The Hound of the Baskervilles
“No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man
lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he
left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even
see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go
inside.”
“But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”
“Neolithic man—no date.”
“What did he do?”
“He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for
tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look
at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes,
you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr.
Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”
A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an
instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed
in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the
great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,
bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the
air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made
him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching
his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary
activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the
treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning
round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the
direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of
Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was
quite close.
I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,
and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a
beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a
most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast
between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted,
with light hair and grey eyes, while she was darker than any
brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. She
had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have
seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant
dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely
moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then
she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was
about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned
all my thoughts into a new channel.
“Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, instantly.”
I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at
me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.
“Why should I go back?” I asked.
“I cannot explain.” She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a
curious lisp in her utterance. “But for God’s sake do what I ask
you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again.”
“But I have only just come.”
“Man, man!” she cried. “Can you not tell when a warning is for
your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from
this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word
of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me
among the mare’s-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the
moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties
of the place.”
Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing
hard and flushed with his exertions.
“Halloa, Beryl!” said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of
his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.
“Well, Jack, you are very hot.”
“Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom
found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed
him!” He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
incessantly from the girl to me.
“You have introduced yourselves, I can see.”
“Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to
see the true beauties of the moor.”
“Why, who do you think this is?”
“I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”
“No, no,” said I. “Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My
name is Dr. Watson.”
A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. “We have
been talking at cross purposes,” said she.
“Why, you had not very much time for talk,” her brother remarked
with the same questioning eyes.
“I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being
merely a visitor,” said she. “It cannot much matter to him
whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come
on, will you not, and see Merripit House?”
A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the
farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into
repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded
it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and
nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and
melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated
old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside,
however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in
which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked
from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel
at what could have brought this highly educated man and this
beautiful woman to live in such a place.
“Queer spot to choose, is it not?” said he as if in answer to my
thought. “And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we
not, Beryl?”
“Quite happy,” said she, but there was no ring of conviction in
her words.
“I had a school,” said Stapleton. “It was in the north country.
The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and
uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping
to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one’s own
character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were
against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three
of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of
my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were
not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I
could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here,
and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr.
Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you
surveyed the moor out of our window.”
“It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little
dull—less for you, perhaps, than for your sister.”
“No, no, I am never dull,” said she quickly.
“We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.
Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him
well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I
should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the
acquaintance of Sir Henry?”
“I am sure that he would be delighted.”
“Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may
in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him
until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you
come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of
Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the
south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through
them lunch will be almost ready.”
But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the
moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which
had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all
these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of
these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite
and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such
intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and
deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for
lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the
grass-grown path by which we had come.
It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for
those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was
astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side
of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions
and she held her hand to her side.
“I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,”
said she. “I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop,
or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am
about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir
Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application
whatever to you.”
“But I can’t forget them, Miss Stapleton,” said I. “I am Sir
Henry’s friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.
Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should
return to London.”
“A woman’s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or
do.”
“No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look
in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton,
for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows
all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with
little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with
no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you
meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry.”
An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her
face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.
“You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,” said she. “My brother and
I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him
very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our
house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the
family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there
must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was
distressed therefore when another member of the family came down
to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger
which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey.”
“But what is the danger?”
“You know the story of the hound?”
“I do not believe in such nonsense.”
“But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him
away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The
world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of
danger?”
“Because it _is_ the place of danger. That is Sir Henry’s nature.
I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information