A day or two afterwards Deeming said to me, “I’m going to call on your
friend Vernon this afternoon. When is he likely to be in?”
“He’s generally at home between six and seven,” I said. After a moment
I added, “You want to find him then?”
“Why—yes. He’s a very agreeable fellow. Did you think I disliked him?”
“Disliked him—no, hardly that. But, somehow, I scarcely fancied you two
were quite in sympathy the other night.”
“Oh, you mean that animal-versus-human-being discussion. Now it is just
because of that I want to meet him again.”
“To win him over to your views?”
“Well, I confess that I should like to get him to see how harmful
such a man as his friend Gernham is or may become to the world—of men
understood. He’s probably got all kinds of absurd notions as to how
vivisection is carried on. I should like to have a quiet, reasonable
talk with him.”
“Go to-day, then, at six. You’re almost sure to find him.”
“I will.”
And Deeming set his lips together with determination.
I was, I confess, a little curious as to the result of the interview. I
heard something about it the same evening from Vernon, who sent round a
note asking me to dine with him alone.
“Your friend Deeming has been here,” he said, almost directly I was in
the house.
“I know. Did you have a pleasant time?”
“He’s extremely intelligent—got a great deal of character, real force.
That ruthless mouth and chin of his tell the truth.”
At this moment the servant said that dinner was ready. We continued our
conversation in the dining-room, which was hung with sacred pictures,
gentle-eyed Madonnas—one by Luini—Saints, an Agony in the Garden by
an unnamed painter, the little children coming to Christ, the Magi
offering their gifts, watched by calm-eyed beasts in a dim stable.
“Yes,” I said. “Deeming is very decisive.”
“To me there’s something very strange in the thought that he is a
healer.”
“Why?”
“Well—do you mind my speaking frankly about a friend of yours?”
“Not a bit.”
“I shall startle you, perhaps. You know one reads sometimes in the
papers of people who are afflicted with what is called the mania to
persecute. There was a trial of a woman not long ago—a Mrs. Denby.”
“I know. But⸺”
“And there have been various instances in distant Colonial possessions
of France and Belgium—and, perhaps, of other countries—various
instances of men placed practically in the position of tyrants who have
indulged in orgies of persecution of natives.”
“But, my dear Vernon, you surely don’t mean that you think Deeming has
the bloodlust because he believes good can come of vivisection. Upon my
word, if you don’t take care, I shall begin to think you really are a
crank.”
“It isn’t that. It isn’t what the man says. I can quite understand that
as a doctor he wishes by every means to advance the spread of medical
knowledge. No, no; it’s the man himself. Do you know him well?”
“I have seen a good deal of him in London. Not a great deal, because
he’s such a busy man. But I have often been with him.”
“Often in his house?”
“More often at his club, and in my own house and at restaurants. Being
a bachelor, when he entertains he nearly always does so at Claridge’s,
or the Savoy, or one of those places. But, of course, I have been in
his house.”
“Have you ever seen his dog, that black spaniel he spoke of?”
“No, I can’t remember that I have.”
For a moment Vernon spoke of a certain dish that had just been brought
in, a special _plat_ for which his cook was famous. Then he said—
“That dog I spoke of the other night—the dog I lost—you remember?”
“Yes.”
“She was a black spaniel.”
His tone in saying this was so peculiar that I was misled and
exclaimed: “But you told us the poor beast was killed in that house—in
Lilac Hall!”
“So she was.”
“I thought—really, by the way you spoke, you led me to imagine that
perhaps you fancied Deeming had got possession of your dog.”
“Oh, dear no! Whisper is dead, years ago. I seldom speak of her.”
“I never heard you mention her till the other night.”
“The other night I showed you a side of me that you had never suspected
the existence of, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed.”
“Well, having broken through my reserve, I feel that I don’t mind being
frank with you.”
His eyes began to shine as they had shone in the restaurant when he
spoke of man’s cruelty to animals.
“My dog was the greatest solace in my life,” he said. “I am not a
sentimental fool. There is nothing either sentimental or foolish
in loving that which, with a whole heart and perfectly, loves you.
And a dog’s devotion really is one of the most perfect, one of the
most touching, and one of the most complete sentiments that can be
manifested by one living creature to another. Not to respond to it
would be absolutely devilish. But one can’t help oneself if one isn’t
made of stone. I won’t bore you with a long account of Whisper’s
devotion and fidelity. Why should I? It’s enough to say that she
loved me as much as a dog can love, and in a dog’s way, with absolute
unselfishness, with entire singleheartedness. I never felt lonely when
she was with me, scarcely ever even dull. When I had been out without
her, and, on my return, she met me at the door, almost hysterically
eager to show her rapture, I—well, I was glad to be alive, and felt
that life was worth while so long as I could evoke such a tempest of
delight in any living creature. A faithful dog, believe me, is the
best bulwark against the coming of cynicism. You can’t be a cynic
when a dog’s cold nose is pushed into your hand, or a dog’s paw is
placed gently and solemnly upon your knee. When I lost Whisper, when I
found out what had been her fate, I felt something that was more than
grief”—he leaned over the table and laid his hand on my arm—“I felt
hatred, burning hatred, against those who had snared and murdered her,
against all who use animals cruelly for the purposes of men.”
His face was transformed. I seemed to see before me a man whom I had
never seen before. This man, I felt, could be not only gentle, but
vindictive, and would be quite capable of expressing himself not only
in words, but also through actions.
“I can understand your bitterness,” I said. “But does not this
recalling of a painful event only stir up recollections that⸺?”
He interrupted me almost roughly.
“That doesn’t matter at all. I want to tell you now. I prefer to.”
“Go on, then,” I said.