Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Hound of the Baskervilles (page 2)

"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line
from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my
father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all
belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would
have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which
punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that
no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may
be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits
of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that
those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so
grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.
"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Basker-
ville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid
that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in
truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints
have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by-
word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to

love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so
bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands
near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being
discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she
feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas
this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked compan-
ions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden,
her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew.
When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was
placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat
down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now,
the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to
her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo
Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast
the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she
did that which might have daunted the bravest or most
active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which
covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down
from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor,
there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's

"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his

guests to carry food and drink Ц with other worse things,

perchance Ц to his captive, and so found the cage empty and

the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one

that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the

dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and

trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all

the company that he would that very night render his body

and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the

wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of

the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than

the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her

Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms

that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and

giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them

to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the


"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable

to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon

their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which

was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was

now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for

their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at

length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the

whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in

pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode

swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must

needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.

"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of

the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to

him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the

story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce

speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the

unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I

have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville

passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind

him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at

my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and

rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there

came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare,

dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and

empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a

great fear was on them, but they still followed over the

moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been

right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in

this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These,

though known for their valour and their breed, were whim-

pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we

call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with

starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow

valley before them.

"The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as

you may guess, than when they started. The most of them

would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,

or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the

goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two

of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set

by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon

was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre

lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and

of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was

it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her,

which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-

devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and

plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great,

black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound

that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they

looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on

which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon

them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life,

still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that

very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were

but broken men for the rest of their days.

"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound

which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever

since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly

known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and

guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have

been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden,

bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in

the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not for-

ever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth genera-

tion which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence,

my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way

of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark

hours when the powers of evil are exalted. " This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth."

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narraЦ tive he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville,

whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal

candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a

gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at

Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amia-

bility of character and extreme generosity had won the

affection and respect of all who had been brought into

contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is

refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county

family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his

own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the

fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known,

made large sums of money in South African speculation.

More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns

against them, he realized his gains and returned to England

with them. It is only two years since he took up his resi-

dence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large

were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which

have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless,

it was his openly expressed desire that the whole country-

side should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good

fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing

his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county

charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns.

"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles

cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the

inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of

those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.

There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to

imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir

Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have

been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of

his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes,

and bis indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a mar-

ried couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler

and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated

by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charles's

health has for some time been impaired, and points espe-

cially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in

changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of ner-

vous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medi-

cal attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the

same effect.

"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville

was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking

down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evi-

dence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his

custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his

intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered

Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as

usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was

in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At

twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,

became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of

his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's foot-

marks were easily traced down the alley. Halfway down this

walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There

were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little

time here. He then proceeded down the alley, and it was at

the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact

which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore

that his master's footprints altered their character from the

time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared

from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes.

One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no

great distance at the time, but he appears by his own

confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares

that he heard cries but is unable to state from what direction

they came. No signs of violence were to be discovered upon

Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's evidence pointed

to an almost incredible facial distortion Ц so great that Dr.

Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his

friend and patient who lay before him Ц it was explained

that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of

dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This expla-

nation was borne out by the post-mortem examination, which

showed long-standing organic disease, and the coroner's

jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evi-

dence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the

utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the

Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly

interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not

finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been

whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been

difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is under-

stood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be

still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger

brother. The young man when last heard of was in America,

and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing

him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.

"Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.

Title: The Hound of the Baskervilles
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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