"My dear chap," he cried, "do you really mean that you see any good in going down to this ridiculous scrub, where there is nothing but beaten tracks and a few twisted trees, simply because it was the first place that came into a rowdy lieutenant's head when he wanted to give a lying reference in a scrape?""Yes," said Basil, taking out his watch, "and, what's worse, we've lost the train."He paused a moment and then added: "As a matter of fact, I think we may just as well go down later in the day.I have some writing to do, and I think you told me, Rupert, that you thought of going to the Dulwich Gallery.I was rather too impetuous.Very likely he wouldn't be in.But if we get down by the 5.15, which gets to Purley about 6, I expect we shall just catch him.""Catch him!" cried his brother, in a kind of final anger."I wish we could.Where the deuce shall we catch him now?""I keep forgetting the name of the common," said Basil, as he buttoned up his coat."The Elms--what is it? Buxton Common, near Purley.That's where we shall find him.""But there is no such place," groaned Rupert; but he followed his brother downstairs.
We all followed him.We snatched our hats from the hat-stand and our sticks from the umbrella-stand; and why we followed him we did not and do not know.But we always followed him, whatever was the meaning of the fact, whatever was the nature of his mastery.And the strange thing was that we followed him the more completely the more nonsensical appeared the thing which he said.At bottom, Ibelieve, if he had risen from our breakfast table and said: "I am going to find the Holy Pig with Ten Tails," we should have followed him to the end of the world.
I don't know whether this mystical feeling of mine about Basil on this occasion has got any of the dark and cloudy colour, so to speak, of the strange journey that we made the same evening.It was already very dense twilight when we struck southward from Purley.
Suburbs and things on the London border may be, in most cases, commonplace and comfortable.But if ever by any chance they really are empty solitudes they are to the human spirit more desolate and dehumanized than any Yorkshire moors or Highland hills, because the suddenness with which the traveller drops into that silence has something about it as of evil elf-land.It seems to be one of the ragged suburbs of the cosmos half-forgotten by God--such a place was Buxton Common, near Purley.
There was certainly a sort of grey futility in the landscape itself.But it was enormously increased by the sense of grey futility in our expedition.The tracts of grey turf looked useless, the occasional wind-stricken trees looked useless, but we, the human beings, more useless than the hopeless turf or the idle trees.We were maniacs akin to the foolish landscape, for we were come to chase the wild goose which has led men and left men in bogs from the beginning.We were three dazed men under the captaincy of a madman going to look for a man whom we knew was not there in a house that had no existence.A livid sunset seemed to look at us with a sort of sickly smile before it died.
Basil went on in front with his coat collar turned up, looking in the gloom rather like a grotesque Napoleon.We crossed swell after swell of the windy common in increasing darkness and entire silence.Suddenly Basil stopped and turned to us, his hands in his pockets.Through the dusk I could just detect that he wore a broad grin as of comfortable success.
"Well," he cried, taking his heavily gloved hands out of his pockets and slapping them together, "here we are at last."The wind swirled sadly over the homeless heath; two desolate elms rocked above us in the sky like shapeless clouds of grey.There was not a sign of man or beast to the sullen circle of the horizon, and in the midst of that wilderness Basil Grant stood rubbing his hands with the air of an innkeeper standing at an open door.
"How jolly it is," he cried, "to get back to civilization.That notion that civilization isn't poetical is a civilised delusion.
Wait till you've really lost yourself in nature, among the devilish woodlands and the cruel flowers.Then you'll know that there's no star like the red star of man that he lights on his hearthstone; no river like the red river of man, the good red wine, which you, Mr Rupert Grant, if I have any knowledge of you, will be drinking in two or three minutes in enormous quantities."Rupert and I exchanged glances of fear.Basil went on heartily, as the wind died in the dreary trees.
"You'll find our host a much more simple kind of fellow in his own house.I did when I visited him when he lived in the cabin at Yarmouth, and again in the loft at the city warehouse.He's really a very good fellow.But his greatest virtue remains what I said originally.""What do you mean?" I asked, finding his speech straying towards a sort of sanity."What is his greatest virtue?""His greatest virtue," replied Basil, "is that he always tells the literal truth.""Well, really," cried Rupert, stamping about between cold and anger, and slapping himself like a cabman, "he doesn't seem to have been very literal or truthful in this case, nor you either.Why the deuce, may I ask, have you brought us out to this infernal place?""He was too truthful, I confess," said Basil, leaning against the tree; "too hardly veracious, too severely accurate.He should have indulged in a little more suggestiveness and legitimate romance.
But come, it's time we went in.We shall be late for dinner."Rupert whispered to me with a white face:
"Is it a hallucination, do you think? Does he really fancy he sees a house?""I suppose so," I said.Then I added aloud, in what was meant to be a cheery and sensible voice, but which sounded in my ears almost as strange as the wind:
"Come, come, Basil, my dear fellow.Where do you want us to go?""Why, up here," cried Basil, and with a bound and a swing he was above our heads, swarming up the grey column of the colossal tree.
