“I will not bias2 your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson,” said he; “I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing.”
“What sort of facts?” I asked.
“Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries3 myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable4 disposition5, so that this persecution6 does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely7 from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor8.”
“Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple?”
“By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice9, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom10 at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist11, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special study.”
“I will do my best.”
“You have arms, I suppose?”
“Yes, I thought it as well to take them.”
“Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions.”
Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us upon the platform.
“No, we have no news of any kind,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend’s questions. “I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice.”
“You have always kept together, I presume?”
“Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons.”
“And I went to look at the folk in the park,” said Baskerville.
“But we had no trouble of any kind.”
“It was imprudent, all the same,” said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave. “I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?”
“No, sir, it is gone forever.”
“Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,” he added as the train began to glide12 down the platform. “Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted13.”
I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and saw the tall, austere14 figure of Holmes standing15 motionless and gazing after us.
The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing with Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite16, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke17 of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery.
“I’ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson,” said he; “but I have never seen a place to compare with it.”
“I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,” I remarked.
“It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,” said Dr. Mortimer. “A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment18. Poor Sir Charles’s head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?”
“I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m as keen as possible to see the moor.”
“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy19 hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed20 upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic21 railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive22 face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery23, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils24, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended25. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted26 Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage27, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister28 hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss29 and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily30 rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed31 swiftly down, foaming32 and roaring amid the grey boulders33. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense35 with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation36 of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless37 questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge38 of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning39 year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle40 of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian42 statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised43 ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled.
“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.
Our driver half turned in his seat. “There’s a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir, and that’s a fact.”
“Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information.”
“Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn’t like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing.”
“Who is he, then?”
“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”
I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar44 ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality45 which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity46, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate47 plain, was lurking48 this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow49 like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him.
We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on it now, the slanting50 rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle51 of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker52 and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a cuplike depression, patched with stunted53 oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent54 by the fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed1 with his whip.
“Baskerville Hall,” said he.
Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge55-gates, a maze56 of fantastic tracery in wrought57 iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens58, and surmounted59 by the boars’ heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs60 of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles’s South African gold.
Through the gateway61 we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered62 as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered63 like a ghost at the farther end.
“Was it here?” he asked in a low voice.
The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.
“It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man. I’ll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won’t know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door.”
The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy65, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets66 were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.
“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”
A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted67 against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags.
“You don’t mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?” said Dr. Mortimer. “My wife is expecting me.”
“Surely you will stay and have some dinner?”
“No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service.”
The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb68 from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags’ heads, the coats of arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued69 light of the central lamp.
“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Is it not the very picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it.”
I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy70 above him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished71 features.
“Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?”
“Is it ready?”
“In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff.”
“What new conditions?”
“I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired72 life, and we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have more company, and so you will need changes in your household.”
“Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”
“Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir.”
“But your family have been with us for several generations, have they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection.”
I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler’s white face.
“I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall.”
“But what do you intend to do?”
“I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves in some business. Sir Charles’s generosity73 has given us the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms.”
A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall, approached by a double stair. From this central point two long corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville’s and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.
But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber74 with a step separating the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents. At one end a minstrel’s gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring75 torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity76 of an old-time banquet, it might have softened77; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one’s voice became hushed and one’s spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight78 to the buck79 of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted80 us by their silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.
“My word, it isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present. I don’t wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning.”
I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my window. It opened upon the grassy81 space which lay in front of the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts41 of racing82 clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.
And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant83, and unmistakable. It was the sob84 of a woman, the muffled85, strangling gasp86 of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle87 of the ivy on the wall.
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1
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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52
bleaker
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| 阴冷的( bleak的比较级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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86
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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