The black spaniel, and other stories

VI

Peter Deeming died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and clasped it warmly.

“Back at last!” he said.

“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?”

“No. I’ve not been out of England.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?”

He nodded.

“What can have been your reason?”

He put his arm through mine.

“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell you.”

We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing, playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in the sunshine, stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land among my own people.

“Well, Vernon?” I said.

“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say good-bye to me.”

“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were strangers.”

“That was it?”

I heard the doubt in his voice, and added—

“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.

“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.

I broke the silence first.

“I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said.

“You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.”

“Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.”

“I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will do?”

“But—what was your reason?”

He looked at me, very strangely, I thought.

“A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.”

“The memory of Whisper?”

“Of Whisper—of course.”

His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing that I still wondered, he added—

“That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is cruel to it.”

“Oh, but—” I began, and stopped.

“What is it?”

“You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog with fear.”

“I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who loves them.”

“Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured.

“What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice.

“Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the gate.”

“Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?”

“Of course. You are still in that house?”

“Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?”

“Whenever you like.”

He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement and looking down. Then he glanced up at me.

“Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will you?” he said.

I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel.

“I’ll come,” I answered.

“Right!”

Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place.