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FreeThe Black Spaniel
Robert Hichens
Adapt
It was in the vast hall of the Grand Hotel in Rome that I first introduced Peter Deeming to Vernon Kersteven.
They were both my friends, and I hoped they would take to each other. I thought that because each cared for me, they might get along, and we would form a cheerful trio at dinner. Was that merely a selfish fancy? I have often wondered since.
At that time I had known Deeming for over two years, having met him in London at a mutual friend's house. Vernon was a more recent acquaintance, encountered during my travels in Algeria. Yet already I had come to like him greatly, and I knew the feeling was returned.
The two men were very different—in appearance, nature, and way of life—but differences sometimes make for pleasant company and even intimacy. We often love ourselves, but do we generally love those who resemble us?
Vernon usually spent his winters in Rome, where he had a delightful house on the Trinità dei Monti. Deeming had come from England for a long holiday, as his health had partially broken down from overwork. He was a very successful London doctor, devoted to his profession. Vernon was a wealthy man, passionately interested in the arts and travel. How well I remember that first evening we spent together, that—I had almost written fatal—evening! We were dining in the restaurant, and as soon as I had made my friends known to each other, we went in and sat at our table in the middle of the room.
Deeming was a thin man, nearly forty, clean-shaven, with thick iron-grey hair, sharp features, and a decisively set mouth and chin that spoke of power and resolve. His face was pale, bearing traces of his illness. In his long, rather colourless grey eyes, penetrating yet usually calm, one could see the anxious, irritable expression of a man whose nerves were overwrought. His delicate hands had thin fingers that curved back slightly at the tips. He leaned forward as he sat, casting his gaze over the crowd of English, Americans, and foreigners who were busily eating and talking around us.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 1 / 9
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
It was in the vast hall of the Grand Hotel in Rome that I first introduced Peter Deeming to Vernon Kersteven.
They were both my friends, and I hoped they would take to each other. I thought that because each cared for me, they might get along, and we would form a cheerful trio at dinner. Was that merely a selfish fancy? I have often wondered since.
At that time I had known Deeming for over two years, having met him in London at a mutual friend's house. Vernon was a more recent acquaintance, encountered during my travels in Algeria. Yet already I had come to like him greatly, and I knew the feeling was returned.
The two men were very different—in appearance, nature, and way of life—but differences sometimes make for pleasant company and even intimacy. We often love ourselves, but do we generally love those who resemble us?
Vernon usually spent his winters in Rome, where he had a delightful house on the Trinità dei Monti. Deeming had come from England for a long holiday, as his health had partially broken down from overwork. He was a very successful London doctor, devoted to his profession. Vernon was a wealthy man, passionately interested in the arts and travel. How well I remember that first evening we spent together, that—I had almost written fatal—evening! We were dining in the restaurant, and as soon as I had made my friends known to each other, we went in and sat at our table in the middle of the room.
Deeming was a thin man, nearly forty, clean-shaven, with thick iron-grey hair, sharp features, and a decisively set mouth and chin that spoke of power and resolve. His face was pale, bearing traces of his illness. In his long, rather colourless grey eyes, penetrating yet usually calm, one could see the anxious, irritable expression of a man whose nerves were overwrought. His delicate hands had thin fingers that curved back slightly at the tips. He leaned forward as he sat, casting his gaze over the crowd of English, Americans, and foreigners who were busily eating and talking around us.Vernon was tall and fair, some five or six years younger than Deeming. He had meditative, gentle, very kind brown eyes, and a sensitive, though not handsome, face with a clear boyish colour. His voice was generally low, except when he grew excited about a subject. He possessed an extremely fascinating manner, born of great courtesy and a perfectly natural self-possession, as of a man who seldom thought about himself and who desired to make things go smoothly for those he met.
I saw Deeming look at him steadily, as a doctor might examine a new patient, more than once as we drank our soup. His acute mind was taking stock of the newcomer. Vernon, on the other hand, showed no special interest in Deeming at first. He was gracefully agreeable, as he was to everyone, and was far more the man of the world than Deeming, whose devotion to his profession had kept him bound to work in London and denied him the opportunity to know the world as Vernon had.
At first we talked quietly, almost languidly, of Rome, its changes, its tourists, the influence of America, the climate, and the differences between life in England and abroad. It was not until the middle of dinner that anything occurred to stir us into animation. Then a stout, dark, vivacious little lady with a commanding air entered the restaurant, followed by two men, and sat at a table near us.
She and her companions were obviously Italians, and she soon screwed up her eyes at Vernon and nodded. He returned her greeting with warmth.
"Would you mind telling me who that lady is?" Deeming said.
"Margherita Terrascalchi," replied Vernon.
"What, the famous authoress?" I said. "Who wrote 'Pietà'?"
"Yes."
Deeming stared hard at the lady, who was beginning to eat with extraordinary gusto.
"I've read that book," said he. "In translation."
"What do you think of it?" asked Vernon.
"No doubt it is well written and apt to move the ordinary reader."
"Only the ordinary reader?" said Vernon, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"I consider it wrong-headed and sentimental," Deeming said, with more energy than he had yet shown. "She seems to wish to elevate animals above humanity, to take them out of their proper place."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 2 / 9
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Vernon was tall and fair, some five or six years younger than Deeming. He had meditative, gentle, very kind brown eyes, and a sensitive, though not handsome, face with a clear boyish colour. His voice was generally low, except when he grew excited about a subject. He possessed an extremely fascinating manner, born of great courtesy and a perfectly natural self-possession, as of a man who seldom thought about himself and who desired to make things go smoothly for those he met.
I saw Deeming look at him steadily, as a doctor might examine a new patient, more than once as we drank our soup. His acute mind was taking stock of the newcomer. Vernon, on the other hand, showed no special interest in Deeming at first. He was gracefully agreeable, as he was to everyone, and was far more the man of the world than Deeming, whose devotion to his profession had kept him bound to work in London and denied him the opportunity to know the world as Vernon had.
At first we talked quietly, almost languidly, of Rome, its changes, its tourists, the influence of America, the climate, and the differences between life in England and abroad. It was not until the middle of dinner that anything occurred to stir us into animation. Then a stout, dark, vivacious little lady with a commanding air entered the restaurant, followed by two men, and sat at a table near us.
She and her companions were obviously Italians, and she soon screwed up her eyes at Vernon and nodded. He returned her greeting with warmth.
"Would you mind telling me who that lady is?" Deeming said.
"Margherita Terrascalchi," replied Vernon.
"What, the famous authoress?" I said. "Who wrote 'Pietà'?"
"Yes."
Deeming stared hard at the lady, who was beginning to eat with extraordinary gusto.
"I've read that book," said he. "In translation."
"What do you think of it?" asked Vernon.
"No doubt it is well written and apt to move the ordinary reader."
"Only the ordinary reader?" said Vernon, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"I consider it wrong-headed and sentimental," Deeming said, with more energy than he had yet shown. "She seems to wish to elevate animals above humanity, to take them out of their proper place.""What would you say is their proper place?"
"They are in the world, in my opinion, to be our servants, to minister to our comfort and pleasure, to help our knowledge, and to give us ease and profit. Don't you agree?"
"No doubt many scientists, many sportsmen, and most butchers would think so."
I laughed.
"But you, Vernon," I said, "are neither scientist, sportsman, nor butcher. Deeming asks your opinion."
Vernon looked less tranquil than usual. A fire lit his eyes that I had never seen there before.
"My sympathies are with Madame Terrascalchi," he answered, "though she may express them with a feminine enthusiasm that borders on hysteria, and is carried away by her pity into excessive hatred of men and women who often err against the animal world more from lack of imagination than from cruelty."
"The question is," said Deeming dryly, "whether we are to be the servants of animals or they our servants. I notice Madame Terrascalchi is at this moment eating something that looks like a veal cutlet."
"Oh," said Vernon with a smile, "I hold no brief for her. I believe she is very human. But as to what you were saying, is it wholly a question of masters or slaves? Cannot we and the animals—not discussing dangerous wild beasts—be friends? Could we not be good, close friends, they serving us in their way, we serving them in ours?"
"How are we to serve them?" asked Deeming.
"By considering them far more, by studying their natures, habits, desires, dislikes, by encouraging their affection and giving them more of ours."
"I think that would be a great waste of time."
"Deeming is a terribly busy man," I said.
"I know my London well enough," Vernon remarked politely. "Still, I think we might find time for that, even that we ought to. I am rather what you might call a 'crank' on the subject of the animal world."
"I didn't know that," I said.
"Oh yes, I am."
Again the fierce light shone in his eyes.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 3 / 9
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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"What would you say is their proper place?"
"They are in the world, in my opinion, to be our servants, to minister to our comfort and pleasure, to help our knowledge, and to give us ease and profit. Don't you agree?"
"No doubt many scientists, many sportsmen, and most butchers would think so."
I laughed.
"But you, Vernon," I said, "are neither scientist, sportsman, nor butcher. Deeming asks your opinion."
Vernon looked less tranquil than usual. A fire lit his eyes that I had never seen there before.
"My sympathies are with Madame Terrascalchi," he answered, "though she may express them with a feminine enthusiasm that borders on hysteria, and is carried away by her pity into excessive hatred of men and women who often err against the animal world more from lack of imagination than from cruelty."
"The question is," said Deeming dryly, "whether we are to be the servants of animals or they our servants. I notice Madame Terrascalchi is at this moment eating something that looks like a veal cutlet."
"Oh," said Vernon with a smile, "I hold no brief for her. I believe she is very human. But as to what you were saying, is it wholly a question of masters or slaves? Cannot we and the animals—not discussing dangerous wild beasts—be friends? Could we not be good, close friends, they serving us in their way, we serving them in ours?"
"How are we to serve them?" asked Deeming.
"By considering them far more, by studying their natures, habits, desires, dislikes, by encouraging their affection and giving them more of ours."
"I think that would be a great waste of time."
"Deeming is a terribly busy man," I said.
"I know my London well enough," Vernon remarked politely. "Still, I think we might find time for that, even that we ought to. I am rather what you might call a 'crank' on the subject of the animal world."
"I didn't know that," I said.
"Oh yes, I am."
Again the fierce light shone in his eyes."I love all animals. Ouida speaks of their 'mysterious lives,' spent beside ours, but little noticed. Many animal-lovers would protest: 'Look how dogs are worshipped, horses loved, cats stroked!' True, but out of the whole animal world we select a few that please us, and give them a good time. These are few compared with the many that suffer: dogs tied up or beaten, cats abandoned to die, horses overdriven, birds caged in dark places. To a true lover of animals, the ignorance and cruelty of man is a constant source of distress."
I was amazed at the energy of Vernon. He paused, then added:
"My love of animals has given me many horrible moments, when my heart turned bitter and I longed to make men suffer as they made animals suffer. I have especially wished to turn one who was cruel to a pet into that animal, and to be his master for a while. You know some hold that theory."
"What theory?" said Deeming.
"That what we do is eventually done to us in another life. If a man has been cruel to an animal, at death his soul may pass into a similar animal, to endure the fate he dealt."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Deeming. "Surely you can't believe such nonsense!"
"I didn't say I believed it, but I shouldn't be sorry to."
He sipped his champagne and said more lightly, "I told you I was a bit of a crank. I am even hand-in-glove with Arthur Gernham."
Deeming moved, and his eyes flashed.
"The prominent anti-vivisectionist?"
"Yes."
"And you share his views?"
"To a considerable extent, though I don't always approve of his methods."
"I'm glad of that. We doctors don't love him."
"Perhaps not. But I wonder if anyone has the right to avoid suffering by inflicting it, even to save life by causing death. However, this is hardly pleasant dinner talk."
There was a silence. Then Deeming said, "Of course you never shoot or hunt?"
"Never."
"I do," I said. "But I am not such a hypocrite as to deny that cruelty often enters into sport."
Deeming smiled slightly.
"Do you keep pets?" Vernon asked sharply.
"Yes, I have a dog at home—a black spaniel. And you?"
"No. I have kept no animals for years, and never shall again."
"That surprises me. You would give them a good time."
"I have my reasons."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 4 / 9
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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"I love all animals. Ouida speaks of their 'mysterious lives,' spent beside ours, but little noticed. Many animal-lovers would protest: 'Look how dogs are worshipped, horses loved, cats stroked!' True, but out of the whole animal world we select a few that please us, and give them a good time. These are few compared with the many that suffer: dogs tied up or beaten, cats abandoned to die, horses overdriven, birds caged in dark places. To a true lover of animals, the ignorance and cruelty of man is a constant source of distress."
I was amazed at the energy of Vernon. He paused, then added:
"My love of animals has given me many horrible moments, when my heart turned bitter and I longed to make men suffer as they made animals suffer. I have especially wished to turn one who was cruel to a pet into that animal, and to be his master for a while. You know some hold that theory."
"What theory?" said Deeming.
"That what we do is eventually done to us in another life. If a man has been cruel to an animal, at death his soul may pass into a similar animal, to endure the fate he dealt."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Deeming. "Surely you can't believe such nonsense!"
"I didn't say I believed it, but I shouldn't be sorry to."
He sipped his champagne and said more lightly, "I told you I was a bit of a crank. I am even hand-in-glove with Arthur Gernham."
Deeming moved, and his eyes flashed.
"The prominent anti-vivisectionist?"
"Yes."
"And you share his views?"
"To a considerable extent, though I don't always approve of his methods."
"I'm glad of that. We doctors don't love him."
"Perhaps not. But I wonder if anyone has the right to avoid suffering by inflicting it, even to save life by causing death. However, this is hardly pleasant dinner talk."
There was a silence. Then Deeming said, "Of course you never shoot or hunt?"
"Never."
"I do," I said. "But I am not such a hypocrite as to deny that cruelty often enters into sport."
Deeming smiled slightly.
"Do you keep pets?" Vernon asked sharply.
"Yes, I have a dog at home—a black spaniel. And you?"
"No. I have kept no animals for years, and never shall again."
"That surprises me. You would give them a good time."
"I have my reasons.""May I ask what they are?"
"Certainly. I once had a dog I cared for deeply. One day she disappeared. I searched, offered rewards, went to the Dogs' Home, but could not find her. Eventually I learned her fate."
"What was it?" I asked.
"She had been stolen and sold to a place called Lilac Hall, where animals were kept for scientific purposes. She died under the knife of a vivisector. What do you think of the food?"
Deeming seemed startled by the change. When we went to the hall to smoke, he tried to resume the subject, but Vernon declined.
"You'd better not get me on that," he said. "I'm a bore when I loose myself. Are you staying long in Rome?"
"Till I feel set up again."
"Then I hope you'll come to see me."
He gave his card and soon left. I felt he asked Deeming only to please me. My two friends had not taken to each other. One curious thought struck me: I had seen a side of each I never knew before. Each had drawn out a frankness which I, loved by both, could not.
Their enmity—so I thought—had clashed and struck sparks. By the way, Vernon's last words to me that night were: "I shouldn't care to be Deeming's black spaniel."
***
A day or two later Deeming said, "I'm going to call on your friend Vernon this afternoon. When will he be in?"
"He's generally at home between six and seven." Then I added, "You want to see him?"
"Yes, he's an agreeable fellow. You didn't think I disliked him?"
"Well, you seemed at odds the other night."
"That animal discussion. I want to win him to my view, show how harmful Gernham is."
"Then go today at six."
"I will."
He set his lips. I was curious. That evening Vernon asked me to dine alone.
"Your friend Deeming called," he said at once.
"I know. Did you get on?"
"He's intelligent, forceful. His mouth and chin tell truth."
We went in to dinner, the room hung with sacred pictures: gentle Madonnas, saints, the Agony in the Garden, children coming to Christ. I said, "Deeming is decisive."
"To me," said Vernon, "it is strange that he is a healer. Do you mind if I speak freely about a friend?"
"Not at all."
"You may be startled. You've read of people with a mania to persecute?"
"Yes, but—"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 5 / 9
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
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"May I ask what they are?"
"Certainly. I once had a dog I cared for deeply. One day she disappeared. I searched, offered rewards, went to the Dogs' Home, but could not find her. Eventually I learned her fate."
"What was it?" I asked.
"She had been stolen and sold to a place called Lilac Hall, where animals were kept for scientific purposes. She died under the knife of a vivisector. What do you think of the food?"
Deeming seemed startled by the change. When we went to the hall to smoke, he tried to resume the subject, but Vernon declined.
"You'd better not get me on that," he said. "I'm a bore when I loose myself. Are you staying long in Rome?"
"Till I feel set up again."
"Then I hope you'll come to see me."
He gave his card and soon left. I felt he asked Deeming only to please me. My two friends had not taken to each other. One curious thought struck me: I had seen a side of each I never knew before. Each had drawn out a frankness which I, loved by both, could not.
Their enmity—so I thought—had clashed and struck sparks. By the way, Vernon's last words to me that night were: "I shouldn't care to be Deeming's black spaniel."
***
A day or two later Deeming said, "I'm going to call on your friend Vernon this afternoon. When will he be in?"
"He's generally at home between six and seven." Then I added, "You want to see him?"
"Yes, he's an agreeable fellow. You didn't think I disliked him?"
"Well, you seemed at odds the other night."
"That animal discussion. I want to win him to my view, show how harmful Gernham is."
"Then go today at six."
"I will."
He set his lips. I was curious. That evening Vernon asked me to dine alone.
"Your friend Deeming called," he said at once.
"I know. Did you get on?"
"He's intelligent, forceful. His mouth and chin tell truth."
We went in to dinner, the room hung with sacred pictures: gentle Madonnas, saints, the Agony in the Garden, children coming to Christ. I said, "Deeming is decisive."
"To me," said Vernon, "it is strange that he is a healer. Do you mind if I speak freely about a friend?"
"Not at all."
"You may be startled. You've read of people with a mania to persecute?"
"Yes, but—""I don't mean because he approves of vivisection. It's the man himself. How well do you know him?"
"Fairly well. I've often been with him in London."
"Ever seen his spaniel?"
"No."
After a pause, Vernon said, "That dog I mentioned—Whisper—she was a black spaniel." His tone was strange. I exclaimed, "But you said she was killed at Lilac Hall!"
"So she was."
"You led me to think you suspected Deeming had her."
"No, she is dead. But I seldom speak of her."
He went on, "My dog was the greatest solace of my life. I am not sentimental, but a dog's devotion is one of the most complete. Not to respond is devilish. When I lost her, I felt more than grief—I felt hatred against those who snared and murdered her, and against all who use animals cruelly."
His face was transformed. He could be vindictive. I tried to calm him, but he continued:
"Her fate changed me. It woke a fierceness in me. I could be implacable. Yet with that came deeper pity for animals. But I am selfish. I fear to suffer again, so I keep no pets."
"My dear fellow, don't dwell on it."
"Deeming roused me. I hate—it's unbearable to think he has a black spaniel in his power."
I was surprised. "You think he is cruel?"
"I want to see that dog."
I argued, but he was fixed. Finally I said, "Call on him in London. He'll ask you to dinner."
"I will invite him here," said Vernon. "But he may never ask me to his house."
"Then go as a patient." I was ashamed. "Forget this."
"What unfairness in proving my suspicions false?"
"You have no evidence."
"A man's face and words are evidence."
He hinted he had seen more. I felt he kept secrets. That night he ended, "When you see Deeming, speak of the spaniel and see how he takes it."
***
Walking back to the hotel, I was troubled. I saw Deeming in the winter garden. We talked of Vernon. I asked, "Do you think he dislikes you?"
"He can't care for me," he said. "You know his strange views."
"He lost a dog."
Deeming frowned. "I dislike people who bother friends about pets."
He was irritable, and I dropped it. Next day we went to Tivoli. On return, Deeming had a note from Vernon asking him to dine. He did not go, for the next morning he left for England, saying an urgent patient summoned him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 6 / 9
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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"I don't mean because he approves of vivisection. It's the man himself. How well do you know him?"
"Fairly well. I've often been with him in London."
"Ever seen his spaniel?"
"No."
After a pause, Vernon said, "That dog I mentioned—Whisper—she was a black spaniel." His tone was strange. I exclaimed, "But you said she was killed at Lilac Hall!"
"So she was."
"You led me to think you suspected Deeming had her."
"No, she is dead. But I seldom speak of her."
He went on, "My dog was the greatest solace of my life. I am not sentimental, but a dog's devotion is one of the most complete. Not to respond is devilish. When I lost her, I felt more than grief—I felt hatred against those who snared and murdered her, and against all who use animals cruelly."
His face was transformed. He could be vindictive. I tried to calm him, but he continued:
"Her fate changed me. It woke a fierceness in me. I could be implacable. Yet with that came deeper pity for animals. But I am selfish. I fear to suffer again, so I keep no pets."
"My dear fellow, don't dwell on it."
"Deeming roused me. I hate—it's unbearable to think he has a black spaniel in his power."
I was surprised. "You think he is cruel?"
"I want to see that dog."
I argued, but he was fixed. Finally I said, "Call on him in London. He'll ask you to dinner."
"I will invite him here," said Vernon. "But he may never ask me to his house."
"Then go as a patient." I was ashamed. "Forget this."
"What unfairness in proving my suspicions false?"
"You have no evidence."
"A man's face and words are evidence."
He hinted he had seen more. I felt he kept secrets. That night he ended, "When you see Deeming, speak of the spaniel and see how he takes it."
***
Walking back to the hotel, I was troubled. I saw Deeming in the winter garden. We talked of Vernon. I asked, "Do you think he dislikes you?"
"He can't care for me," he said. "You know his strange views."
"He lost a dog."
Deeming frowned. "I dislike people who bother friends about pets."
He was irritable, and I dropped it. Next day we went to Tivoli. On return, Deeming had a note from Vernon asking him to dine. He did not go, for the next morning he left for England, saying an urgent patient summoned him.He sent his regrets. "Tell him I hope he'll dine with me in London," were his last words.
Vernon was quiet. "I shall not forget that invitation. Perhaps I'll be there sooner than he expects."
We agreed to travel back together in April.
***
In April we crossed to England. As we approached Dover, I felt the familiar London dread. Vernon spoke of London as "the city of adventure with fearful endings." He said, "If anything strange happens to me, it will be in London."
As we landed, we saw Lord Elyn, who told us Deeming was in Dover, taking the sea cure. "He looks ill," said Lord Elyn. "He returned from Rome suddenly."
I explained the patient. Lord Elyn seemed incredulous. "He said he was sick of doing nothing."
Vernon suggested a night at the Burlington. I guessed he wanted to meet Deeming. We stayed.
At the Burlington we found Deeming. He was startled and pale. He greeted us with forced cordiality. That night I went for a walk with Deeming. He was suspicious of Vernon's motives. "He hates me," he said. "You think he is gentle, but I see a fanatic."
I advised him it was nerves. He denied. We parted coldly.
Next day we went to London. Vernon asked Deeming's address; I gave it.
***
A week passed. I had not seen Deeming. One evening he came to my flat, excited. "Number 301 Wimpole," he said, "the house next to mine. I found the board down. Vernon has taken it. Why?"
"Why not?"
"You told him my address."
"Certainly."
We argued. He left.
I went to Claridge's; Vernon was out. I guessed he was at 301. I went there. In the street, I heard a dog's whimper. I entered. Vernon was cold, not inviting. He showed me the dreadful house, vulgar, with plush and painted mirrors. He said, "Not a bad house." I felt uneasy. As we left, I heard whining again. Vernon hid it.
***
I knew Vernon had taken the house to watch Deeming. He refused my confidence. I determined to see Deeming's dog myself, to prove it happy and thus reconcile them. I called when Deeming was out. The butler whispered about patients. I asked about the dog, and he seemed uneasy.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 7 / 9
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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He sent his regrets. "Tell him I hope he'll dine with me in London," were his last words.
Vernon was quiet. "I shall not forget that invitation. Perhaps I'll be there sooner than he expects."
We agreed to travel back together in April.
***
In April we crossed to England. As we approached Dover, I felt the familiar London dread. Vernon spoke of London as "the city of adventure with fearful endings." He said, "If anything strange happens to me, it will be in London."
As we landed, we saw Lord Elyn, who told us Deeming was in Dover, taking the sea cure. "He looks ill," said Lord Elyn. "He returned from Rome suddenly."
I explained the patient. Lord Elyn seemed incredulous. "He said he was sick of doing nothing."
Vernon suggested a night at the Burlington. I guessed he wanted to meet Deeming. We stayed.
At the Burlington we found Deeming. He was startled and pale. He greeted us with forced cordiality. That night I went for a walk with Deeming. He was suspicious of Vernon's motives. "He hates me," he said. "You think he is gentle, but I see a fanatic."
I advised him it was nerves. He denied. We parted coldly.
Next day we went to London. Vernon asked Deeming's address; I gave it.
***
A week passed. I had not seen Deeming. One evening he came to my flat, excited. "Number 301 Wimpole," he said, "the house next to mine. I found the board down. Vernon has taken it. Why?"
"Why not?"
"You told him my address."
"Certainly."
We argued. He left.
I went to Claridge's; Vernon was out. I guessed he was at 301. I went there. In the street, I heard a dog's whimper. I entered. Vernon was cold, not inviting. He showed me the dreadful house, vulgar, with plush and painted mirrors. He said, "Not a bad house." I felt uneasy. As we left, I heard whining again. Vernon hid it.
***
I knew Vernon had taken the house to watch Deeming. He refused my confidence. I determined to see Deeming's dog myself, to prove it happy and thus reconcile them. I called when Deeming was out. The butler whispered about patients. I asked about the dog, and he seemed uneasy.I wrote to Deeming asking him to walk in Regent's Park on Sunday. He agreed. I bought a fox-terrier to help. On Sunday I arrived with it. The butler was alarmed. The dog ran in; we heard a painful yelp, and it fled. Deeming appeared, furious. "How dare you bring stray dogs into my house!" He was livid.
I left, unable to find my dog. I felt horror. I never saw it again.
So I learned Deeming was cruel. The mystery deepened. I could not face him. Soon after, my mother fell ill in Cumberland. I went north and stayed until she died in June. On June 30, I read in a paper: "Dr. Deeming died of blood-poisoning from a dog bite. He had the dog destroyed."
***
In June of the following year I met Vernon in London. He had been working with Arthur Gernham for animal welfare. He said, "I began this life on the day Deeming died."
We walked in the park. A dog-fancier passed with a black spaniel. Vernon stopped, asked its age (born on the day Deeming died), and bought it for twelve pounds, to be delivered that evening.
The dog shrank from Vernon in fear. I was struck.
I went to tea at Vernon's. He now lived in Deeming's house, having bought it. Lord Elyn came. The spaniel arrived, howling in terror. Vernon laughed. Lord Elyn, when near the dog, it sprang to him for protection, but shrank from Vernon. "The thing's unnatural," said Lord Elyn.
I met Gernham, who was puzzled Vernon hid the dog. I told him of the purchase. Gernham tried to see the dog, but Vernon quarrelled and refused him.
I resolved to investigate. I went to Vernon's. Alone in the hall, I heard a dog scratching behind a locked door. I whined. Vernon came down, pale, sleepless. He invited me to dinner.
After dinner, he brought in the spaniel, muzzled, emaciated. He handled it cruelly. I accused him of starving it. He admitted and said, "Do you understand now?" He explained: "When I saw this spaniel in the park, I knew. Deeming died on June 30; this dog was born that day. The soul of Deeming is in this animal. I am not mad. I am just. I must make him pay."
Horrified, I tried to take the dog. Vernon shot it dead.
"Murderer!" I cried.
He said, "It was only a black spaniel."
I carried the body out into the night.
***
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 8 / 9
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
I wrote to Deeming asking him to walk in Regent's Park on Sunday. He agreed. I bought a fox-terrier to help. On Sunday I arrived with it. The butler was alarmed. The dog ran in; we heard a painful yelp, and it fled. Deeming appeared, furious. "How dare you bring stray dogs into my house!" He was livid.
I left, unable to find my dog. I felt horror. I never saw it again.
So I learned Deeming was cruel. The mystery deepened. I could not face him. Soon after, my mother fell ill in Cumberland. I went north and stayed until she died in June. On June 30, I read in a paper: "Dr. Deeming died of blood-poisoning from a dog bite. He had the dog destroyed."
***
In June of the following year I met Vernon in London. He had been working with Arthur Gernham for animal welfare. He said, "I began this life on the day Deeming died."
We walked in the park. A dog-fancier passed with a black spaniel. Vernon stopped, asked its age (born on the day Deeming died), and bought it for twelve pounds, to be delivered that evening.
The dog shrank from Vernon in fear. I was struck.
I went to tea at Vernon's. He now lived in Deeming's house, having bought it. Lord Elyn came. The spaniel arrived, howling in terror. Vernon laughed. Lord Elyn, when near the dog, it sprang to him for protection, but shrank from Vernon. "The thing's unnatural," said Lord Elyn.
I met Gernham, who was puzzled Vernon hid the dog. I told him of the purchase. Gernham tried to see the dog, but Vernon quarrelled and refused him.
I resolved to investigate. I went to Vernon's. Alone in the hall, I heard a dog scratching behind a locked door. I whined. Vernon came down, pale, sleepless. He invited me to dinner.
After dinner, he brought in the spaniel, muzzled, emaciated. He handled it cruelly. I accused him of starving it. He admitted and said, "Do you understand now?" He explained: "When I saw this spaniel in the park, I knew. Deeming died on June 30; this dog was born that day. The soul of Deeming is in this animal. I am not mad. I am just. I must make him pay."
Horrified, I tried to take the dog. Vernon shot it dead.
"Murderer!" I cried.
He said, "It was only a black spaniel."
I carried the body out into the night.
***This is the tale of the black spaniel, as I knew it. I have never kept another dog. There are things in this world that defy explanation, and souls that seem to wander. I only know that justice, though strange, is often terrible.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-4d9f9bbaf1264b6285aa898b71fcff2e
# book_title: The Black Spaniel
# chapter_id: 1-the-black-spaniel
# chapter_title: The Black Spaniel
# book_page: 9 / 9
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
This is the tale of the black spaniel, as I knew it. I have never kept another dog. There are things in this world that defy explanation, and souls that seem to wander. I only know that justice, though strange, is often terrible.
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