V
After seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut out from his confidence.
This fact, while it irritated me, also relieved me. It rendered my position as the friend of both men more tenable than it could have been had Vernon confided in me. Now, if at any time Deeming were suspicious of me, I should be able to confront him with the complacency of a complete innocence, whereas hitherto I had more than once experienced the discomfort of—I hope I may say it without offence—an honourable man who is forced by circumstance to practise a mild deceit. This was a relief.
Nevertheless, I did feel both irritation and surprise at Vernon’s attitude towards me. It seemed to throw a chill over our friendship. If he had never spoken to me of Deeming and his black spaniel, the matter would not have troubled me, but a confidence begun and then abruptly discontinued surely implies that one’s friendship is doubted. I could no longer feel quite at ease when I was with Vernon. A dark and cringing shadow separated us.
Vernon moved into his dreadful house two days after I had first seen it. I naturally expected that, being a rich man, he would immediately begin to tear down draperies, to get in new furniture, to lay down carpets that did not recall the vegetable-monger’s, to turn out the frogs and the beetles, and to do away with the paper umbrellas. I was mistaken. He left things much as they were.
“I don’t suppose I shall be here long,” he said.
“I thought you had the house on a year’s lease?” I rejoined.
“The owner wouldn’t let it for a shorter time. But I don’t expect to be here for twelve months, or anything like it. I may be out of it in a month. Who knows?”
He glanced at me as if he expected me to find some hidden meaning in his words, some meaning which he did not choose to put before me.
“I’m not even going to be bothered with a staff of servants,” he continued. “I shall only have my man, Cragg, and one woman who can do all that is necessary for me.”
“Really! What does Cragg think of it?” I ventured.
“Oh, Cragg has been with me for years and thoroughly understands me.”
I knew that; I knew, too, that Cragg was a rare being, a confidential servant who was absolutely faithful. But, still, Cragg was unaccustomed to such a peculiar kind of “roughing it” as was now in prospect.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I said, rather lamely.
“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t intend to entertain here. I shall imitate Deeming. I shall exercise all my hospitality in restaurants. The Englishman’s house is more than ever his castle since the restaurant came into fashion.”
And he laughed.
“But perhaps, now I’m next door, Deeming may ask me in sometimes in the evening,” he said. “We ought to be neighbourly.”
Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled, and I should no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to myself—ridiculous.
Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black spaniel, and see him with his master.
I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone. But I had miscalculated his popularity as a doctor. His extremely thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients.
“When is he free?” I inquired.
“He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.”
“Does he never get out for a breath of air?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.”
“And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s fine, to give the dog a run, eh?”
It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer.
“The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he murmured, “or pursuing his researches.”
“Oh!”
There seemed nothing more to be done just then, and as I saw a patient coming out and looking for his hat in the hall, I went away.
That evening I wrote to Deeming, telling him I had called to see if I could persuade him to take a stroll, as I was sure his health needed some rest, air, and relaxation.
“Will you come for a walk in Regent’s Park some Sunday morning?” I ended, regardless of the butler’s information.
He answered, by return, that he would come, if I liked, on the following Sunday. I replied, fixing the hour, and saying I would call for him. This done, I went out and—bought a dog.
It was a gay fox-terrier, young, full of abounding life, and quite ready to attach itself to anyone who was kind to it. When Sunday arrived, it was already devoted to me, and gleefully accompanied me to Wimpole Street to fetch Deeming for the promised walk. While I rang the bell it squatted on the step, wagging its short tail, and looking eagerly expectant. The butler opened the door.
“The Doctor is quite ready, Sir,” he said, when he saw me. “Will you step in?”
Suddenly he caught sight of the dog, who had jumped up when the door was opened, and was evidently preparing for exploration.
“Is that your dog, Sir?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t think the Doctor— Get back, you little beast!”
The last exclamation came in a voice so different from the whispering one I was accustomed to that I could hardly believe it was the butler who had spoken. At the same moment my dog dodged his outstretched foot and vanished, pattering, into the house.
“Call him back, Sir; call him back, for the Lord’s sake, or there’ll be trouble!” exclaimed the butler, turning sharply with the evident intention of trying to catch the little culprit. But he had no time to act nor I to call. Almost as he spoke there came from within the house the piercing cry of a dog in pain, and the fox-terrier darted out of the hall, down the street, and disappeared, yelping shrilly as he went, with his ears set flat against his head, and his tail tucked down in his back. As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door.
“How dare you let stray dogs into my house?” he said to the butler in a savage voice.
“I beg pardon, Sir,” stammered the butler; “but it was this gentleman’s dog, and—”
“It was your dog, was it?” said Deeming, turning to me. “I did not know you had a dog.”
I was feeling so angry that I could hardly trust myself to speak.
“Certainly it’s mine,” I said curtly. “I must go and find it.”
And without another word I walked away down the street. I could not discover the dog. Its terror had evidently been so great that it had fled blindly and far. From that day to this I have never seen it or heard anything of it. When it rushed out of Deeming’s house it rushed out of my life. Having failed to find it, after walking some distance, I gave up the search and stood still. The natural thing, I suppose, would have been to retrace my steps to Wimpole Street, where Deeming was waiting for me. But this I did not do. I felt that I could not do it. An invincible repulsion against Deeming’s society had come into my heart. When I thought of him I saw the fox-terrier fleeing, with his ears set back against his head; I heard the yelping of a dog.
I stood, therefore, for a moment, and then walked home to Albemarle Street.
I had bought the dog in order to find out, if possible, how Deeming was with animals, how they comported themselves towards him. Secondarily I had thought of using the dog as a pretext for introducing the subject of the black spaniel. I had meant, when Deeming came out, to point to my dog and suggest that, as I had mine with me for the walk, he should bring out his.
Well, my curiosity had surely been satisfied. I had not, it is true, seen the mysterious black spaniel; but I could hardly remain in doubt as to Deeming’s attitude towards pet animals. The expression upon his face as he came out from the hall had been ferocious. Vernon was right. Deeming was a cruel man.
As I realised that, I began to wonder more about the black spaniel. Why should such a man keep a pet—a man, too, who was so incessantly occupied that he had no time for amusement, for almost any relaxations? And why had the butler—for I now felt sure that I had seen his face contorted for an instant on the evening when I had spoken to him of the black spaniel—why had the butler felt such amazement, or bitter contempt, or sardonic amusement, when I had alluded to the possibility of Deeming giving the black spaniel a run?
It almost began to seem to me just then as if the black spaniel were a baleful chimera, like the creation of a madman’s brain, a nothingness that yet can govern, can terrify, can cause tragic events and lead to bitterness and crime. Who had ever seen this creature? Where was it, in what place of concealment? Did it ever come forth into the light of day? I longed to know something of it, of its existence in that house, of its relations with its master.
Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. He lived next door. He had gone there to discover; of that I was sure. He watched at his window to see the spaniel let out. He listened at his wall at night, perhaps, to hear its whining.
Perhaps Vernon knew or would know.
And when he knew, would he tell me?
In the afternoon of that day I received a note from Deeming—
I waited for you to come back for an age. What was the matter? I am very sorry about your dog. The fact is I am not very well and in a nervous condition, and it startled me to come suddenly upon it in the dimly lighted hall. Let me know when we can meet.
P. D.
That was the note. I read it several times before I threw it into the waste-paper basket. But I did not answer it. I felt that I did not want to meet Deeming again for some time.
I felt that. Fate willed it that I should never look upon him again as mortal man. Within two days from that time I was called to the North of England by the serious illness of my dear mother, who lived in Cumberland. And there I remained until she died. Her death took place on the twenty-seventh of June. Her funeral was three days later. After it was over I returned to the house where I had been born, where I was now quite alone with the servants. I had to wind up many affairs, to put many things in order, to sort and examine papers and pay off some of the household. Despite my grief I was obliged to be busy, to be practical. For several days I was so much occupied that I did not look at a newspaper. I even set aside the letters that came by the post—letters of condolence, I felt sure they were, most of them—wishing to read them and answer them all together when I had leisure, and felt less miserable and deserted, and more able to take an interest in such affairs as were not actually forced upon me.
At last one evening I had got through everything. I had dined, and was sitting alone in the drawing-room, where my mother had always sat, feeling really almost as if I dwelt in a world unpeopled, or peopled only by the spectres of those who once had lived, when a servant came in with the last post. There were no letters, only two or three papers from London. Without interest, merely to do something, I tore the paper covering from one and unfolded it. My eyes fell at once upon the following paragraph—
As so many rumours have been put into circulation with regard to the lamented decease of Dr. Peter Deeming, which took place on the 30th of June, we are glad to be able to state authoritatively that the actual cause of death was blood-poisoning, which was, it seems, set up by the bite of a dog. Doctor Deeming, like many other eminent medical men, while solicitous for the health of others, was singularly careless about his own. The bite was severe, but he took little heed of it, although he had the dog, which was a pet, destroyed. He has now paid the penalty of his regrettable carelessness, and society is the poorer. For no West End physician was more trusted and esteemed by his patients than Dr. Deeming.
The paper dropped from my hand.
So Deeming and the black spaniel were dead! And each had destroyed the other!