II
A day or two afterwards Deeming said to me, “I’m going to call on your friend Vernon this afternoon. When is he likely to be in?”
“He’s generally at home between six and seven,” I said. After a moment I added, “You want to find him then?”
“Why—yes. He’s a very agreeable fellow. Did you think I disliked him?”
“Disliked him—no, hardly that. But, somehow, I scarcely fancied you two were quite in sympathy the other night.”
“Oh, you mean that animal-versus-human-being discussion. Now it is just because of that I want to meet him again.”
“To win him over to your views?”
“Well, I confess that I should like to get him to see how harmful such a man as his friend Gernham is or may become to the world—of men understood. He’s probably got all kinds of absurd notions as to how vivisection is carried on. I should like to have a quiet, reasonable talk with him.”
“Go to-day, then, at six. You’re almost sure to find him.”
“I will.”
And Deeming set his lips together with determination.
I was, I confess, a little curious as to the result of the interview. I heard something about it the same evening from Vernon, who sent round a note asking me to dine with him alone.
“Your friend Deeming has been here,” he said, almost directly I was in the house.
“I know. Did you have a pleasant time?”
“He’s extremely intelligent—got a great deal of character, real force. That ruthless mouth and chin of his tell the truth.”
At this moment the servant said that dinner was ready. We continued our conversation in the dining-room, which was hung with sacred pictures, gentle-eyed Madonnas—one by Luini—Saints, an Agony in the Garden by an unnamed painter, the little children coming to Christ, the Magi offering their gifts, watched by calm-eyed beasts in a dim stable.
“Yes,” I said. “Deeming is very decisive.”
“To me there’s something very strange in the thought that he is a healer.”
“Why?”
“Well—do you mind my speaking frankly about a friend of yours?”
“Not a bit.”
“I shall startle you, perhaps. You know one reads sometimes in the papers of people who are afflicted with what is called the mania to persecute. There was a trial of a woman not long ago—a Mrs. Denby.”
“I know. But—”
“And there have been various instances in distant Colonial possessions of France and Belgium—and, perhaps, of other countries—various instances of men placed practically in the position of tyrants who have indulged in orgies of persecution of natives.”
“But, my dear Vernon, you surely don’t mean that you think Deeming has the bloodlust because he believes good can come of vivisection. Upon my word, if you don’t take care, I shall begin to think you really are a crank.”
“It isn’t that. It isn’t what the man says. I can quite understand that as a doctor he wishes by every means to advance the spread of medical knowledge. No, no; it’s the man himself. Do you know him well?”
“I have seen a good deal of him in London. Not a great deal, because he’s such a busy man. But I have often been with him.”
“Often in his house?”
“More often at his club, and in my own house and at restaurants. Being a bachelor, when he entertains he nearly always does so at Claridge’s, or the Savoy, or one of those places. But, of course, I have been in his house.”
“Have you ever seen his dog, that black spaniel he spoke of?”
“No, I can’t remember that I have.”
For a moment Vernon spoke of a certain dish that had just been brought in, a special plat for which his cook was famous. Then he said—
“That dog I spoke of the other night—the dog I lost—you remember?”
“Yes.”
“She was a black spaniel.”
His tone in saying this was so peculiar that I was misled and exclaimed: “But you told us the poor beast was killed in that house—in Lilac Hall!”
“So she was.”
“I thought—really, by the way you spoke, you led me to imagine that perhaps you fancied Deeming had got possession of your dog.”
“Oh, dear no! Whisper is dead, years ago. I seldom speak of her.”
“I never heard you mention her till the other night.”
“The other night I showed you a side of me that you had never suspected the existence of, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed.”
“Well, having broken through my reserve, I feel that I don’t mind being frank with you.”
His eyes began to shine as they had shone in the restaurant when he spoke of man’s cruelty to animals.
“My dog was the greatest solace in my life,” he said. “I am not a sentimental fool. There is nothing either sentimental or foolish in loving that which, with a whole heart and perfectly, loves you. And a dog’s devotion really is one of the most perfect, one of the most touching, and one of the most complete sentiments that can be manifested by one living creature to another. Not to respond to it would be absolutely devilish. But one can’t help oneself if one isn’t made of stone. I won’t bore you with a long account of Whisper’s devotion and fidelity. Why should I? It’s enough to say that she loved me as much as a dog can love, and in a dog’s way, with absolute unselfishness, with entire singleheartedness. I never felt lonely when she was with me, scarcely ever even dull. When I had been out without her, and, on my return, she met me at the door, almost hysterically eager to show her rapture, I—well, I was glad to be alive, and felt that life was worth while so long as I could evoke such a tempest of delight in any living creature. A faithful dog, believe me, is the best bulwark against the coming of cynicism. You can’t be a cynic when a dog’s cold nose is pushed into your hand, or a dog’s paw is placed gently and solemnly upon your knee. When I lost Whisper, when I found out what had been her fate, I felt something that was more than grief”—he leaned over the table and laid his hand on my arm—“I felt hatred, burning hatred, against those who had snared and murdered her, against all who use animals cruelly for the purposes of men.”
His face was transformed. I seemed to see before me a man whom I had never seen before. This man, I felt, could be not only gentle, but vindictive, and would be quite capable of expressing himself not only in words, but also through actions.
“I can understand your bitterness,” I said. “But does not this recalling of a painful event only stir up recollections that—?”
He interrupted me almost roughly.
“That doesn’t matter at all. I want to tell you now. I prefer to.”
“Go on, then,” I said.
He took his hand from my arm, and continued—
“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?”
I thought he might be angry, but he wasn’t.
“My intuition—apart from anything else,” he said—“my intuition tells me that Deeming is a cruel man.”
“I don’t believe it. Vivisection—”
“I’m not thinking of that now. What I am thinking is that I should like to see Deeming’s dog.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult, I imagine.”
“You don’t mean that she is with him here, in Rome?”
“Oh no. A dog in a hotel is apt to be a nuisance.”
“I don’t agree with you.”
“Well, well; but you always come to London in the late summer. I suppose you’ll do so this year?”
“Probably.”
“Call on Deeming. He’s a hospitable man, and if you entertain him here in Rome, he is sure to ask you out in London. There you can see for yourself whether his dog isn’t properly treated, as I’ll swear she is, and as happy as dog can be.”
I spoke lightly, even with a deliberately jocose and chaffing air. He listened to me gravely.
“I will invite Deeming here,” he said. “Indeed, I intended to in any case, as he is a friend of yours.”
“Thank you.”
“But you say he usually entertains in restaurants when he is in London. I have no reason to think I shall ever set my foot inside his house.”
The extreme gravity of his manner, the earnestness of the eyes that were fixed upon me, made me realise how strong was his strange desire, and therefore, how strong was his—as I thought then—absurd and unreasonable suspicion. I might have continued to laugh at it, and chaff him about it, but I did not. Something in his face and manner made me unable to do so, made me suddenly conscious that, however much I laughed, I could never laugh him out of his curious, and surely morbid, anxiety to verify, or lull to rest, his fears. And I must confess—so easily are we influenced by certain convinced people whom we care for—that I, too, was becoming, at that moment, oddly interested in this matter of Deeming and his black spaniel. Why had I never seen the dog, never heard Deeming mention it till the other night?
“If Deeming doesn’t invite you to his house,” I said, changing my tone, “there’s a very easy method of getting into it.”
“What method?” said Vernon eagerly.
“Go to him as a patient.”
I had scarcely said the words before I felt uncomfortable, almost traitorous. Here was I entering into something that was like a plot with one friend to get at a knowledge of another which that other had never voluntarily tendered to me. I was angry with myself.
“Upon my word, Vernon,” I exclaimed, “I’m ashamed of myself! Don’t let us discuss this matter any longer. Deeming and you are both my friends, and I wish to act always fairly and squarely by you both.”
“What unfairness is there in enabling me to prove the folly and falseness of my suspicions?” he rejoined quickly.
“I know—I know; but—oh, the whole thing is really absurd. It is madness to think such things of a man with no evidence to go upon.”
“How do you know that I have no evidence?”
“How can you have any?”
“Are a man’s words no evidence? Is his face while he says them no evidence?”
“Did you talk about his dog when he was here this afternoon?” I asked abruptly, moved by a sudden impression that he was keeping something from me.
“He wouldn’t talk about her. I am quite certain of one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That Deeming wishes now that he had never mentioned to us that he had a dog.”
I suppose I looked incredulous, for he added, without giving me time to speak—
“When you see him again, try to turn the conversation upon the black spaniel, and see how he takes it. And now let us talk of something else.”
During the rest of the evening Deeming and his dog were not mentioned. Vernon resumed, almost like a garment, his old self, the self I had always known, cultured, gentle in manner, full of interest in every topic that lent itself to quiet discussion and amiable debate. The evil spirit—I thought of it as almost that—had departed out of him, and when I got up to go I could hardly believe that I had ever been the recipient of his vehemence, or seen his eyes blazing with the light of scarcely controlled passion. He came with me to the hall-door and let me out into the quiet night.
“Good-bye,” he said, pressing my hand.
“Good-bye,” I answered.
I hesitated. Then I said—
“Doesn’t this calm of the night embracing Rome make you—make you feel that in your suspicions of Deeming you have been unreasonable; that, after all, it is unlikely he should be what you have fancied him to be?”
In an instant all the calmness, all the gentleness went out of his face. But he only answered—
“When you get back to the hotel talk to him about his black spaniel, and see how he takes it. Good-night.”
Before I could say anything more he had drawn back into his house and shut the door quickly behind him.