“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.
[Illustration: “THAT DOG THERE,” SAID VERNON; “HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD
HIM?”]
“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.