Mittwoch, 30. Dezember 2020

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the hound of the baskervilles by sir arthurconan doyle chapter 14: the hound one of sherlock holmes’s defects — if,indeed, one may call it a defect — was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate hisfull plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. partly it came no doubt from his own masterfulnature, which loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. partly also from his professional caution,which urged him never to take any chances. the result, however, was very trying for thosewho were acting as his agents and assistants.


i had often suffered under it, but never moreso than during that long drive in the darkness. the great ordeal was in front of us; at lastwe were about to make our final effort, and yet holmes had said nothing, and i could onlysurmise what his course of action would be. my nerves thrilled with anticipation whenat last the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrowroad told me that we were back upon the moor once again. every stride of the horses and every turnof the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure. our conversation was hampered by the presenceof the driver of the hired wagonette, so that


we were forced to talk of trivial matterswhen our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. it was a relief to me, after that unnaturalrestraint, when we at last passed frankland’s house and knew that we were drawing near tothe hall and to the scene of action. we did not drive up to the door but got downnear the gate of the avenue. the wagonette was paid off and ordered toreturn to coombe tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to merripit house. “are you armed, lestrade?” the little detective smiled.


“as long as i have my trousers i have ahip-pocket, and as long as i have my hip-pocket i have something in it.” “good! my friend and i are also ready for emergencies.” “you’re mighty close about this affair,mr. holmes. what’s the game now?” “a waiting game.” “my word, it does not seem a very cheerfulplace,” said the detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes ofthe hill and at the huge lake of fog which


lay over the grimpen mire. “i see the lights of a house ahead of us.” “that is merripit house and the end of ourjourney. i must request you to walk on tiptoe and notto talk above a whisper.” we moved cautiously along the track as ifwe were bound for the house, but holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards fromit. “this will do,” said he. “these rocks upon the right make an admirablescreen.” “we are to wait here?”


“yes, we shall make our little ambush here. get into this hollow, lestrade. you have been inside the house, have you not,watson? can you tell the position of the rooms? what are those latticed windows at this end?” “i think they are the kitchen windows.” “and the one beyond, which shines so brightly?” “that is certainly the dining-room.” “the blinds are up.


you know the lie of the land best. creep forward quietly and see what they aredoing — but for heaven’s sake don’t let them know that they are watched!” i tiptoed down the path and stooped behindthe low wall which surrounded the stunted orchard. creeping in its shadow i reached a point whencei could look straight through the uncurtained window. there were only two men in the room, sir henryand stapleton. they sat with their profiles towards me oneither side of the round table.


both of them were smoking cigars, and coffeeand wine were in front of them. stapleton was talking with animation, butthe baronet looked pale and distrait. perhaps the thought of that lonely walk acrossthe ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind. as i watched them stapleton rose and leftthe room, while sir henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffingat his cigar. i heard the creak of a door and the crispsound of boots upon gravel. the steps passed along the path on the otherside of the wall under which i crouched. looking over, i saw the naturalist pause atthe door of an out-house in the corner of


the orchard. a key turned in a lock, and as he passed inthere was a curious scuffling noise from within. he was only a minute or so inside, and theni heard the key turn once more and he passed me and re-entered the house. i saw him rejoin his guest, and i crept quietlyback to where my companions were waiting to tell them what i had seen. “you say, watson, that the lady is not there?” holmes asked, when i had finished my report. “no.”


“where can she be, then, since there isno light in any other room except the kitchen?” “i cannot think where she is.” i have said that over the great grimpen mirethere hung a dense, white fog. it was drifting slowly in our direction, andbanked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well defined. the moon shone on it, and it looked like agreat shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon itssurface. holmes’s face was turned towards it, andhe muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.


“it’s moving towards us, watson.” “is that serious?” “very serious, indeed — the one thingupon earth which could have disarranged my plans. he can’t be very long, now. it is already ten o’clock. our success and even his life may depend uponhis coming out before the fog is over the path.” the night was clear and fine above us.


the stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moonbathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. before us lay the dark bulk of the house,its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. broad bars of golden light from the lowerwindows stretched across the orchard and the moor. one of them was suddenly shut off. the servants had left the kitchen. there only remained the lamp in the dining-roomwhere the two men, the murderous host and


the unconscious guest, still chatted overtheir cigars. every minute that white woolly plain whichcovered one half of the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. already the first thin wisps of it were curlingacross the golden square of the lighted window. the farther wall of the orchard was alreadyinvisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. as we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawlinground both corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which the upperfloor and the roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea.


holmes struck his hand passionately upon therock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience. “if he isn’t out in a quarter of an hourthe path will be covered. in half an hour we won’t be able to seeour hands in front of us.” “shall we move farther back upon higherground?” “yes, i think it would be as well.” so as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell backbefore it until we were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, withthe moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.


“we are going too far,” said holmes. “we dare not take the chance of his beingovertaken before he can reach us. at all costs we must hold our ground wherewe are.” he dropped on his knees and clapped his earto the ground. “thank god, i think that i hear him coming.” a sound of quick steps broke the silence ofthe moor. crouching among the stones we stared intentlyat the silver-tipped bank in front of us. the steps grew louder, and through the fog,as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.


he looked round him in surprise as he emergedinto the clear, starlit night. then he came swiftly along the path, passedclose to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. as he walked he glanced continually over eithershoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. “hist!” cried holmes, and i heard thesharp click of a cocking pistol. “look out! it’s coming!” there was a thin, crisp, continuous patterfrom somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank.


the cloud was within fifty yards of wherewe lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heartof it. i was at holmes’s elbow, and i glanced foran instant at his face. it was pale and exultant, his eyes shiningbrightly in the moonlight. but suddenly they started forward in a rigid,fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. at the same instant lestrade gave a yell ofterror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. i sprang to my feet, my inert hand graspingmy pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from theshadows of the fog.


a hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound,but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowedwith a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. never in the delirious dream of a disorderedbrain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark formand savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. with long bounds the huge black creature wasleaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend.


so paralyzed were we by the apparition thatwe allowed him to pass before we had recovered our nerve. then holmes and i both fired together, andthe creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. he did not pause, however, but bounded onward. far away on the path we saw sir henry lookingback, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring helplesslyat the frightful thing which was hunting him down. but that cry of pain from the hound had blownall our fears to the winds.


if he was vulnerable he was mortal, and ifwe could wound him we could kill him. never have i seen a man run as holmes ranthat night. i am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpacedme as much as i outpaced the little professional. in front of us as we flew up the track weheard scream after scream from sir henry and the deep roar of the hound. i was in time to see the beast spring uponits victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. but the next instant holmes had emptied fivebarrels of his revolver into the creature’s flank.


with a last howl of agony and a vicious snapin the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limpupon its side. i stooped, panting, and pressed my pistolto the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. the giant hound was dead. sir henry lay insensible where he had fallen. we tore away his collar, and holmes breatheda prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescuehad been in time. already our friend’s eyelids shivered andhe made a feeble effort to move.


lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between thebaronet’s teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us. “my god!” he whispered. “what was it? what, in heaven’s name, was it?” “it’s dead, whatever it is,” said holmes. “we’ve laid the family ghost once andforever.” in mere size and strength it was a terriblecreature which was lying stretched before us.


it was not a pure bloodhound and it was nota pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two — gaunt, savage, and as largeas a small lioness. even now, in the stillness of death, the hugejaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringedwith fire. i placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle,and as i held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness. “phosphorus,” i said. “a cunning preparation of it,” said holmes,sniffing at the dead animal. “there is no smell which might have interferedwith his power of scent.


we owe you a deep apology, sir henry, forhaving exposed you to this fright. i was prepared for a hound, but not for sucha creature as this. and the fog gave us little time to receivehim.” “you have saved my life.” “having first endangered it. are you strong enough to stand?” “give me another mouthful of that brandyand i shall be ready for anything. so! now, if you will help me up.


what do you propose to do?” “to leave you here. you are not fit for further adventures tonight. if you will wait, one or other of us willgo back with you to the hall.” he tried to stagger to his feet; but he wasstill ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. we helped him to a rock, where he sat shiveringwith his face buried in his hands. “we must leave you now,” said holmes. “the rest of our work must be done, andevery moment is of importance.


we have our case, and now we only want ourman. “it’s a thousand to one against our findinghim at the house,” he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. “those shots must have told him that thegame was up.” “we were some distance off, and this fogmay have deadened them.” “he followed the hound to call him off — ofthat you may be certain. no, no, he’s gone by this time! but we’ll search the house and make sure.” the front door was open, so we rushed in andhurried from room to room to the amazement


of a doddering old manservant, who met usin the passage. there was no light save in the dining-room,but holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. no sign could we see of the man whom we werechasing. on the upper floor, however, one of the bedroomdoors was locked. “there’s someone in here,” cried lestrade. “i can hear a movement. open this door!” a faint moaning and rustling came from within.


holmes struck the door just over the lockwith the flat of his foot and it flew open. pistol in hand, we all three rushed into theroom. but there was no sign within it of that desperateand defiant villain whom we expected to see. instead we were faced by an object so strangeand so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement. the room had been fashioned into a small museum,and the walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of butterfliesand moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerousman. in the centre of this room there was an uprightbeam, which had been placed at some period


as a support for the old worm-eaten baulkof timber which spanned the roof. to this post a figure was tied, so swathedand muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the momenttell whether it was that of a man or a woman. one towel passed round the throat and wassecured at the back of the pillar. another covered the lower part of the face,and over it two dark eyes — eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning— stared back at us. in a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathedthe bonds, and mrs. stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. as her beautiful head fell upon her chesti saw the clear red weal of a whiplash across


her neck. “the brute!” cried holmes. “here, lestrade, your brandy-bottle! put her in the chair! she has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion.” she opened her eyes again. “is he safe?” she asked. “has he escaped?” “he cannot escape us, madam.”


“no, no, i did not mean my husband. sir henry? is he safe?” “yes.” “and the hound?” “it is dead.” she gave a long sigh of satisfaction. “thank god! thank god!


oh, this villain! see how he has treated me!” she shot her arms out from her sleeves, andwe saw with horror that they were all mottled with bruises. “but this is nothing — nothing! it is my mind and soul that he has torturedand defiled. i could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude,a life of deception, everything, as long as i could still cling to the hope that i hadhis love, but now i know that in this also i have been his dupe and his tool.”


she broke into passionate sobbing as she spoke. “you bear him no good will, madam,” saidholmes. “tell us then where we shall find him. if you have ever aided him in evil, help usnow and so atone.” “there is but one place where he can havefled,” she answered. “there is an old tin mine on an island inthe heart of the mire. it was there that he kept his hound and therealso he had made preparations so that he might have a refuge. that is where he would fly.”


the fog-bank lay like white wool against thewindow. holmes held the lamp towards it. “see,” said he. “no one could find his way into the grimpenmire tonight.” she laughed and clapped her hands. her eyes and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment. “he may find his way in, but never out,”she cried. “how can he see the guiding wands tonight? we planted them together, he and i, to markthe pathway through the mire.


oh, if i could only have plucked them outtoday. then indeed you would have had him at yourmercy!” it was evident to us that all pursuit wasin vain until the fog had lifted. meanwhile we left lestrade in possession ofthe house while holmes and i went back with the baronet to baskerville hall. the story of the stapletons could no longerbe withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about thewoman whom he had loved. but the shock of the night’s adventureshad shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever, under thecare of dr. mortimer.


the two of them were destined to travel togetherround the world before sir henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he hadbeen before he became master of that ill-omened estate. and now i come rapidly to the conclusion ofthis singular narrative, in which i have tried to make the reader share those dark fearsand vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. on the morning after the death of the houndthe fog had lifted and we were guided by mrs. stapleton to the point where they had founda pathway through the bog. it helped us to realize the horror of thiswoman’s life when we saw the eagerness and


joy with which she laid us on her husband’strack. we left her standing upon the thin peninsulaof firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. from the end of it a small wand planted hereand there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummedpits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sentan odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plungedus more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in softundulations around our feet.


its tenacious grip plucked at our heels aswe walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us downinto those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. once only we saw a trace that someone hadpassed that perilous way before us. from amid a tuft of cotton grass which boreit up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. holmes sank to his waist as he stepped fromthe path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never haveset his foot upon firm land again. he held an old black boot in the air.


“meyers, toronto,” was printed on theleather inside. “it is worth a mud bath,” said he. “it is our friend sir henry’s missingboot.” “thrown there by stapleton in his flight.” “exactly. he retained it in his hand after using itto set the hound upon the track. he fled when he knew the game was up, stillclutching it. and he hurled it away at this point of hisflight. we know at least that he came so far in safety.”


but more than that we were never destinedto know, though there was much which we might surmise. there was no chance of finding footsteps inthe mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmerground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. but no slightest sign of them ever met oureyes. if the earth told a true story, then stapletonnever reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon thatlast night. somewhere in the heart of the great grimpenmire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass


which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-heartedman is forever buried. many traces we found of him in the bog-girtisland where he had hid his savage ally. a huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filledwith rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. beside it were the crumbling remains of thecottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. in one of these a staple and chain with aquantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. a skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adheringto it lay among the debris.


“a dog!” said holmes. “by jove, a curly-haired spaniel. poor mortimer will never see his pet again. well, i do not know that this place containsany secret which we have not already fathomed. he could hide his hound, but he could nothush its voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant tohear. on an emergency he could keep the hound inthe out-house at merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day,which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it.


“this paste in the tin is no doubt the luminousmixture with which the creature was daubed. it was suggested, of course, by the storyof the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old sir charles to death. no wonder the poor devil of a convict ranand screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he sawsuch a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. it was a cunning device, for, apart from thechance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire tooclosely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor?


“i said it in london, watson, and i sayit again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than hewho is lying yonder” — he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotchedbog which stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.


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