G K Chesterton- The Dover Reader

by G. K. Chesterton

  “Pray excuse me,” said Rupert, in a voice which he contrived to make somehow or other at once affable and underbred, “but we thought perhaps that you might do something for the Waifs and Strays. We don’t expect ”

  “Not here,” said the small servant, with the incomparable severity of the menial of the non-philanthropic, and slammed the door in our faces.

  “Very sad, very sad—the indifference of these people,” said the philanthropist, with gravity as we went together up the steps. As we did so the motionless figure in the portico suddenly disappeared.

  “Discussing religion with the booking-office clerk”

  “Well, what do you make of that?” asked Rupert, slapping his gloves together when we got into the street.

  I do not mind admitting that I was seriously upset. Under such conditions I had but one thought.

  “Don’t you think,” I said a trifle timidly, “that we had better tell your brother?”

  “Oh, if you like,” said Rupert, in a lordly way. “He is quite near, as I promised to meet him at Gloucester Road Station. Shall we take a cab? Perhaps, as you say, it might amuse him.”

  Gloucester Road Station had, as if by accident, a somewhat deserted look. After a little looking about we discovered Basil Grant with his great head and his great white hat blocking the ticket-office window. I thought at first that he was taking a ticket for somewhere and being an astonishingly long time about it. As a matter of fact, he was discussing religion with the booking-office clerk, and had almost got his head through the hole in his excitement. When we dragged him away it was some time before he would talk of anything but the growth of an Oriental fatalism in modern thought, which had been well typified by some of the official’s ingenious but perverse fallacies. At last we managed to get him to understand that we had made an astounding discovery. When he did listen, he listened attentively, walking between us up and down the lamp-lit street, while we told him in a rather feverish duet of the great house in South Kensington, of the equivocal milk-man, of the lady imprisoned in the basement, and the man staring from the porch. At length he said:

  “If you’re thinking of going back to look the thing up, you must be careful what you do. It’s no good you two going there. To go twice on the same pretext would look dubious. To go on a different pretext would look worse. You may be quite certain that the inquisitive gentleman who looked at you looked thoroughly, and will wear, so to speak, your portraits next his heart. If you want to find out if there is anything in this without a police raid I fancy you had better wait outside. I’ll go in and see them.”

  His slow and reflective walk brought us at length within sight of the house. It stood up ponderous and purple against the last pallor of twilight. It looked like an ogre’s castle. And so apparently it was.

  “Do you think it’s safe, Basil,” said his brother, pausing, a little pale, under the lamp, “to go into that place alone? Of course we shall be near enough to hear if you yell, but these devils might do something—something sudden—or odd. I can’t feel it’s safe.”

  “I know of nothing that is safe,” said Basil composedly, “except, possibly—death,” and he went up the steps and rang at the bell. When the massive respectable door opened for an instant, cutting a square of gaslight in the gathering dark, and then closed with a bang, burying our friend inside, we could not repress a shudder. It had been like the heavy gaping and closing of the dim lips of some evil leviathan. A freshening night breeze began to blow up the street, and we turned up the collars of our coats. At the end of twenty minutes, in which we had scarcely moved or spoken, we were as cold as icebergs, but more, I think, from apprehension than the atmosphere. Suddenly Rupert made an abrupt movement towards the house.

  “I can’t stand this,” he began, but almost as he spoke sprang back into the shadow, for the panel of gold was again cut out of the black house front, and the burly figure of Basil was silhouetted against it coming out. He was roaring with laughter and talking so loudly that you could have heard every syllable across the street. Another voice, or, possibly, two voices, were laughing and talking back at him from within.

  “No, no, no,” Basil was calling out, with a sort of hilarious hostility. “That’s quite wrong. That’s the most ghastly heresy of all. It’s the soul, my dear chap, the soul that’s the arbiter of cosmic forces. When you see a cosmic force you don’t like, trick it, my boy. But I must really be off.”

  “Come and pitch into us again,” came the laughing voice from out of the house. “We still have some bones unbroken.”

  “Thanks, very much, I will—good-night,” shouted Grant, who had by this time reached the street.

  “Good-night,” came the friendly call in reply, before the door closed.

  “Basil,” said Rupert Grant, in a hoarse whisper, “what are we to do?”

  The elder brother looked thoughtfully from one of us to the other.

  “What is to be done, Basil?” I repeated in uncontrollable excitement.

  “I’m not sure,” said Basil doubtfully. “What do you say to getting some dinner somewhere and going to the Court Theatre to-night? I tried to get those fellows to come, but they couldn’t.”

  We stared blankly.

  “Go to the Court Theatre?” repeated Rupert. “What would be the good of that?”

  “Good? What do you mean?” answered Basil, staring also. “Have you turned Puritan or Passive Resister, or something? For fun, of course.”

  “But, great God in heaven! What are we going to do, I mean!” cried Rupert. “What about the poor woman locked up in that house? Shall I go for the police?”

  Basil’s face cleared with immediate comprehension, and he laughed.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “I’d forgotten that. That’s all right. Some mistake, possibly. Or some quite trifling private affair. But I’m sorry those fellows couldn’t come with us. Shall we take one of these green omnibuses? There is a restaurant in Sloane Square.”

  “I sometimes think you play the fool to frighten us,” I said irritably. “How can we leave that woman locked up? How can it be a mere private affair? How can crime and kidnapping and murder, for all I know, be private affairs? If you found a corpse in a man’s drawing-room, would you think it bad taste to talk about it just as if it was a confounded dado or an infernal etching?”

  Basil laughed heartily.

  “That’s very forcible,” he said. “As a matter of fact, though, I know it’s all right in this case. And there comes the green omnibus.”

  “How do you know it’s all right in this case?” persisted his brother angrily.

  “My dear chap, the thing’s obvious,” answered Basil, holding a return ticket between his teeth while he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. “Those two fellows never committed a crime in their lives. They’re not the kind. Have either of you chaps got a halfpenny? I want to get a paper before the omnibus comes.”

  “Oh, curse the paper!” cried Rupert, in a fury. “Do you mean to tell me, Basil Grant, that you are going to leave a fellow creature in pitch darkness in a private dungeon, because you’ve had ten minutes’ talk with the keepers of it and thought them rather good men?”

  “Good men do commit crimes sometimes,” said Basil, taking the ticket out of his mouth. “But this kind of good man doesn’t commit that kind of crime. Well, shall we get on this omnibus?”

  The great green vehicle was indeed plunging and lumbering along the dim wide street towards us. Basil had stepped from the curb, and for an instant it was touch and go whether we should all have leaped on to it and been borne away to the restaurant and the theatre.

  “Basil,” I said, taking him firmly by the shoulder. “I simply won’t leave this street and this house.”

  “Nor will I,” said Rupert, glaring at it and biting his fingers. “There’s some black work going on there. If I left it I should never sleep again.”

  Basil Grant looked at us both seriously.

  “Of course if you feel like that,” he said, “we�
�ll investigate further. You’ll find it’s all right, though. They’re only two young Oxford fellows. Extremely nice, too, though rather infected with this pseudo-Darwinian business. Ethics of evolution and all that.”

  “I think,” said Rupert darkly, ringing the bell, “that we shall enlighten you further about their ethics.”

  “And may I ask,” said Basil gloomily, “what it is that you propose to do?”

  “I propose, first of all,” said Rupert, “to get into this house; secondly, to have a look at these nice young Oxford men; thirdly, to knock them down, bind them, gag them, and search the house.”

  Basil stared indignantly for a few minutes. Then he was shaken for an instant with one of his sudden laughs.

  “Poor little boys,” he said. “But it almost serves them right for holding such silly views, after all,” and he quaked again with amusement; “there’s something confoundedly Darwinian about it.”

  “I suppose you mean to help us?” said Rupert.

  “Oh, yes, I’ll be in it,” answered Basil, “If it’s only to prevent your doing the poor chaps any harm.”

  He was standing in the rear of our little procession, looking indifferent and sometimes even sulky, but somehow the instant the door opened he stepped first into the hall, glowing with urbanity.

  “So sorry to haunt you like this,” he said. “I met two friends outside who very much want to know you. May I bring them in?”

  “Delighted, of course,” said a young voice, the unmistakable voice of the Isis, and I realised that the door had been opened, not by the decorous little servant girl, but by one of our hosts in person. He was a short, but shapely young gentleman, with curly dark hair and a square, snub-nosed face. He wore slippers and a sort of blazer of some incredible college purple.

  “This way,” he said; “mind the steps by the staircase. This house is more crooked and old-fashioned than you would think from its snobbish exterior. There are quite a lot of odd corners in the place really.”

  “That,” said Rupert, with a savage smile, “I can quite believe.”

  We were by this time in the study or back parlour, used by the young inhabitants as a sitting-room, an apartment littered with magazines and books ranging from Dante to detective stories. The other youth, who stood with his back to the fire smoking a corncob, was big and burly, with dead brown hair brushed forward and a Norfolk jacket. He was that particular type of man whose every feature and action is heavy and clumsy, and yet who is, you would say, rather exceptionally a gentleman.

  “Any more arguments?” he said, when introduction had been effected. “I must say, Mr. Grant, you were rather severe upon eminent men of science such as we. I’ve half a mind to chuck my D.Sc. and turn minor poet.”

  “Bosh,” answered Grant. “I never said a word against eminent men of science. What I complain of is a vague popular philosophy which supposes itself to be scientific when it is really nothing but a sort of new religion and an uncommonly nasty one. When people talked about the fall of man they knew they were talking about a mystery, a thing they didn’t understand. Now that they talk about the survival of the fittest they think they do understand it, whereas they have not merely no notion, they have an elaborately false notion of what the words mean. The Darwinian movement has made no difference to mankind, except that, instead of talking unphilosophically about philosophy, they now talk unscientifically about science.”

  “That is all very well,” said the big young man, whose name appeared to be Burrows. “Of course, in a sense, science, like mathematics or the violin, can only be perfectly understood by specialists. Still, the rudiments may be of public use. Greenwood here,” indicating the little man in the blazer, “doesn’t know one note of music from another. Still, he knows something. He knows enough to take off his hat when they play ‘God save the King.’ He doesn’t take it off by mistake when they play ‘Oh, dem Golden Slippers.’ Just in the same way science ”

  Here Mr. Burrows stopped abruptly. He was interrupted by an argument uncommon in philosophical controversy and perhaps not wholly legitimate. Rupert Grant had bounded on him from behind, flung an arm round his throat, and bent the giant backwards.

  “Knock the other fellow down, Swinburne,” he called out, and before I knew where I was I was locked in a grapple with the man in the purple blazer. He was a wiry fighter, who bent and sprang like whalebone, but I was heavier and had taken him utterly by surprise. I twitched one of his feet from under him; he swung for a moment on the single foot, and then we fell with a crash amid the litter of newspapers, myself on top.

  “Smoking a corn-cob”

  My attention for a moment released by victory, I could hear Basil’s voice finishing some long sentence of which I had not heard the beginning.

  “ … wholly, I must confess, unintelligible to me, my dear sir, and I need not say unpleasant. Still one must side with one’s old friends against the most fascinating new ones. Permit me, therefore, in tying you up in this antimacassar, to make it as commodious as handcuffs can reasonably be while …”

  I had staggered to my feet. The gigantic Burrows was toiling in the garrotte of Rupert, while Basil was striving to master his mighty hands. Rupert and Basil were both particularly strong, but so was Mr. Burrows; how strong, we knew a second afterwards. His head was held back by Rupert’s arm, but a convulsive heave went over his whole frame. An instant after his head plunged forward like a bull’s, and Rupert Grant was slung head over heels, a Catherine wheel of legs, on the floor in front of him. Simultaneously the bull’s head butted Basil in the chest, bringing him also to the ground with a crash, and the monster, with a Berserker roar, leaped at me and knocked me into the corner of the room, smashing the waste-paper basket. The bewildered Greenwood sprang furiously to his feet. Basil did the same. But they had the best of it now.

  Greenwood dashed to the bell and pulled it violently, sending peals through the great house. Before I could get panting to my feet, and before Rupert, who had been literally stunned for a few moments, could even lift his head from the floor, two footmen were in the room. Defeated even when we were in a majority, we were now outnumbered. Greenwood and one of the footmen flung themselves upon me, crushing me back into the corner upon the wreck of the paper basket. The other two flew at Basil, and pinned him against the wall. Rupert lifted himself on his elbow, but he was still dazed.

  In the strained silence of our helplessness I heard the voice of Basil come with a loud incongruous cheerfulness.

  “Now this,” he said, “is what I call enjoying oneself.”

  I caught a glimpse of his face, flushed and forced against the bookcase, from between the swaying limbs of my captors and his. To my astonishment his eyes were really brilliant with pleasure, like those of a child heated by a favourite game.

  I made several apoplectic efforts to rise, but the servant was on top of me so heavily that Greenwood could afford to leave me to him. He turned quickly to come to reinforce the two who were mastering Basil. The latter’s head was already sinking lower and lower, like a leaning ship, as his enemies pressed him down. He flung up one hand just as I thought him falling and hung on to a huge tome in the bookcase, a volume, I afterwards discovered, of St. Chrysostom’s theology. Just as Greenwood bounded across the room towards the group, Basil plucked the ponderous tome bodily out of the shelf, swung it, and sent it spinning through the air, so that it struck Greenwood flat in the face and knocked him over like a rolling ninepin. At the same instant Basil’s stiffness broke, and he sank, his enemies closing over him.

  Rupert’s head was clear, but his body shaken; he was hanging as best he could on to the half-prostrate Greenwood. They were rolling over each other on the floor, both somewhat enfeebled by their falls, but Rupert certainly the more so. I was still successfully held down. The floor was a sea of torn and trampled papers and magazines, like an immense waste-paper basket. Burrows and his companion were almost up to the knees in them, as in a drift of dead leaves. And Greenwood had his leg struck
right through a sheet of the Pall Mall Gazette, which clung to it ludicrously, like some fantastic trouser frill.

  Basil, shut from me in a human prison, a prison of powerful bodies, might be dead for all I knew. I fancied, however, that the broad back of Mr. Burrows, which was turned towards me, had a certain bend of effort in it as if my friend still needed some holding down. Suddenly that broad back swayed hither and thither. It was swaying on one leg; Basil, somehow, had hold of the other. Burrows’ huge fist and those of the footmen were battering Basil’s sunken head like an anvil, but nothing could get the giant’s ankle out of his sudden and savage grip. While his own head was forced slowly down in darkness and great pain, the right leg of his captor was being forced in the air. Burrows swung to and fro with a purple face. Then suddenly the floor and the walls and the ceiling shook together, as the colossus fell, all his length seeming to fill the floor. Basil sprang up with dancing eyes, and with three blows like battering-rams knocked the footman into a cocked hat. Then he sprang on top of Burrows, with one antimacassar in his hand and another in his teeth, and bound him hand and foot almost before he knew clearly that his head had struck the floor. Then Basil sprang at Greenwood, whom Rupert was struggling to hold down, and between them they secured him easily. The man who had hold of me let go and turned to his rescue, but I leaped up like a spring released, and, to my infinite satisfaction, knocked the fellow down. The other footman, bleeding at the mouth and quite demoralised, was stumbling out of the room. My late captor, without a word, slunk after him, seeing that the battle was won. Rupert was sitting astride the pinioned Mr. Greenwood, Basil astride the pinioned Mr. Burrows.

  To my surprise the latter gentleman, lying bound on his back, spoke in a perfectly calm voice to the man who sat on top of him.