Danger! and Other Stories by Arthur Conan Doyle (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📖

the most intense earnestness.  “You will bolt your door at night?” said she; and was gone ere I could say a word in answer to her extraordinary request.

It was a strange thing for me to find myself at last duly installed in my lonely dwelling.  For me, now, the horizon was bounded by the barren circle of wiry, unprofitable grass, patched over with furze bushes and scarred by the profusion of Nature’s gaunt and granite ribs.  A duller, wearier waste I have never seen; but its dullness was its very charm.

And yet the very first night which I spent at Gaster Fell there came a strange incident to lead my thoughts back once more to the world which I had left behind me.

It had been a sullen and sultry evening, with great livid cloud-banks mustering in the west.  As the night wore on, the air within my little cabin became closer and more oppressive.  A weight seemed to rest upon my brow and my chest.  From far away the low rumble of thunder came moaning over the moor.  Unable to sleep, I dressed, and standing at my cottage door, looked on the black solitude which surrounded me.

Taking the narrow sheep path which ran by this stream, I strolled along it for some hundred yards, and had turned to retrace my steps, when the moon was finally buried beneath an ink-black cloud, and the darkness deepened so suddenly that I could see neither the path at my feet, the stream upon my right, nor the rocks upon my left.  I was standing groping about in the thick gloom, when there came a crash of thunder with a flash of lightning which lighted up the whole vast fell, so that every bush and rock stood out clear and hard in the vivid light.  It was but for an instant, and yet that momentary view struck a thrill of fear and astonishment through me, for in my very path, not twenty yards before me, there stood a woman, the livid light beating upon her face and showing up every detail of her dress and features.

There was no mistaking those dark eyes, that tall, graceful figure.  It was she—Eva Cameron, the woman whom I thought I had for ever left.  For an instant I stood petrified, marvelling whether this could indeed be she, or whether it was some figment conjured up by my excited brain.  Then I ran swiftly forward in the direction where I had seen her, calling loudly upon her, but without reply.  Again I called, and again no answer came back, save the melancholy wail of the owl.  A second flash illuminated the landscape, and the moon burst out from behind its cloud.  But I could not, though I climbed upon a knoll which overlooked the whole moor, see any sign of this strange midnight wanderer.  For an hour or more I traversed the fell, and at last found myself back at my little cabin, still uncertain as to whether it had been a woman or a shadow upon which I gazed.

III—OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN

It was either on the fourth or the fifth day after I had taken possession of my cottage that I was astonished to hear footsteps upon the grass outside, quickly followed by a crack, as from a stick upon the door.  The explosion of an infernal machine would hardly have surprised or discomfited me more.  I had hoped to have shaken off all intrusion for ever, yet here was somebody beating at my door with as little ceremony as if it had been a village ale-house.  Hot with anger, I flung down my book and withdrew the bolt just as my visitor had raised his stick to renew his rough application for admittance.  He was a tall, powerful man, tawny-bearded and deep-chested, clad in a loose-fitting suit of tweed, cut for comfort rather than elegance.  As he stood in the shimmering sunlight, I took in every feature of his face.  The large, fleshy nose; the steady blue eyes, with their thick thatch of overhanging brows; the broad forehead, all knitted and lined with furrows, which were strangely at variance with his youthful bearing.  In spite of his weather-stained felt hat, and the coloured handkerchief slung round his muscular brown neck, I could see at a glance he was a man of breeding and education.  I had been prepared for some wandering shepherd or uncouth tramp, but this apparition fairly disconcerted me.

“You look astonished,” said he, with a smile.  “Did you think, then, that you were the only man in the world with a taste for solitude?  You see that there are other hermits in the wilderness besides yourself.”

“Do you mean to say that you live here?” I asked in no conciliatory voice.

“Up yonder,” he answered, tossing his head backward.  “I thought as we were neighbours, Mr. Upperton, that I could not do less than look in and see if I could assist you in any way.”

“Thank you,” I said coldly, standing with my hand upon the latch of the door.  “I am a man of simple tastes, and you can do nothing for me.  You have the advantage of me in knowing my name.”

He appeared to be chilled by my ungracious manner.

“I learned it from the masons who were at work here,” he said.  “As for me, I am a surgeon, the surgeon of Gaster Fell.  That is the name I have gone by in these parts, and it serves as well as another.”

“Not much room for practice here?” I observed.

“Not a soul except yourself for miles on either side.”

“You appear to have had need of some assistance yourself,” I remarked, glancing at a broad white splash, as from the recent action of some powerful acid, upon his sunburnt cheek.

“That is nothing,” he answered, curtly, turning his face half round to hide the mark.  “I must get back, for I have a companion who is waiting for me.  If I can ever do anything for you, pray let me know.  You have only to follow the beck upward for a mile or so to find my place.  Have you a bolt on the inside of your door?”

“Yes,” I answered, rather startled at this question.

“Keep it bolted, then,” he said.  “The fell is a strange place.  You never know who may be about.  It is as well to be on the safe side.  Goodbye.”  He raised his hat, turned on his heel and lounged away along the bank of the little stream.

I was still standing with my hand upon the latch, gazing after my unexpected visitor, when I became aware of yet another dweller in the wilderness.  Some distance along the path which the stranger was taking there lay a great grey boulder, and leaning against this was a small, wizened man, who stood erect as the other approached, and advanced to meet him.  The two talked for a minute or more, the taller man nodding his head frequently in my direction, as though describing what had passed between us.  Then they walked on together, and disappeared in a dip of the fell.  Presently I saw them ascending once more some rising ground farther on.  My acquaintance had thrown his arm round his elderly friend, either from affection or from a desire to aid him up the steep incline.  The square burly figure and its shrivelled, meagre companion stood out against the sky-line, and turning their faces, they looked back at me.  At the sight, I slammed the door, lest they should be encouraged to return.  But when I peeped from the window some minutes afterward, I perceived that they were gone.

All day I bent over the Egyptian papyrus upon which I was engaged; but neither the subtle reasonings of the ancient philosopher of Memphis, nor the mystic meaning which lay in his pages, could raise my mind from the things of earth.  Evening was drawing in before I threw my work aside in despair.  My heart was bitter against this man for his intrusion.  Standing by the beck which purled past the door of my cabin, I cooled my heated brow, and thought the matter over.  Clearly it was the small mystery hanging over these neighbours of mine which had caused my mind to run so persistently on them.  That cleared up, they would no longer cause an obstacle to my studies.  What was to hinder me, then, from walking in the direction of their dwelling, and observing for myself, without permitting them to suspect my presence, what manner of men they might be?  Doubtless, their mode of life would be found to admit of some simple and prosaic explanation.  In any case, the evening was fine, and a walk would be bracing for mind and body.  Lighting my pipe, I set off over the moors in the direction which they had taken.

About half-way down a wild glen there stood a small clump of gnarled and stunted oak trees.  From behind these, a thin dark column of smoke rose into the still evening air.  Clearly this marked the position of my neighbour’s house.  Trending away to the left, I was able to gain the shelter of a line of rocks, and so reach a spot from which I could command a view of the building without exposing myself to any risk of being observed.  It was a small, slate-covered cottage, hardly larger than the boulders among which it lay.  Like my own cabin, it showed signs of having been constructed for the use of some shepherd; but, unlike mine, no pains had been taken by the tenants to improve and enlarge it.  Two little peeping windows, a cracked and weather-beaten door, and a discoloured barrel for catching the rain water, were the only external objects from which I might draw deductions as to the dwellers within.  Yet even in these there was food for thought, for as I drew nearer, still concealing myself behind the ridge, I saw that thick bars of iron covered the windows, while the old door was slashed and plated with the same metal.  These strange precautions, together with the wild surroundings and unbroken solitude, gave an indescribably ill omen and fearsome character to the solitary building.  Thrusting my pipe into my pocket, I crawled upon my hands and knees through the gorse and ferns until I was within a hundred yards of my neighbour’s door.  There, finding that I could not approach nearer without fear of detection, I crouched down, and set myself to watch.

I had hardly settled into my hiding place, when the door of the cottage swung open, and the man who had introduced himself to me as the surgeon of Gaster Fell came out, bareheaded, with a spade in his hands.  In front of the door there was a small cultivated patch containing potatoes, peas and other forms of green stuff, and here he proceeded to busy himself, trimming, weeding and arranging, singing the while in a powerful though not very musical voice.  He was all engrossed in his work, with his back to the cottage, when there emerged from the half-open door the same attenuated creature whom I had seen in the morning.  I could perceive now that he was a man of sixty, wrinkled, bent, and feeble, with sparse, grizzled hair, and long, colourless face.  With a cringing, sidelong gait, he shuffled toward his companion, who was unconscious of his approach until he was close upon him.  His light footfall or his breathing may have finally given notice of his proximity, for the worker sprang round and faced him.  Each made a quick step toward the other,