Part 4

It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer.

“The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he murmured, “or pursuing his researches.”

“Oh!”

There seemed nothing more to be done just then, and as I saw a patient coming out and looking for his hat in the hall, I went away.

That evening I wrote to Deeming, telling him I had called to see if I could persuade him to take a stroll, as I was sure his health needed some rest, air, and relaxation.

“Will you come for a walk in Regent’s Park some Sunday morning?” I ended, regardless of the butler’s information.

He answered, by return, that he would come, if I liked, on the following Sunday. I replied, fixing the hour, and saying I would call for him. This done, I went out and—bought a dog.

It was a gay fox-terrier, young, full of abounding life, and quite ready to attach itself to anyone who was kind to it. When Sunday arrived, it was already devoted to me, and gleefully accompanied me to Wimpole Street to fetch Deeming for the promised walk. While I rang the bell it squatted on the step, wagging its short tail, and looking eagerly expectant. The butler opened the door.

“The Doctor is quite ready, Sir,” he said, when he saw me. “Will you step in?”

Suddenly he caught sight of the dog, who had jumped up when the door was opened, and was evidently preparing for exploration.

“Is that your dog, Sir?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t think the Doctor⸺ Get back, you little beast!”

The last exclamation came in a voice so different from the whispering one I was accustomed to that I could hardly believe it was the butler who had spoken. At the same moment my dog dodged his outstretched foot and vanished, pattering, into the house.

“Call him back, Sir; call him back, for the Lord’s sake, or there’ll be trouble!” exclaimed the butler, turning sharply with the evident intention of trying to catch the little culprit. But he had no time to act nor I to call. Almost as he spoke there came from within the house the piercing cry of a dog in pain, and the fox-terrier darted out of the hall, down the street, and disappeared, yelping shrilly as he went, with his ears set flat against his head, and his tail tucked down in his back. As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door.

“How dare you let stray dogs into my house?” he said to the butler in a savage voice.

“I beg pardon, Sir,” stammered the butler; “but it was this gentleman’s dog, and⸺”

“It was your dog, was it?” said Deeming, turning to me. “I did not know you had a dog.”

I was feeling so angry that I could hardly trust myself to speak.

“Certainly it’s mine,” I said curtly. “I must go and find it.”

And without another word I walked away down the street. I could not discover the dog. Its terror had evidently been so great that it had fled blindly and far. From that day to this I have never seen it or heard anything of it. When it rushed out of Deeming’s house it rushed out of my life. Having failed to find it, after walking some distance, I gave up the search and stood still. The natural thing, I suppose, would have been to retrace my steps to Wimpole Street, where Deeming was waiting for me. But this I did not do. I felt that I could not do it. An invincible repulsion against Deeming’s society had come into my heart. When I thought of him I saw the fox-terrier fleeing, with his ears set back against his head; I heard the yelping of a dog.

I stood, therefore, for a moment, and then walked home to Albemarle Street.

I had bought the dog in order to find out, if possible, how Deeming was with animals, how they comported themselves towards him. Secondarily I had thought of using the dog as a pretext for introducing the subject of the black spaniel. I had meant, when Deeming came out, to point to my dog and suggest that, as I had mine with me for the walk, he should bring out his.

Well, my curiosity had surely been satisfied. I had not, it is true, seen the mysterious black spaniel; but I could hardly remain in doubt as to Deeming’s attitude towards pet animals. The expression upon his face as he came out from the hall had been ferocious. Vernon was right. Deeming was a cruel man.

As I realised that, I began to wonder more about the black spaniel. Why should such a man keep a pet—a man, too, who was so incessantly occupied that he had no time for amusement, for almost any relaxations? And why had the butler—for I now felt sure that I had seen his face contorted for an instant on the evening when I had spoken to him of the black spaniel—why had the butler felt such amazement, or bitter contempt, or sardonic amusement, when I had alluded to the possibility of Deeming giving the black spaniel a run?

It almost began to seem to me just then as if the black spaniel were a baleful chimera, like the creation of a madman’s brain, a nothingness that yet can govern, can terrify, can cause tragic events and lead to bitterness and crime. Who had ever seen this creature? Where was it, in what place of concealment? Did it ever come forth into the light of day? I longed to know something of it, of its existence in that house, of its relations with its master.

Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. He lived next door. He had gone there to discover; of that I was sure. He watched at his window to see the spaniel let out. He listened at his wall at night, perhaps, to hear its whining.

Perhaps Vernon knew or would know.

And when he knew, would he tell me?

In the afternoon of that day I received a note from Deeming—

I waited for you to come back for an age. What was the matter? I am very sorry about your dog. The fact is I am not very well and in a nervous condition, and it startled me to come suddenly upon it in the dimly lighted hall. Let me know when we can meet.

P. D.

That was the note. I read it several times before I threw it into the waste-paper basket. But I did not answer it. I felt that I did not want to meet Deeming again for some time.

I felt that. Fate willed it that I should never look upon him again as mortal man. Within two days from that time I was called to the North of England by the serious illness of my dear mother, who lived in Cumberland. And there I remained until she died. Her death took place on the twenty-seventh of June. Her funeral was three days later. After it was over I returned to the house where I had been born, where I was now quite alone with the servants. I had to wind up many affairs, to put many things in order, to sort and examine papers and pay off some of the household. Despite my grief I was obliged to be busy, to be practical. For several days I was so much occupied that I did not look at a newspaper. I even set aside the letters that came by the post—letters of condolence, I felt sure they were, most of them—wishing to read them and answer them all together when I had leisure, and felt less miserable and deserted, and more able to take an interest in such affairs as were not actually forced upon me.

At last one evening I had got through everything. I had dined, and was sitting alone in the drawing-room, where my mother had always sat, feeling really almost as if I dwelt in a world unpeopled, or peopled only by the spectres of those who once had lived, when a servant came in with the last post. There were no letters, only two or three papers from London. Without interest, merely to do something, I tore the paper covering from one and unfolded it. My eyes fell at once upon the following paragraph—

As so many rumours have been put into circulation with regard to the lamented decease of Dr. Peter Deeming, which took place on the 30th of June, we are glad to be able to state authoritatively that the actual cause of death was blood-poisoning, which was, it seems, set up by the bite of a dog. Doctor Deeming, like many other eminent medical men, while solicitous for the health of others, was singularly careless about his own. The bite was severe, but he took little heed of it, although he had the dog, which was a pet, destroyed. He has now paid the penalty of his regrettable carelessness, and society is the poorer. For no West End physician was more trusted and esteemed by his patients than Dr. Deeming.

The paper dropped from my hand.

So Deeming and the black spaniel were dead! And each had destroyed the other!

PART II—THE RESURRECTION

VI

Peter Deeming died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and clasped it warmly.

“Back at last!” he said.

“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?”

“No. I’ve not been out of England.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?”

He nodded.

“What can have been your reason?”

He put his arm through mine.

“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell you.”

We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing, playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in the sunshine, stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land among my own people.

“Well, Vernon?” I said.

“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say good-bye to me.”

“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were strangers.”

“That was it?”

I heard the doubt in his voice, and added—

“There was another reason, too, an under-reason.”

“Yes?”

“That sudden death of poor Deeming, coming just after my mother’s, upset my nerves, I think. It made me feel as if—as if I had been cruel. It filled me with regret.”

“Cruel! I don’t understand.”

“No. How could you? But when a man’s dead, one thinks very differently about him often. And I had been suspicious of Deeming. At the end, indeed, I had been unfriendly.”

“I am quite in the dark,” he said, rather coldly, I thought.

I explained to him what I meant. I told him of my last meeting with Deeming, of the incident of the fox-terrier, of Deeming’s note to me, of how I had left it unanswered. He listened with a profound attention.

“When I read of his death in the paper I wished I had answered his note,” I concluded. “I wished it more than I can tell you. And I regretted bitterly that the last weeks of our intercourse had been clouded by suspicion, by misunderstanding.”

“Ah!”

His voice still sounded cold. After a moment he said:

“And you didn’t come to see me because⸺”

“Well, you had been mixed up with my suspicion of Deeming, and⸺”

“Now I understand. You felt a very natural longing to be away from all that recalled sadness to you, that might deepen your grief or serve to irritate your nerves.”

“I suppose that was it. I went right away. I wanted to forget, to escape out of a dark cloud into a clear atmosphere. But you? Why have you been in London all this time?”

“I’ve been working.”

“Working! You?”

“Even I—idler, dilettante.”

“Music?”

“I’ve been working with Arthur Gernham.”

“For the animals?”

“Exactly. For our brothers and sisters who do not speak our language. I’ve been writing pamphlets, I’ve been gathering subscriptions, I’ve been stirring people up, and by doing so I’ve been stirring myself up, my slothful, sluggish, unpractical self.”

“Wonderful!”

“Isn’t it? Do you know that I’ve toured the United Kingdom giving lectures on the subject of man’s duty to the animals, that I’ve helped to form a league of kindness? Luttrell, I’m a busy man now, and I am an enthusiastic man.”

While he spoke his animation had been growing, and as he ended his voice was full of energy.

“And when did the impulse come to you to begin this new life?” I asked.

“I can tell you the very day,” he said. “It was on June the 30th of last year.”

“June the 30th!” I said. “Why, that was the day that Deeming died!”

“Well, it was on that day.”

I looked at him sharply. I had never yet heard any details connected with the accident that had brought about Deeming’s illness and so caused his death. I wondered if Vernon knew any. He had lived next door. I longed to ask him, but something, some inner voice of my nature, advised me not to.

“Is Gernham a good fellow?” I said carelessly.

“A splendid fellow. You must know him.”

“As you have changed so much,” I continued, “have you altered that resolution of yours?”

“What resolution?”

“Never to make another animal happy as you made your spaniel, Whisper, happy?”

“Ah, that—no! I could never have another pet. I suffered too much from my affection, Luttrell. I am resolved not to suffer again in that way. The mountains may fall, but I shall never keep another dog.”

He spoke with a decision that carried conviction. At that moment I should have been ready to stake my entire fortune on his sticking to his assertion and backing it up by his acts. If anyone had come to me that night and said, “Your friend Vernon has just bought a dog and taken it home to live with him,” I should have laughed, and answered in polite terms, “You’re a liar.” But one cannot deny the evidence of one’s own eyes.

Now this is exactly what occurred.

While we walked along beneath the trees, not very far from the Statue of Achilles, I saw in the distance a man approaching us, leading a number of dogs by strings and carrying a couple of puppies under his arms. He wore a fur cap and earrings, a short, loud-patterned coat with tails, and a pair of very tight trousers. As he drew near I saw that among the dogs who accompanied him there was a fine black spaniel.

“Here comes a choice assortment of dumb friends,” I said to Vernon.

“Yes.”

I saw him looking at the dogs, which were sniffing the air, and pulling at their leads in the endeavour to investigate delicious smells. Suddenly he stopped short, just as the man was passing us. At the same moment I saw the black spaniel shrink back and cower down against the ground, pressing his broad, flapping ears against his head.

“What is it, Vernon?” I said.

He did not reply. He was staring at the spaniel. The owner of the dogs saw a possible purchaser, and at once, in a soft and very disagreeable voice, began to enumerate their merits.

“H’sh!” Vernon hissed at him.

The man stopped in astonishment.

“That dog there,” said Vernon, pointing to the black spaniel, which was still shrinking down, and pulling back from his lead in an effort to get away. “How long have you had him?”

“Ever since he was baun, gen’leman,” replied the man. “’E’s the gentlenist, the best-mannered dawg as hiver⸺”

“How old is he? What’s his age?”

“Just upon a year, Sir, a year ’e’ll be this very selfsame month. ’E was one of as fine a litter o’ pups as⸺”

“You bred him?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“A year old, is he?”

“Just upon, Sir. The thirtieth’s the day, Sir—the thirtieth of this selfsame month. Law bless you, I knows the birthdays of hivery dawg as hiver⸺”

“What’s his price?”

The man licked his lips, and I saw a gleam in his small eyes.

“Well, Sir, I dunno as I’m dispoged to part with ’im. You see, I gets to love⸺”

“How much?”

The tone was sharp. The words came almost like a pistol-shot.

“Ten puns, Sir,” said the man. “I should say, fifteen puns, Sir.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

“I reely couldn’t tike it, Sir. The dawg’s the very happle of⸺”

“There’s my address—301, Wimpole Street.” He gave the man his card. “Bring the dog there at six o’clock this evening, and you shall have twelve pounds, not a penny more. Good-day.”

“I’ll be there, Sir. You can trust me, you can⸺”

We walked on. As we did so, the spaniel whimpered, ran to his master, and fawned about his legs as if demanding protection.

For several minutes neither Vernon nor I said a word. I was in amazement. What had just happened may seem to some a very small matter. To me it seemed extraordinary, mysterious, even—I could not tell why—horrible. There had been something peculiar in Vernon’s attitude, in his face, while he stood looking at the spaniel, something fatal that had affected my nerves. Then my wonder was naturally great that such a man should thus abruptly go back from his word. And the spaniel’s cringing attitude of terror when Vernon had gazed at him, had spoken to his master, was disagreeable to me, acutely disagreeable in the remembrance of it! It seemed to me very strange and unnatural that such an ardent lover of animals as Vernon was should inspire an animal with fear. Animals have an instinct that always tells them who loves them. This spaniel was apparently without this instinct.

Perhaps it was this lack in him that made me now think of him with a faint dislike, even a faint disgust, such as the healthy-minded feel when brought into contact with anything unnatural.

I broke the silence first.

“I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said.

“You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.”

“Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.”

“I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will do?”

“But—what was your reason?”

He looked at me, very strangely, I thought.

“A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.”

“The memory of Whisper?”

“Of Whisper—of course.”

His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing that I still wondered, he added—

“That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is cruel to it.”

“Oh, but⸺” I began, and stopped.

“What is it?”

“You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog with fear.”

“I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who loves them.”

“Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured.

“What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice.

“Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the gate.”

“Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?”

“Of course. You are still in that house?”

“Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?”

“Whenever you like.”

He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement and looking down. Then he glanced up at me.

“Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will you?” he said.

I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel.

“I’ll come,” I answered.

“Right!”

Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place.

VII

At a quarter past five that day I started for Wimpole Street, filled with a sensation of strong curiosity, for which, in mental debate with myself, I could not quite satisfactorily account. It was a very ordinary matter, surely, this selling and buying of a dog. Why, then, did it seem to me an affair of importance? I asked myself that question while I waited. The only answer I could find was that the dog was a black spaniel, and that before the sad death of my friend Deeming a black spaniel, the creature that had caused the tragedy, had mysteriously complicated, and indeed altered, my pleasant relations both with him and with Vernon. But all that was a year ago. The past does not return, and therefore it was absurd to be—to be—what? What was really the exact nature of the emotion that now beset me? Had I been strictly truthful with myself I should, perhaps, have called it apprehension. But we are not always strictly truthful even with ourselves. I think that day I named it nervousness. I was nervous, out of sorts, a little bit depressed. Vernon’s _volte-face_ had surprised me. The dog’s cringing fear had made an unpleasant impression upon me. And so, now, as I drew near to Wimpole Street I was slightly strung up. That was the long and short of it.

In some such fashion I think I spoke to myself, explanatorily, falsely.

When I turned into Wimpole Street the image of poor Deeming was very present in my mind, and I could scarcely believe that he did not still inhabit the house to which I had come that Sunday morning. I wondered who lived there now, who was Vernon’s neighbour; and when I reached the house I looked towards it with a sad curiosity, which quickly changed to surprise. The house was transformed. Where once had been a doorstep there was now an area railing. The front door had vanished. In its place was a window, with a box in which roses and geraniums were blooming. In a moment I realised what had happened. Formerly the two houses—Nos. 300 and 301—had been one house. Since I had been there they had once more been thrown together. Vernon, then, was living now in the house that had been Deeming’s. As I grasped this fact, Vernon appeared at a window of what had been the second house. Seeing me, he smiled and waved his hand. Before I could ring, the door was opened by Cragg, his faithful man.

“Glad to see you again, Sir,” said Cragg, with a respectful bow which he had learnt, I think, in Italy.

He had several little foreign ways, but was extremely English in appearance—calm, solid, neat, and closely shaven.

I returned his greeting and stepped in.

“Ah,” I said, looking round. “So it’s all changed.”

“Yes, Sir. After Doctor Deeming’s death we got rid of the old stuff, and Mr. Kersteven bought the Doctor’s house and threw the two houses into one. It’s more suitable now.”

“It was awful before.”

“Well, Sir, it was scarcely to Mr. Kersteven’s taste. We rather roughed it for a time, Sir.”

He took my hat and stick and showed me upstairs into a charming drawing-room, in which I at once recognised many beautiful things from Vernon’s house in Rome. Here Vernon met me with an outstretched hand.

“By Jove, what a transformation!” I exclaimed.

“To be sure, you haven’t seen it since⸺”

“Since the frogs and the beetles and the Japanese umbrellas were turned out. No. And so now you’ve got Deeming’s house too?”

“Yes. I have joined the two together, but I use his chiefly for my work in connection with our dumb friends.”

“Oh!”

His voice was significant in that last sentence, and I realised that in him imagination was often the guide, leading him strangely, dominating him powerfully.

Tea was ready, and we sat down.

Giving expression to my thought, I said, “Strange that you should be living in Deeming’s house.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, well, you were antagonists, weren’t you?”

“Could the difference between us be called antagonism?” he asked, pouring out the tea.

“Wasn’t it? Once Deeming told me that he knew⸺”

I hesitated.

“Knew what?”

“Knew that you hated him.”

“Really. Did he say that?”

“Was it true?”

“Why discuss it?”

“You’re right. It’s all over now. And he, poor chap, has gone beyond the reach of earthly love or hate.”

He made no rejoinder, and I had an odd feeling as if he were silent because I had said something with which he did not agree; yet that was not possible.

“Do you think,” I said, to change the subject, “do you think that fellow will come?”

“The dog-fancier? Oh, I suppose so. He won’t let slip a chance of making twelve pounds. His dog isn’t worth more than six.”

“Then why do you give double?”

“A caprice.”

“I begin to think you are a capricious man,” I said.