October 16th.—A dull and foggy day with a drizzle5 of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary6 curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins7 upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders8 gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy9 outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending10 danger—ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.
And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed11 to some sinister12 influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral13 hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition14, and Mortimer also, but if I have one quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend15 to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere16 fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed17, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he—could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?
It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies.
My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait19. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain20 my own end.
We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a time the baronet opened his door and called for me. “Barrymore considers that he has a grievance,” he said. “He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret.”
“I may have spoken too warmly, sir,” said he, “and if I have, I am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track.”
“If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a different thing,” said the baronet, “you only told us, or rather your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help yourself.”
“I didn’t think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry—indeed I didn’t.”
“The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered23 over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton’s house, for example, with no one but himself to defend it. There’s no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key.”
“He’ll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God’s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can’t tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.”
“What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged24 my shoulders. “If he were safely out of the country it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden.”
“But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?”
“He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding.”
“That is true,” said Sir Henry. “Well, Barrymore—”
“God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again.”
“I guess we are aiding and abetting25 a felony, Watson? But, after what we have heard I don’t feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”
“You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I’ve never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It’s about poor Sir Charles’s death.”
The baronet and I were both upon our feet. “Do you know how he died?”
“No, sir, I don’t know that.”
“What then?”
“I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman.”
“To meet a woman! He?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the woman’s name?”
“I can’t give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were L. L.”
“How do you know this, Barrymore?”
“Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman’s hand.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles’s study—it had never been touched since his death—and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred27 to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was grey on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript28 at the end of the letter and it said: ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were signed the initials L. L.”
“Have you got that slip?”
“Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?”
“Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone.”
“And you have no idea who L. L. is?”
“No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles’s death.”
“Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn’t help our poor master, and it’s well to go carefully when there’s a lady in the case. Even the best of us—”
“You thought it might injure his reputation?”
“Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter.”
“Very good, Barrymore; you can go.” When the butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light?”
“It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before.”
“So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?”
“Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down.”
I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning’s conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker30 Street were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing31 case is absorbing all his faculties32. And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here.
October 17th.—All day today the rain poured down, rustling33 on the ivy34 and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak35, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone36 for them. And then I thought of that other one—the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluged—the unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof37 and I walked far upon the sodden38 moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire39 now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass40. I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary41 watcher, and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric42 huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before.
As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse43 of Foulmire. He has been very attentive45 to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the disappearance46 of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation47 as I might, but I thought of the pony48 on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.
“By the way, Mortimer,” said I as we jolted49 along the rough road, “I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not know?”
“Hardly any, I think.”
“Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?”
He thought for a few minutes.
“No,” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can’t answer, but among the farmers or gentry50 there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though,” he added after a pause. “There is Laura Lyons—her initials are L. L.—but she lives in Coombe Tracey.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She is Frankland’s daughter.”
“What! Old Frankland the crank?”
“Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching51 on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted52 her. The fault from what I hear may not have been entirely53 on one side. Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time.”
“How does she live?”
“I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance54, but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are considerably55 involved. Whatever she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a typewriting business.”
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries56, but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient57 extent I asked him casually58 to what type Frankland’s skull59 belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous60 and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played écarté afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.
“Well,” said I, “has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he still lurking61 out yonder?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble here! I’ve not heard of him since I left out food for him last, and that was three days ago.”
“Did you see him then?”
“No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”
“Then he was certainly there?”
“So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it.”
“You know that there is another man then?”
“Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know of him then?”
“Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding, too, but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you straight, sir, that I don’t like it.” He spoke22 with a sudden passion of earnestness.
“Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly64, what it is that you don’t like.”
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.
“It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. “There’s foul44 play somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing65, to that I’ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!”
“But what is it that alarms you?”
“Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There’s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What’s he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants are ready to take over the Hall.”
“But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?”
“He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out.”
“And where did he say that he lived?”
“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the old folk used to live.”
“But how about his food?”
“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants.”
“Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a blurred66 pane67 at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred68 can it be which leads a man to lurk62 in such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed69 me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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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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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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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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melancholy
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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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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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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abetting
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的现在分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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faculties
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rustling
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ivy
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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mire
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morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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53
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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57
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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59
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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60
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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61
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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63
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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65
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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66
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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67
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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68
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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69
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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