed sufficiently to throw it—to a space between a pair of

young oaks which, rooted in contiguity, grew apart upward, forming a

V-shaped opening between; and, being backed up by bushes, left this as

the only course for a foot-passenger. In it he laid the trap with the

same gentleness of handling, locked the chain round one of the trees,

and finally slid back the guard which was placed to keep the gin from

accidentally catching the arms of him who set it, or, to use the local

and better word, “toiled” it.

Having completed these arrangements, Tim sprang through the adjoining

hedge of his father’s garden, ran down the path, and softly entered the

house.

Obedient to his order, Suke had gone to bed; and as soon as he had

bolted the door, Tim unlaced and kicked off his boots at the foot of

the stairs, and retired likewise, without lighting a candle. His object

seemed to be to undress as soon as possible. Before, however, he had

completed the operation, a long cry resounded without—penetrating, but

indescribable.

“What’s that?” said Suke, starting up in bed.

“Sounds as if somebody had caught a hare in his gin.”

“Oh no,” said she. “It was not a hare, ’twas louder. Hark!”

“Do ’ee get to sleep,” said Tim. “How be you going to wake at half-past

three else?”

She lay down and was silent. Tim stealthily opened the window and

listened. Above the low harmonies produced by the instrumentation of

the various species of trees around the premises he could hear the

twitching of a chain from the spot whereon he had set the man-trap. But

further human sound there was none.

Tim was puzzled. In the haste of his project he had not calculated upon

a cry; but if one, why not more? He soon ceased to essay an answer, for

Hintock was dead to him already. In half a dozen hours he would be out

of its precincts for life, on his way to the antipodes. He closed the

window and lay down.

The hour which had brought these movements of Tim to birth had been

operating actively elsewhere. Awaiting in her father’s house the minute

of her appointment with her husband, Grace Fitzpiers deliberated on

many things. Should she inform her father before going out that the

estrangement of herself and Edgar was not so complete as he had

imagined, and deemed desirable for her happiness? If she did so she

must in some measure become the apologist of her husband, and she was

not prepared to go so far.

As for him, he kept her in a mood of considerate gravity. He certainly

had changed. He had at his worst times always been gentle in his manner

towards her. Could it be that she might make of him a true and worthy

husband yet? She had married him; there was no getting over that; and

ought she any longer to keep him at a distance? His suave deference to

her lightest whim on the question of his comings and goings, when as

her lawful husband he might show a little independence, was a trait in

his character as unexpected as it was engaging. If she had been his

empress, and he her thrall, he could not have exhibited a more

sensitive care to avoid intruding upon her against her will.

Impelled by a remembrance she took down a prayer-book and turned to the

marriage-service. Reading it slowly through, she became quite appalled

at her recent off-handedness, when she rediscovered what awfully solemn

promises she had made him at those chancel steps not so very long ago.

She became lost in long ponderings on how far a person’s conscience

might be bound by vows made without at the time a full recognition of

their force. That particular sentence, beginning “Whom God hath joined

together,” was a staggerer for a gentlewoman of strong devotional

sentiment. She wondered whether God really did join them together.

Before she had done deliberating the time of her engagement drew near,

and she went out of the house almost at the moment that Tim Tangs

retired to his own.

The position of things at that critical juncture was briefly as

follows.

Two hundred yards to the right of the upper end of Tangs’s garden

Fitzpiers was still advancing, having now nearly reached the summit of

the wood-clothed ridge, the path being the actual one which further on

passed between the two young oaks. Thus far it was according to Tim’s

conjecture. But about two hundred yards to the left, or rather less,

was arising a condition which he had not divined, the emergence of

Grace as aforesaid from the upper corner of her father’s garden, with

the view of meeting Tim’s intended victim. Midway between husband and

wife was the diabolical trap, silent, open, ready.

Fitzpiers’s walk that night had been cheerful, for he was convinced

that the slow and gentle method he had adopted was promising success.

The very restraint that he was obliged to exercise upon himself, so as

not to kill the delicate bud of returning confidence, fed his flame. He

walked so much more rapidly than Grace that, if they continued

advancing as they had begun, he would reach the trap a good half-minute

before she could reach the same spot.

But here a new circumstance came in; to escape the unpleasantness of

being watched or listened to by lurkers—naturally curious by reason of

their strained relations—they had arranged that their meeting for

to-night should be at the holm-tree on the ridge above named. So soon,

accordingly, as Fitzpiers reached the tree he stood still to await her.

He had not paused under the prickly foliage more than two minutes when

he thought he heard a scream from the other side of the ridge.

Fitzpiers wondered what it could mean; but such wind as there was just

now blew in an adverse direction, and his mood was light. He set down

the origin of the sound to one of the superstitious freaks or

frolicsome scrimmages between sweethearts that still survived in

Hintock from old-English times; and waited on where he stood till ten

minutes had passed. Feeling then a little uneasy, his mind reverted to

the scream; and he went forward over the summit and down the embowered

incline, till he reached the pair of sister oaks with the narrow

opening between them.

Fitzpiers stumbled and all but fell. Stretching down his hand to

ascertain the obstruction, it came in contact with a confused mass of

silken drapery and iron-work that conveyed absolutely no explanatory

idea to his mind at all. It was but the work of a moment to strike a

match; and then he saw a sight which congealed his blood.

The man-trap was thrown; and between its jaws was part of a woman’s

clothing—a patterned silk skirt—gripped with such violence that the

iron teeth had passed through it, skewering its tissue in a score of

places. He immediately recognized the skirt as that of one of his

wife’s gowns—the gown that she had worn when she met him on the very

last occasion.

Fitzpiers had often studied the effect of these instruments when

examining the collection at Hintock House, and the conception instantly

flashed through him that Grace had been caught, taken out mangled by

some chance passer, and carried home, some of her clothes being left

behind in the difficulty of getting her free. The shock of this

conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great

that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed

himself down to the ground.

Of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that Fitzpiers had

undergone since his sins against Grace first began, not any even

approximated in intensity to this.

“Oh, my own—my darling! Oh, cruel Heaven—it is too much, this!” he

cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessories of her

he deplored.

The voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any

one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was. Right and

left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now

from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the

gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange.

She was in white up to the waist, and figured above. She was, in short,

Grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin

retained.

“Don’t be grieved about me—don’t, dear Edgar!” she exclaimed, rushing

up and bending over him. “I am not hurt a bit! I was coming on to find

you after I had released myself, but I heard footsteps; and I hid away,

because I was without some of my clothing, and I did not know who the

person might be.”

Fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less

unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have

been so by any woman not of Amazonian strength. He clasped his arms

completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her

passionately.

“You are not dead!—you are not hurt! Thank God—thank God!” he said,

almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his

apprehension. “Grace, my wife, my love, how is this—what has happened?”

“I was coming on to you,” she said as distinctly as she could in the

half-smothered state of her face against his. “I was trying to be as

punctual as possible, and as I had started a minute late I ran along

the path very swiftly—fortunately for myself. Just when I had passed

between these trees I felt something clutch at my dress from behind

with a noise, and the next moment I was pulled backward by it, and fell

to the ground. I screamed with terror, thinking it was a man lying down

there to murder me, but the next moment I discovered it was iron, and

that my clothes were caught in a trap. I pulled this way and that, but

the thing would not let go, drag it as I would, and I did not know what

to do. I did not want to alarm my father or anybody, as I wished nobody

to know of these meetings with you; so I could think of no other plan

than slipping off my skirt, meaning to run on and tell you what a

strange accident had happened to me. But when I had just freed myself

by leaving the dress behind, I heard steps, and not being sure it was

you, I did not like to be seen in such a pickle, so I hid away.”

“It was only your speed that saved you! One or both of your legs would

have been broken if you had come at ordinary walking pace.”

“Or yours, if you had got here first,” said she, beginning to realize

the whole ghastliness of the possibility. “Oh, Edgar, there has been an

Eye watching over us to-night, and we should be thankful indeed!”

He continued to press his face to hers. “You are mine—mine again now.”

She gently owned that she supposed she was. “I heard what you said when

you thought I was injured,” she went on, shyly, “and I know that a man

who could suffer as you were suffering must have a tender regard for

me. But how does this awful thing come here?”

“I suppose it has something to do with poachers.” Fitzpiers was still

so shaken by the sense of her danger that he was obliged to sit awhile,

and it was not until Grace said, “If I could only get my skirt out

nobody would know anything about it,” that he bestirred himself.

By their united efforts, each standing on one of the springs of the

trap, they pressed them down sufficiently to insert across the jaws a

billet which they dragged from a faggot near at hand; and it was then

possible to extract the silk mouthful from the monster’s bite, creased

and pierced with many holes, but not torn. Fitzpiers assisted her to

put it on again; and when her customary contours were thus restored

they walked on together, Grace taking his arm, till he effected an

improvement by clasping it round her waist.

The ice having been broken in this unexpected manner, she made no

further attempt at reserve. “I would ask you to come into the house,”

she said, “but my meetings with you have been kept secret from my

father, and I should like to prepare him.”

“Never mind, dearest. I could not very well have accepted the

invitation. I shall never live here again—as much for your sake as for

mine. I have news to tell you on this very point, but my alarm had put

it out of my head. I have bought a practice, or rather a partnership,

in the Midlands, and I must go there in a week to take up permanent

residence. My poor old great-aunt died about eight months ago, and left

me enough to do this. I have taken a little furnished house for a time,

till we can get one of our own.”

He described the place, and the surroundings, and the view from the

windows, and Grace became much interested. “But why are you not there

now?” she said.

“Because I cannot tear myself away from here till I have your promise.

Now, darling, you will accompany me there—will you not? To-night has

settled that.”

Grace’s tremblings had gone off, and she did not say nay. They went on

together.

The adventure, and the emotions consequent upon the reunion which that

event had forced on, combined to render Grace oblivious of the

direction of their desultory ramble, till she noticed they were in an

encircled glade in the densest part of the wood, whereon the moon, that

had imperceptibly added its rays to the scene, shone almost vertically.

It was an exceptionally soft, balmy evening for the time of year, which

was just that transient period in the May month when beech-trees have

suddenly unfolded large limp young leaves of the softness of

butterflies’ wings. Boughs bearing such leaves hung low around, and

completely enclosed them, so that it was as if they were in a great

green vase, which had moss for its bottom and leaf sides.

The clouds having been packed in the west that evening so as to retain

the departing glare a long while, the hour had seemed much earlier than

it was. But suddenly the question of time occurred to her.

“I must go back,” she said; and without further delay they set their

faces towards Hintock. As they walked he examined his watch by the aid

of the now strong moonlight.

“By the gods, I think I have lost my train!” said Fitzpiers.

“Dear me—whereabouts are we?” said she.

“Two miles in the direction of Sherton.”

“Then do you hasten on, Edgar. I am not in the least afraid. I

recognize now the part of the wood we are in and I can find my way back

quite easily. I’ll tell my father that we have made it up. I wish I had

not kept our meetings so private, for it may vex him a little to know I

have been seeing you. He is getting old and irritable, that was why I

did not. Good-by.”

“But, as I must stay at the Earl of Wessex to-night, for I cannot

possibly catch the train, I think it would be safer for you to let me

take care of you.”

“But what will my father think has become of me? He does not know in

the least where I am—he thinks I only went into the garden for a few

minutes.”

“He will surely guess—somebody has seen me for certain. I’ll go all the

way back with you to-morrow.”

“But that newly done-up place—the Earl of Wessex!”

“If you are so very particular about the publicity I will stay at the

Three Tuns.”

“Oh no—it is not that I am particular—but I haven’t a brush or comb or

anything!”