we be? The back of Lord Devoran's? No, he'd be farther down the valley. It might be the Hills'
place. Can you see any house, Music?'
'Nay, ma'am.'
A small gate with a loop of wire over the post to fasten it. The howl came again, much nearer this time. She slid down off Nero and opened the gate.
'We'll leave the horses here,' she said. 'It's too rough for them.'
'Leave me go see, ma'am. Tedn't right for ee neither. Leave me go see.'
She took no notice of this, and pursued the overgrown path, which was scarcely two feet wide, leading from the gate. The snow was sticky, heavy on the branches, cascaded over them when they disturbed it. Her fur hat was soon white, the hem of her skirt embroidered with it. Although still early afternoon the woods winnowed the light, and shadows frowned from the overhanging snow. Music stumbled twice. But she noticed he no longer walked on his toes. The sound had stopped. They waited and nothing happened, except that a stoat fled across their path and a pheasant stirred in a nearby tree. The path had run into a clearing about ten yards in diameter, but here it seemed to end.
'What now?' she said to Music. Reckon 'twas this way. Reckon 'twas this way somewhere. He've gone quiet. Maybe we'd best be going back.'
'Wait a bit.'
Silence. The quietness of the snow ate into their ears.
'Who-eee,' called Clowance. 'Is anyone there?' It did the trick. The howl came almost immediately from a few dozen yards to their left. Music pushed through the undergrowth, getting snow-smothered. Clowance followed and presently stopped. It was a dog, caught in some sort of a trap. A very big dog, the size of a young calf but much thinner. Lean flanked, grey-flanked, great head, sharp-eared, red tongue lolling. Clowance had seen it often before - at the Warleggan fireside - frequently to George's distaste but tolerated for Harriet's pleasure. The dog had been caught in an iron trap; one leg was held by a spring device with short iron teeth.
'My dear life,' said Music. "Tes a mantrap, you. God save us all!'
There were two of these boarhounds. Castor and Pollux. Which was this? The creature had obviously been in the trap for some hours and had torn its leg trying to pull free. But there was no chance of pulling free for the trap was attached to a steel chain which itself was fixed to a concrete stone sunk in the ground. The dog was panting but had its eyes closed.
'Castor,' said Clowance. One eye opened; a gleam of quick intelligence. It seemed she had guessed right first time.
'Castor. You poor, poor dog. Oh, my dear, it makes me sick to see you. Music!'
'Ais, 'm?'
'Can you spring the trap?'
'Oh, ais. 'Tes like most traps only biggerer. Ye d'pull them two levers back.'
'But are you strong enough? The springs must be so strong to prevent a man opening them.'
'Oh, ais. But he couldn't get at 'em, see? 'Tis strength and knack. Strength and knack ... 'Twill 'urt the 'ound some awful. 'E's like to leap and bite.'
'I don't think so. He knows me, don't you, Castor? Don't you, boy? He'll know we're trying to help him, and he's quite weak, I think. He's lost a lot of blood. I think we must try. I will put my arm around his shoulders when you begin. You can open it quick?'
'Oh, ais, I can open of 'n quick.'
George Warleggan was in a bad temper. Although normally tight-lipped and taciturn, it was seldom that he allowed himself the luxury of anger. He seldom had to. The mere sight of his annoyance was enough to send most people scurrying. (But not his wife.) But today his mood was of the blackest.
He told himself it didn't matter. It was no longer of the slightest importance to him what any of the shabby, pretentious Poldarks were up to. All rivalry had properly died with the death of Elizabeth. Chance encounters since then had been few and, if tautly hostile - particularly that encounter at Trenwith when Geoffrey Charles was showing off his Spanish wife - had led to nothing, could lead to nothing. It was a chapter
place. Can you see any house, Music?'
'Nay, ma'am.'
A small gate with a loop of wire over the post to fasten it. The howl came again, much nearer this time. She slid down off Nero and opened the gate.
'We'll leave the horses here,' she said. 'It's too rough for them.'
'Leave me go see, ma'am. Tedn't right for ee neither. Leave me go see.'
She took no notice of this, and pursued the overgrown path, which was scarcely two feet wide, leading from the gate. The snow was sticky, heavy on the branches, cascaded over them when they disturbed it. Her fur hat was soon white, the hem of her skirt embroidered with it. Although still early afternoon the woods winnowed the light, and shadows frowned from the overhanging snow. Music stumbled twice. But she noticed he no longer walked on his toes. The sound had stopped. They waited and nothing happened, except that a stoat fled across their path and a pheasant stirred in a nearby tree. The path had run into a clearing about ten yards in diameter, but here it seemed to end.
'What now?' she said to Music. Reckon 'twas this way. Reckon 'twas this way somewhere. He've gone quiet. Maybe we'd best be going back.'
'Wait a bit.'
Silence. The quietness of the snow ate into their ears.
'Who-eee,' called Clowance. 'Is anyone there?' It did the trick. The howl came almost immediately from a few dozen yards to their left. Music pushed through the undergrowth, getting snow-smothered. Clowance followed and presently stopped. It was a dog, caught in some sort of a trap. A very big dog, the size of a young calf but much thinner. Lean flanked, grey-flanked, great head, sharp-eared, red tongue lolling. Clowance had seen it often before - at the Warleggan fireside - frequently to George's distaste but tolerated for Harriet's pleasure. The dog had been caught in an iron trap; one leg was held by a spring device with short iron teeth.
'My dear life,' said Music. "Tes a mantrap, you. God save us all!'
There were two of these boarhounds. Castor and Pollux. Which was this? The creature had obviously been in the trap for some hours and had torn its leg trying to pull free. But there was no chance of pulling free for the trap was attached to a steel chain which itself was fixed to a concrete stone sunk in the ground. The dog was panting but had its eyes closed.
'Castor,' said Clowance. One eye opened; a gleam of quick intelligence. It seemed she had guessed right first time.
'Castor. You poor, poor dog. Oh, my dear, it makes me sick to see you. Music!'
'Ais, 'm?'
'Can you spring the trap?'
'Oh, ais. 'Tes like most traps only biggerer. Ye d'pull them two levers back.'
'But are you strong enough? The springs must be so strong to prevent a man opening them.'
'Oh, ais. But he couldn't get at 'em, see? 'Tis strength and knack. Strength and knack ... 'Twill 'urt the 'ound some awful. 'E's like to leap and bite.'
'I don't think so. He knows me, don't you, Castor? Don't you, boy? He'll know we're trying to help him, and he's quite weak, I think. He's lost a lot of blood. I think we must try. I will put my arm around his shoulders when you begin. You can open it quick?'
'Oh, ais, I can open of 'n quick.'
George Warleggan was in a bad temper. Although normally tight-lipped and taciturn, it was seldom that he allowed himself the luxury of anger. He seldom had to. The mere sight of his annoyance was enough to send most people scurrying. (But not his wife.) But today his mood was of the blackest.
He told himself it didn't matter. It was no longer of the slightest importance to him what any of the shabby, pretentious Poldarks were up to. All rivalry had properly died with the death of Elizabeth. Chance encounters since then had been few and, if tautly hostile - particularly that encounter at Trenwith when Geoffrey Charles was showing off his Spanish wife - had led to nothing, could lead to nothing. It was a chapter
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