Chapter 7 The Stapletons of Merripit House

The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface

from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left

upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As

Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through

the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour

from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling

glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize

that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom

into our souls upon the evening before.

"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to

blame!" said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and

chilled by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we

are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more."

"And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I

answered. "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman

I think, sobbing in the night?"

"That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I

heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was

no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."

"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob

of a woman."

"We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked

Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed

to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler

still as he listened to his master's question.

"There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered.

"One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The

other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could

not have come from her."

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after

breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun

full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured

woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale

eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was

she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband

must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in

declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did

she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome,

black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery

and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the

body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the

circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it

possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the

cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same.

The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an

impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle

the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the

Grimpen postmaster, and find whether the test telegram had really

been placed in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it

might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock

Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that

the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk

of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a

small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to

be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the

rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a

clear recollection of the telegram.

"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.

Barrymore exactly as directed."

"Who delivered it?"

"My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr.Barrymore

at the Hall last week, did you not?"

"Yes, father, I delivered it."

"Into his own hands?" I asked.

"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put

it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands,

and she promised to deliver it at once."

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the

postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any

mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was

clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that

Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it

were so--suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen

Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he

returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had

he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have

in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange

warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that

his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent

upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was

that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family

could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be

secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as

that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle

scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the

young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case

had come to him in all the long series of his sensational

investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely

road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations

and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility

from my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running

feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned,

expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a

stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven,

prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and

forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw

hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and

he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson, "said

he, as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we

are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may

possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I

am Stapleton, of Merripit House."

"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I

knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know

me?"

"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me

from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the

same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce

myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his

journey?"

"He is very well, thank you."

"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir

Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking

much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of

this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great

deal to the country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no

superstitious fears in the matter?"

"I do not think that it is likely."

"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the

family?"

"I have heard it."

"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!

Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a

creature upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to

read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The

story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and

I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end."

"But how?"

"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog

might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy

that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night

in the Yew Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I

was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was

weak."

"How did you know that?"

"My friend Mortimer told me."

"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he

died of fright in consequence?"

"Have you any better explanation?"

"I have not come to any conclusion."

"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the

placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no

surprise was intended.

"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.

Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us

here, and you could not celebrate him without being known

yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your

identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock

Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally

curious to know what view he may take."

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"

"He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage

his attention."

"What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark

to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible

way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will

command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your

suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might

perhaps even now give you some aid or advice."

"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,

Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary

and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an

unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not

mention the matter again."

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from

the road and wound away across the moor. A steep,

boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone

days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned

towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing

in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray

plume of smoke.

"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit

House," said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have

the pleasure of introducing you to my sister."

My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But

then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his

study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help

with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the

neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and

we turned together down the path.

"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over

the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged

granite foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the

moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.

It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious."

"You know it well, then?"

"I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a

new comer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my

tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I

should think that there are few men who know it better than I

do."

"Is it hard to know?"

"Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north

here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe

anything remarkable about that?"

"It would be a rare place for a gallop."

"You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several

their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots

scattered thickly over it?"

"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

Stapleton laughed.

"That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder

means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor

ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for

quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him

down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but

after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find

my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there

is another of those miserable ponies!"

Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.

Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful

cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my

companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

"It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and

many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the

dry weather, and never know the difference until the mire has

them in its clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."

"And you say you can penetrate it?"

"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can

take. I have found them out."

"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off

on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them

in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the

butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them."

"I shall try my luck some day."

He looked at me with a surprised face.

"For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he.

"Your blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would

not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by

remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it."

"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It

filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it

came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then

sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.

Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.

"But what is it?"

"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for

its prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so

loud."

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge

swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing

stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which

croaked loudly from a tor behind us.

"You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as

that?" said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a

sound?"

"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the

water rising, or something."

"No, no, that was a living voice."

"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"

"No, I never did."

"It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but

all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be

surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last

of the bitterns."

"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my

life."

"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hill-

side yonder. What do you make of those?"

The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of

stone, a score of them at least.

"What are they? Sheep-pens?"

"No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man

lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived

there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he

left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even

see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go

inside.

"But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?"

"Neolithic man--no date."

"What did he do?"

"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for

tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look

at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes,

you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr.

Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides."

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an

instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed

in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the

great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,

bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the

air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made

him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching

his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary

activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the

treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps, and turning

round found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the

direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of

Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was

quite close.

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had

been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,

and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a

beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a

most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast

between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted,

with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any

brunette whom I have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall.

She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have

seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the

beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant

dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely

moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then

she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was

about to make some explanatory remark, when her own words turned

all my thoughts into a new channel.

"Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly."

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at

me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

"Why should I go back?" I asked.

"I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a

curious lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask

you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again."

"But I have only just come."

"Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for

your own good? Go back to London! Start to-night! Get away from

this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word

of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me

among the mares-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the

moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties

of the place."

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing

hard and flushed with his exertions.

"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of

his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

"Well, Jack, you are very hot."

"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom

found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed

him!" He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced

incessantly from the girl to me.

"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to

see the true beauties of the moor."

"Why, who do you think this is?"

"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My

name is Dr. Watson."

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have

been talking at cross purposes," said she.

"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked

with the same questioning eyes.

"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being

merely a visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him

whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come

on, will you not, and see Merripit House?"

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the

farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into

repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded

it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and

nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and

melancholy. We were admitted by a strange wizened, rusty-coated

old man servant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside,

however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in

which I seemed to recognise the taste of the lady. As I looked

from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor

rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel

at what could have brought this highly educated man and this

beautiful woman to live in such a place.

"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my

thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we

not, Beryl?"

"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in

her words.

"I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country.

The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and

uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping

to mould those young minds and of impressing them with one's own

character and ideals, was very dear to me. However, the fates

were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and

three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and

much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it

were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys,

I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong

tastes for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work

here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this,

Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as

you surveyed the moor out of our window."

"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little

dull--less for you, perhaps, than for your sister."

"No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly.

"We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting

neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.

Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him

well, and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I

should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the

acquaintance of Sir Henry?"

"I am sure that he would be delighted."

"Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may

in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him

until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you

come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of

Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the

south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through

them lunch will be almost ready."

But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the

moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which

had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all

these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of

these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite

and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such

intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and

deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for

lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the

grass-grown path by which we had come.

It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for

those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was

astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side

of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her

exertions, and she held her hand to her side.

"I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,"

said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop,

or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am

about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir

Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application

whatever to you."

"But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir

Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.

Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should

return to London."

"A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will

understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or

do."

"No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look

in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton,

for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows

all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with

little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with

no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you

meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."

An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her

face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and

I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him

very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our

house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the

family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there

must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was

distressed therefore when another member of the family came down

to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger

which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey.

"But what is the danger?"

"You know the story of the hound?"

"I do not believe in such nonsense."

"But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him

away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The

world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of

danger?"

"Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I

fear that unless you can give me some more definite information

than this it would be impossible to get him to move."

"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything

definite."

"I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant

no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not

wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to

which he, or anyone else, could object."

"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he

thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He

would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which

might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now

and I will say no more. I must get back, or he will miss me and

suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had

disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while

I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to

Baskerville Hall.

Read next: Chapter 8 First Report of Dr. Watson

Read previous: Chapter 6 Baskerville Hall

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