IV
At the Burlington in the hall we found Deeming. I saw him before he was aware of us, and was startled by the change in his face. There was the stamp of nervous exhaustion upon it. The complexion was grey, the mouth was drawn, the eyes were anxious, almost feverish. When he turned and faced us fully he made an abrupt movement which was certainly not caused by pleasure, and I saw the fingers of his two hands clench themselves violently in the palms. Then he recovered himself, came forward, and greeted us with self-possession.
“I never expected to see you in England so soon,” he said to Vernon. “I thought you usually spent part of the summer in Rome.”
“I often do. But this year something has called me to London.”
“Oh. Well, all the better. We shall see something of you. I hope we shall bring off our dinner together in town. Only you must let me be the host.”
“Thank you. I shall be delighted.”
The note of cordiality was, I thought, forced by both men. Few more words were spoken, for it was getting late, and the hour of dinner was approaching. As we went upstairs I said to Vernon—
“Deeming does certainly want medicine of one sort or another. Don’t you think he looks horribly ill?”
“He has a strung-up expression. I should say he’s overworking. Did you notice how he started when he saw us?”
“Did he?” I answered, disingenuously I confess. “Naturally he was surprised. He had no idea we were in England.”
“Exactly. Here are our rooms. Au revoir at dinner.”
The dinner I need not chronicle at length. It took place downstairs, although we had engaged the sitting-room to appease a management shocked at our lack of evening clothes. The talk ran easily enough, helped by Lord Elyn’s unconsciousness of the obsession of the black spaniel, which sometimes seemed to me to be hovering about our table, creeping beneath our chairs, a shadow importunate, servile, yet menacing. I felt that the thoughts of Deeming and Vernon, interlacing and inimical, were on this whining, whimpering, uneasy shadow, that had called the latter from his home in Italy, that had stopped him here by the grey sea. I knew it as if those thoughts were spread before me by my plate. And all the time we chatted, glancing from subject to subject without great earnestness, laughing lightly at the last London absurdity, or discussing with apparent animation the chances of politics and the trend of art, I felt that our conversation was but a thin veil spread over a depth in which were other voices than ours, murmuring, in which the pale forms of future events glided, like spectres, to and fro.
Directly after dinner Lord Elyn excused himself.
“The eyes of the nurse are upon me,” he said, jocosely. “I see them saying: ‘Master Elyn, it’s time for you to go to bed!’ Eh, Deeming?”
“Quite right, Lord Elyn,” answered Deeming, smiling.
“Well, good-night. You’d much better come too, Deeming.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep yet. I haven’t been on the sea. I think I shall go out and take a breath of air on the front.”
“Perhaps it may do you good. I feel full of sleep.”
And he went off, leaving us in the hall.
“Will you come out?” asked Deeming.
The invitation seemed addressed to both of us. I expected Vernon to accept it with alacrity, but, to my surprise, he took up the Westminster Gazette.
“I’m a bit tired,” he answered. “I think I’ll stay here.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“Right. I want a turn or two to summon slumber.”
There was something almost pathetic in his voice. It moved me to ask, as we went down the steps, and along the row of houses to the sea-front—
“Have you been sleeping badly, then?”
“Pretty badly. I say, what’s brought Vernon over so soon?”
The question was sharply suspicious.
“He didn’t tell me,” I answered.
“Then you don’t know?”
We turned to the left and walked along the parade towards the cliff. No one was about in the cold and gusty night. Now and then a light flashed out across the sea, swept it in a half circle, and vanished in the darkness.
“Oh, I’m not in all Vernon’s secrets,” I said.
Directly I had spoken I regretted my choice of words.
“Secrets!” he said.
“I only mean that Vernon’s not specially given to making confidences. If he has any particular reason for coming to England at this time of year, he hasn’t told it to me. But why should he have any special reason?”
Deeming shrugged his shoulders.
“Where is he going to stay in town?” he asked.
“At Claridge’s, I believe; at any rate, for a time.”
“Then he means to make a long stay?”
His voice still sounded intensely suspicious. Suddenly I felt as if I could not stand all this subterfuge, as if I must brush away from me the spider’s web of mutual distrust in which my two friends were entangling me with each other.
“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “You really make me feel as if I were under cross-examination. I begin to wish I had never introduced you and Vernon to each other.”
Deeming stopped dead, and looked at me.
“Perhaps it would have been better,” he said. “Much better.”
“You think so, too? Why?”
“Can’t you see that Vernon hates me?” he said, with violence.
“What earthly reason can he have for hating you?”
“Some men don’t ask for reasons. There is something about me which is antipathetic to Vernon, and he’s a strange fellow. You think him gentle, I know. But I—well, I believe that underneath his apparent gentleness hides the soul of a fanatic, a black fanatic.”
We were still standing face to face. Now I looked into his eyes and said:
“I’m going to be very rude to you.”
“Go on. I’ll bear it.”
“I am perfectly certain you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. You have all the symptoms. You are horribly pale and shaky, and full of irritability and suspicion, ready to entertain any dark idea that may present itself to you, unable to see things in a clear light of reason.”
“And you, Luttrell; do you know what you are?”
“I!”
“Yes. I’m going to be rude to you. You are either a self-deceiver or a—well, something one doesn’t care to call a man. You know quite well, in your heart, that Vernon has come over so soon because—because—”
Suddenly he hesitated, faltered, broke off.
I seemed to hear the whimper of a dog near us in the night.
“I’ve had enough of the wind,” he said. “I’m going in.”
And we went back to the hotel without another word.
Next morning, Vernon and I went up to town by an early train, leaving Lord Elyn and Deeming to take their Channel trip. At Charing Cross, as we were parting, Vernon to go to Claridge’s and I to my flat in Albemarle Street, Vernon said, “By the way, what is Deeming’s address?”
“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” I said.
He took out a card and a pencil.
“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” he repeated slowly, as he wrote it down. “Good-bye. Let’s meet to-morrow. Come and lunch with me.”
He got into a hansom and drove away. I followed in a moment. As my cab came out of the station yard and crossed Trafalgar Square I was enveloped in what I called to myself “the London feeling.” The day was warm, but dull and grey. The tall buildings, the statue of Gordon, the Nelson column, the lions, looked sad and phantom-like to my eyes, for many months accustomed to the pellucid clearness of African landscapes, to the brilliant blue of Italian skies. And the well-known depression which always settles down upon me like a fog when I first return to London came to me once more, bathing me in a gloom which I strove in vain to shake off. In this gloom I seemed to see, like shadows passing in a fog, the forms of Vernon, of Deeming, and another form, small, black, and cringing, the form of a dog.
“P’f!” I said to myself. “Am I going to be the slave of a too sensitive imagination?”
And I resolutely began to think of pleasant things, of the friends, of the amusements, of the occupations that would solace me. Yet, when I reached Albemarle Street, I was heavy-hearted, and all that day and the next my depression persisted. Even a cheerful lunch with Vernon at Claridge’s and the renewal of many old acquaintanceships failed to restore me to my normal temper.
A week passed by, and I had not seen Deeming. I was beginning to wonder what had become of him, when I received from him a note asking me to dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening to meet Vernon. I was, unfortunately, already engaged to dine with some American friends and go to the play; so I wrote to excuse myself, and added this postscript—
“May your dinner banish your mutual misunderstanding. Remember that it will always be a grief to me if my two friends are at cross-purposes.”
The day after the dinner, when I had just come in from the club at seven o’clock in the evening, my servant announced “Doctor Deeming,” and Deeming walked into the room. I saw at once that he was in a condition of unusual excitement. We shook hands, and directly my man had gone out and the door was shut, Deeming, who was still standing and who did not seem to see the chair I offered to him, exclaimed—
“Of course, you have heard about Number 301?”
“Number 301? What the deuce do you mean?” I asked.
“Number 301, Wimpole Street, the house next door to mine.”
“What about it? Has it been burgled, or burnt down, or what?”
“Burnt down! Nonsense! It’s been to let for the last three months. Yesterday morning I found the board was down, and last night Vernon told me that he has taken it. He’s taken it as it is, furnished, and is going in at once.”
I was surprised, and, I suppose, showed that I was in my face, for he continued—
“Oh, then you didn’t know! He hadn’t told you!”
“He has told me nothing.”
“It’s a strange business. I—I—”
He began to walk to and fro.
“Why should he come to live next door to me? Why should he—?”
He stopped in front of me.
“Did you tell him where I lived?” he said, almost menacingly.
I resented his tone.
“Look here, Deeming,” I said, quietly. “If we are to continue friends, there must really be an end of all this mystery and suspicion about nothing. Why shouldn’t I tell Vernon where you live?”
“Did you tell him?”
“Certainly. He asked me, and of course I answered. Are you a criminal hiding from justice, and is Vernon a detective? Upon my word—”
I felt I was getting hot, and was silent. He stood quite still, staring at me for a moment with eyes that were almost fierce. Then he sat down on a sofa a little way from me, and said in a calmer voice—
“Yes, of course there was no reason. Still, it’s very odd. You must see that.”
“What is there odd in it? If it’s a good house, why shouldn’t Vernon take it as well as anyone else?”
“It’s a fairly good house.”
He moved, and leaned towards me.
“Originally,” he said, speaking slowly, “originally it was one with mine. The two houses were thrown into one. That was when Renold, the author, lived there. Afterwards, it was as it is now. But it’s still almost like one house.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, the alteration was very flimsily carried out, I suppose; for in the one house one can—I hope to goodness Vernon isn’t much of a musician.”
“You’re afraid of being disturbed?”
“If he plays the piano—by Jove!”
He burst into a laugh.
“Look out in the papers very soon,” he said. “I shall probably be bringing a case against him for annoyance. I can’t stand a hullabaloo next door after I’ve finished my day’s work. I want rest and peace. It’s no joke being a successful physician, I can tell you.”
I laughed too, almost as unnaturally as he had.
“Oh,” I said, “you needn’t be afraid. Vernon does play, but I’m sure, if you ask him, he’ll put his piano against the wall of the other house, and keep the windows shut when he is practising. Why didn’t you speak about it last night?”
“I’ll ask no favours of Vernon,” he said sternly.
Then he got up.
“I thought I’d just tell you,” he said. “Now I can’t stop. I’ve got a patient to see.”
He gave me a feverish hand, and went quickly out of the room.
While he was with me, I had endeavoured to make light of his news, to deceive him into the belief that I thought Vernon’s action a chance one, but directly I was alone I felt, though less agitated, nearly as angry at this affair as he did. It was a strange business—this pursuit. Deeming had said to me at Dover that Vernon was a “black fanatic”; what if it were so? What if my friend, so kind, so calm, even so unusually gentle in ordinary life, well balanced and eminently sane in his outlook upon men and affairs, really had a “screw loose”—to use the current phrase? What if the fate of his dog had actually affected his mind? I knew that there are men in the world who are sound on all subjects except one. Touch upon that subject, and they show an eccentricity that is akin to madness. It might be so with Vernon. I began to feel as if it must be so, and a great restlessness, a great uneasiness, beset me. Driven by it, I caught up my hat, hurried downstairs, hailed a hansom, and went to Claridge’s.
The hall-porter informed me that Mr. Kersteven was out.
“Do you happen to know where he has gone?” I asked.
“No, sir; he didn’t leave any word.”
My cab was waiting. I jumped into it again and called to the man—
“Go to 301, Wimpole Street.”
My instinct told me that I should find Vernon there.
Night was now falling. It was the hour when, to me, London presents its dreariest aspect. The streets are not yet thronged with those who, having worked during the day, are beginning to seek their nocturnal pleasures. The just-lit lamps are waging a feeble combat with the last fading rays of the flickering twilight. There is a sense of something closing in, like a furtive enemy, upon the great city. As I neared Wimpole Street I noticed that a fine rain was beginning to fall. The air was damp, without freshness, oppressive. In the gloom the cabman mistook the number and stopped at Deeming’s door. I got out quickly, paid and dismissed him, and was about to move on to Number 301, when it seemed to me that I heard the shrill, short whine of a dog. It startled me, and I remained where I was, listening in the rain. The sound was not repeated. I looked down the dismal street, but I saw no animal. I had not been able to locate the noise. I glanced at Deeming’s house. It was dark. Only from a window in the area shone a pale gleam of light. After two or three minutes’ hesitation I moved away, ascended the step of Number 301, and pressed the electric-bell. There was no response. I pressed it again and kept my finger upon it for at least a minute. This time my summons was answered, though in a rather unorthodox fashion. A window on the first-floor was pushed up, and I saw a vague face looking out at me from above.
“Vernon,” I said, “is it you?”
No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly, through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised.
“You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t know it. Can I come in?”
“Yes. Why not?”
But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance.
“You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously.
“Quite alone.”
“Come in.”
I stepped into a hideous passage, and he at once shut the door.
“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.