“Pray forgive me, Luttrell, but the fact is I—well, I don’t know why,
but that dog has made a very disagreeable impression on me, very
disagreeable. D’you know, when he sprang upon me just now I felt a
sensation—by Jove, it was a sensation of horror, of abject horror.”
He walked on slowly.
“I noticed you were looking very pale in the hall,” I said.
“Pale? I should think so! The whole business—I say, what did you think
of it, eh?”
“How do you mean?” I asked evasively.
“What d’you think of the dog?”
“Poor beast! It seemed very nervous.”
“Nervous! It was half-mad with terror. I never saw a dog in such a
state before. And Vernon such a lover of animals, too! That’s the
strange part of it.”
“You think it was Vernon it was afraid of?”
“To be sure. Didn’t you see it spring upon me for protection, and
directly he approached it shrank away like a thing demented? Now, I’ve
been with animals all my life—brought up among ’em—and never before
have I seen an animal’s instinct betray it. Animals know in a second
the men that are fond of ’em and the men who hate ’em. But this dog’s
all at sea. It thinks Vernon’s a regular devil—a dog-torturer. It’s
half-crazed with fear of him. That is as plain as a pikestaff. The
thing’s unnatural, Luttrell—it’s d⸺d unnatural!”
He spoke with a vehemence that showed how greatly his nerves were
upset. I could not contradict, because I absolutely agreed with him.
“That dog,” he added, “gives me the shudders.”
“Poor wretch!” I said.
“You pity him too?” he asked.
“Yes. But when he gets to know Vernon it will be all right. Vernon has
a positive passion for animals.”