“Well?” he said.
Not only his voice, but his attitude questioned me.
“I went to Claridge’s. They told me you were out, so I came on here on
the chance that you might be looking over your new abode.”
“So Deeming’s been with you!”
“Yes, he came in for a minute, and mentioned casually that you had
taken this house.”
“Oh! he mentioned it casually, did he? Well, come and have a look at
it, won’t you?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He spoke with constraint, and so did I. Indeed, I had never before felt
so uncomfortable with Vernon as I did at this moment. I did not know
exactly what I had expected of him if I found him at the house; but it
certainly was not this cold reserve, as of one who scarcely knew me,
and to whom my appearance was unwelcome.
“It’s not a bad house,” he said, as we went towards the stairs. “It
will do very well for me for the season.”
“You’re in luck, then.”
The words faltered on my lips even while I strove to speak carelessly,
for, in truth, knowing Vernon as I did, knowing his house in Rome, it
was almost impossible not to express my amazement at his choice—or,
no, perhaps not that, for I could no longer be in any doubt as to why
he had rented Number 301—but it was almost impossible to keep up the
ridiculous pretence, forced upon me by his words and manner, that
I thought he had rented Number 301 because it had seemed to him a
suitable London home.
A more dreadful house I have seldom seen. The stamp of bad taste,
of pretentious middleclass vulgarity, was upon it, showing in every
detail, in the colouring of walls, in the patterns of carpets, in the
shapes of the furniture, in the tiles of the hearths, in the very
balusters and fire-irons. The mirrors were painted with bulrushes,
poppies, tulips. Cushions of brown and sulphur-coloured plush lay
upon settees that imitated shells. Chocolate-hued portières hung
across double doors, upon which were views of Swiss lakes and Alpine
heights. There were ceilings that represented the starry firmament,
and there were floors that suggested the vegetable-monger’s shop. In
“cosy corners,” thick with dusty draperies, nestled imitation beetles
and frogs, among Japanese fans and squads of photographs of possibly
well-known actresses, roofed in by open umbrellas of paper, from whose
spokes hung gilded balls.
And there were yellow spotted palms in pots, wrapped, like a face
distraught with toothache, in smothering cloths of bilious yellow and
of shrieking green.
“Not a bad house, is it?” said Vernon once more, when we had partially
explored it. By the words, by his manner, I was made at once to
realise that from this moment he intended to keep me out of his
confidence. Why this was so I could only try to surmise. As to action,
all I could do was to accept the situation and follow him in travesty
with as good a grace as possible. It was evident that Vernon’s
suspicions of my good faith had been aroused by my unexpected visit,
following so immediately upon Deeming’s announcement of the taking of
the house, and that he had resolved to show me that he would not permit
any criticism, even any discussion of his doings, however strange,
however hostile to Deeming they must seem to me in the light of recent
events.
“Not at all bad,” I answered.
We were standing at the moment in the terrible double drawing-room. I
carefully abstained from looking round. There was an instant of, to me,
rather embarrassing silence. Then Vernon said—
“Well, shall we go out together? It’s getting rather late. You hadn’t
anything special to say to me, I suppose?”
“No, nothing. I just called at the hotel, and thought, as you were out,
I might find you examining your new abode.”
Even as I spoke I involuntarily shuddered; I thought at the idea of
Vernon living in this house, this inmost sanctuary of Philistinism.
“Why did you do that?” he said sharply.
“What?”
“Shiver like that. Did you—did you hear anything?”
His eyes searched mine; and once more I saw the fierce light in them.
“Hear? No. What should I hear?”
He did not answer; but continued to stare at me as if he doubted my
words. Then he said abruptly:
“Let us be off, then.”
We descended the stairs and let ourselves out into the darkness and
the rain. As we passed Deeming’s house I seemed once more to hear the
shrill whimper of a dog. I wondered if Vernon had heard it too, for he
hesitated by the step of the door, almost as if he thought of mounting
it, and glanced swiftly down to the area, from which still shone the
ray of light. But he said nothing, and we walked on, and were soon in
the bustle of Oxford Street.
V
After seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two
things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be
next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have
formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange
path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut
out from his confidence.
This fact, while it irritated me, also relieved me. It rendered my
position as the friend of both men more tenable than it could have been
had Vernon confided in me. Now, if at any time Deeming were suspicious
of me, I should be able to confront him with the complacency of a
complete innocence, whereas hitherto I had more than once experienced
the discomfort of—I hope I may say it without offence—an honourable man
who is forced by circumstance to practise a mild deceit. This was a
relief.
Nevertheless, I did feel both irritation and surprise at Vernon’s
attitude towards me. It seemed to throw a chill over our friendship.
If he had never spoken to me of Deeming and his black spaniel, the
matter would not have troubled me, but a confidence begun and then
abruptly discontinued surely implies that one’s friendship is doubted.
I could no longer feel quite at ease when I was with Vernon. A dark and
cringing shadow separated us.
Vernon moved into his dreadful house two days after I had first seen
it. I naturally expected that, being a rich man, he would immediately
begin to tear down draperies, to get in new furniture, to lay down
carpets that did not recall the vegetable-monger’s, to turn out the
frogs and the beetles, and to do away with the paper umbrellas. I was
mistaken. He left things much as they were.
“I don’t suppose I shall be here long,” he said.
“I thought you had the house on a year’s lease?” I rejoined.
“The owner wouldn’t let it for a shorter time. But I don’t expect to be
here for twelve months, or anything like it. I may be out of it in a
month. Who knows?”
He glanced at me as if he expected me to find some hidden meaning in
his words, some meaning which he did not choose to put before me.
“I’m not even going to be bothered with a staff of servants,” he
continued. “I shall only have my man, Cragg, and one woman who can do
all that is necessary for me.”
“Really! What does Cragg think of it?” I ventured.
“Oh, Cragg has been with me for years and thoroughly understands me.”
I knew that; I knew, too, that Cragg was a rare being, a confidential
servant who was absolutely faithful. But, still, Cragg was unaccustomed
to such a peculiar kind of “roughing it” as was now in prospect.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I said, rather lamely.
“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t intend to entertain here. I shall imitate
Deeming. I shall exercise all my hospitality in restaurants. The
Englishman’s house is more than ever his castle since the restaurant
came into fashion.”
And he laughed.
“But perhaps, now I’m next door, Deeming may ask me in sometimes in the
evening,” he said. “We ought to be neighbourly.”
Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I
felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his
heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new
certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea
sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of
brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was
being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for
myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was
happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two
men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled,
and I should no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy
terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a
solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked
him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good
reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant
with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would
probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter
after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming
with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much
difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon
of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until
I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to
be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there
was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few
days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a
condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to
myself—ridiculous.
Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black
spaniel, and see him with his master.
I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an
hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone.
But I had miscalculated his popularity as a doctor. His extremely
thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the
waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients.
“When is he free?” I inquired.
“He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.”
“Does he never get out for a breath of air?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.”
“And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very
natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s
fine, to give the dog a run, eh?”
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.
[Illustration: “AS HE VANISHED, DEEMING APPEARED AT THE HALL DOOR.”]
“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.”