Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles

ouseunexplored.Nosigncouldweseeofthemanwhomwewerechasing.Ontheupperfloor,however,oneofthebedroomdoorswaslocked. “There’ssomeoneinhere,”criedLestrade.“Icanhearamovement.Openthisdoor!” Afaintmoaningandrustlingcamefromwithin.Holmesstruckthedoorjustoverthelockwiththeflatofhisfootanditflewopen.Pistolinhand,weallthreerushedintotheroom. Buttherewasnosignwithinitofthatdesperateanddefiantvillainwhomweexpectedtosee.Insteadwewerefacedbyanobjectsostrangeandsounexpectedthatwestoodforamomentstaringatitinamazement. Theroomhadbeenfashionedintoasmallmuseum,andthewallswerelinedbyanumberofglass-toppedcasesfullofthatcollectionofbutterfliesandmothstheformationofwhichhadbeentherelaxationofthiscomplexanddangerousman.Inthecentreofthisroomtherewasanuprightbeam,whichhadbeenplacedatsomeperiodasasupportfortheoldworm-eatenbaulkoftimberwhichspannedtheroof.Tothispostafigurewastied,soswathedandmuffledinthesheetswhichhadbeenusedtosecureitthatonecouldnotforthemomenttellwhetheritwasthatofamanorawoman.Onetowelpassedroundthethroatandwassecuredatthebackofthepillar.Anothercoveredthelowerpartoftheface,andoverittwodarkeyes—eyesfullofgriefandshameandadreadfulquestioning—staredbackatus.Inaminutewehadtornoffthegag,unswathedthebonds,andMrs.Stapletonsankuponthefloorinfrontofus.AsherbeautifulheadfelluponherchestIsawtheclearredwealofawhiplashacrossherneck. “Thebrute!”criedHolmes.“Here,Lestrade,yourbrandy-bottle!Putherinthechair!Shehasfaintedfromill-usageandexhaustion.” Sheopenedhereyesagain. “Ishesafe?”sheasked.“Hasheescaped?” “Hecannotescapeus,madam.” “No,no,Ididnotmeanmyhusband.SirHenry?Ishesafe?” “Yes.” “Andthehound?” “Itisdead.” Shegavealongsighofsatisfaction. “ThankGod!ThankGod!Oh,thisvillain!Seehowhehastreatedme!”Sheshotherarmsoutfromhersleeves,andwesawwithhorrorthattheywereallmottledwithbruises.“Butthisisnothing—nothing!Itismymindandsoulthathehastorturedanddefiled.Icouldendureitall,ill-usage,solitude,alifeofdeception,everything,aslongasIcouldstillclingtothehopethatIhadhislove,butnowIknowthatinthisalsoIhavebeenhisdupeandhistool.”Shebrokeintopassionatesobbingasshespoke. “Youbearhimnogoodwill,madam,”saidHolmes.“Tellusthenwhereweshallfindhim.Ifyouhaveeveraidedhiminevil,helpusnowandsoatone.” “Thereisbutoneplacewherehecanhavefled,”sheanswered.“Thereisanoldtinmineonanislandintheheartofthemire.Itwastherethathekepthishoundandtherealsohehadmadepreparationssothathemighthavearefuge.Thatiswherehewouldfly.” Thefog-banklaylikewhitewoolagainstthewindow.Holmesheldthelamptowardsit. “See,”saidhe.“NoonecouldfindhiswayintotheGrimpenMiretonight.” Shelaughedandclappedherhands.Hereyesandteethgleamedwithfiercemerriment. “Hemayfindhiswayin,butneverout,”shecried.“Howcanheseetheguidingwandstonight?Weplantedthemtogether,heandI,tomarkthepathwaythroughthemire.Oh,ifIcouldonlyhavepluckedthemouttoday.Thenindeedyouwouldhavehadhimatyourmercy!” Itwasevidenttousthatallpursuitwasinvainuntilthefoghadlifted.MeanwhileweleftLestradeinpossessionofthehousewhileHolmesandIwentbackwiththebaronettoBaskervilleHall.ThestoryoftheStapletonscouldnolongerbewithheldfromhim,buthetooktheblowbravelywhenhelearnedthetruthaboutthewomanwhomhehadloved.Buttheshockofthenight’sadventureshadshatteredhisnerves,andbeforemorninghelaydeliriousinahighfeverunderthecareofDr.Mortimer.ThetwoofthemweredestinedtotraveltogetherroundtheworldbeforeSirHenryhadbecomeoncemorethehale,heartymanthathehadbeenbeforehebecamemasterofthatill-omenedestate. AndnowIcomerapidlytotheconclusionofthissingularnarrative,inwhichIhavetriedtomakethereadersharethosedarkfearsandvaguesurmiseswhichcloudedourlivessolongandendedinsotragicamanner.Onthemorningafterthedeathof