Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall

關燈
ndredcowsgrazedinwell-hedgedfieldswherethelushgrassesandmoreluxuriantvegetationspokeofaricher,ifadamper,climate.YoungBaskervillestaredeagerlyoutofthewindowandcriedaloudwithdelightasherecognizedthefamiliarfeaturesoftheDevonscenery. “I’vebeenoveragoodpartoftheworldsinceIleftit,Dr.Watson,”saidhe“butIhaveneverseenaplacetocomparewithit.” “IneversawaDevonshiremanwhodidnotswearbyhiscounty,”Iremarked. “Itdependsuponthebreedofmenquiteasmuchasonthecounty,”saidDr.Mortimer.“AglanceatourfriendhererevealstheroundedheadoftheCelt,whichcarriesinsideittheCelticenthusiasmandpowerofattachment.PoorSirCharles’sheadwasofaveryraretype,halfGaelic,halfIvernianinitscharacteristics.ButyouwereveryyoungwhenyoulastsawBaskervilleHall,wereyounot?” “Iwasaboyinmyteensatthetimeofmyfather’sdeathandhadneverseentheHall,forhelivedinalittlecottageontheSouthCoast.ThenceIwentstraighttoafriendinAmerica.ItellyouitisallasnewtomeasitistoDr.Watson,andI’maskeenaspossibletoseethemoor.” “Areyou?Thenyourwishiseasilygranted,forthereisyourfirstsightofthemoor,”saidDr.Mortimer,pointingoutofthecarriagewindow. Overthegreensquaresofthefieldsandthelowcurveofawoodthereroseinthedistanceagrey,melancholyhill,withastrangejaggedsummit,dimandvagueinthedistance,likesomefantasticlandscapeinadream.Baskervillesatforalongtime,hiseyesfixeduponit,andIreaduponhiseagerfacehowmuchitmeanttohim,thisfirstsightofthatstrangespotwherethemenofhisbloodhadheldswaysolongandlefttheirmarksodeep.Therehesat,withhistweedsuitandhisAmericanaccent,inthecornerofaprosaicrailway-carriage,andyetasIlookedathisdarkandexpressivefaceIfeltmorethaneverhowtrueadescendanthewasofthatlonglineofhigh-blooded,fiery,andmasterfulmen.Therewerepride,valour,andstrengthinhisthickbrows,hissensitivenostrils,andhislargehazeleyes.Ifonthatforbiddingmooradifficultanddangerousquestshouldliebeforeus,thiswasatleastacomradeforwhomonemightventuretotakeariskwiththecertaintythathewouldbravelyshareit. Thetrainpulledupatasmallwaysidestationandwealldescended.Outside,beyondthelow,whitefence,awagonettewithapairofcobswaswaiting.Ourcomingwasevidentlyagreatevent,forstation-masterandportersclusteredroundustocarryoutourluggage.Itwasasweet,simplecountryspot,butIwassurprisedtoobservethatbythegatetherestoodtwosoldierlymenindarkuniformswholeanedupontheirshortriflesandglancedkeenlyatusaswepassed.Thecoachman,ahard-faced,gnarledlittlefellow,salutedSirHenryBaskerville,andinafewminuteswewereflyingswiftlydownthebroad,whiteroad.Rollingpasturelandscurvedupwardoneithersideofus,andoldgabledhousespeepedoutfromamidthethickgreenfoliage,butbehindthepeacefulandsunlitcountrysidethereroseever,darkagainsttheeveningsky,thelong,gloomycurveofthemoor,brokenbythejaggedandsinisterhills. Thewagonetteswungroundintoasideroad,andwecurvedupwardthroughdeeplaneswornbycenturiesofwheels,highbanksoneitherside,heavywithdrippingmossandfleshyhart’s-tongueferns.Bronzingbrackenandmottledbramblegleamedinthelightofthesinkingsun.Stillsteadilyrising,wepassedoveranarrowgranitebridgeandskirtedanoisystreamwhichgushedswiftlydown,foamingandroaringamidthegreyboulders.Bothroadandstreamwoundupthroughavalleydensewithscruboakandfir.AteveryturnBaskerv