“The fate of my companion altered me. It either stirred from sleep,
or actually woke into life, a fierceness that till then I had not
known existed, or could exist, in me. It made me understand that, in
certain circumstances and to certain people, I could be implacable,
almost ferocious; that I could deny the sole right of Providence—you
know the text: why quote it?—to administer that gorgeous justice we
name vengeance; that I could stand up and exclaim, ‘I will repay,’
and repay without fear, without flinching, and even to the uttermost
farthing. But that was not all it did to me. With this awakening, or
this creation of fierceness in me, there came a deepening of pity,
of tenderness for the slaves of man. Yet I was selfish, and I have
remained selfish.”
“How?” I asked, wondering.
“It was, and is, in my power to make at least some animals happy, as I
had made my dead dog happy. I could not, and cannot, bring myself to do
that. I feared and I fear too much to suffer again as I suffered when
I lost Whisper, and when I learnt the truth about her end. That end
has been a nightmare to me ever since. I cannot think of it even now
without torture.”
“My dear fellow,” I said. “Don’t dwell upon it. To do so is really
morbid.”
“I don’t dwell upon it, as a rule. Have I ever even mentioned this
subject to you before?”
“No, no. But⸺”
“That man, your friend Deeming, has roused me up. I—I tell you that I
hate—that it is almost unbearable to me to think of his having a dog—a
black spaniel, like Whisper—in his power.”
He said the last words with extraordinary vehemence.
“That was what you meant then!” I exclaimed.
“When you mistook me just now? Yes, that!”
He relapsed into silence, but kept his still glowing eyes fixed upon
me. I seemed to read in them that he had more to tell me, to see that
there was some project, some intention of action, blazing in his mind.
“Look here, Vernon,” I said, determined to be quite frank with him at
whatever cost, “Deeming is a friend of mine.”
“I know.”
“That being so, I don’t think you can expect me to be ready to harbour
foul suspicions of him without any reason for them being adduced. If he
were to be suspicious of you, and told me so, I should speak to him as
I speak to you now. What on earth has the man done or said to make you
so violent—yes, my dear friend, that is the word—against him?”
He did not look angry at my energy, but, on the other hand, he did not
look doubtful or disposed towards modification. He only said, “How well
do you know Deeming?”
“Not very intimately, but well enough to feel sure that he is a humane
man. Patients of his have spoken to me of him, of his skill, his care,
and devotion in the highest terms.”
“I don’t doubt it. I don’t doubt that he is humane as a doctor. Anyone
can see that he is devoted to his profession, and his profession is to
heal human suffering. Ambition alone would cause him to be humane—as a
doctor.”
“You said yourself you were a bit of a crank. Aren’t you ever afraid
that your crankiness may lead you—now do forgive me!—into something
approaching malice?”