Aunt Juley repeated, suddenly: “He followed me, Ann.”
“Without an intro—Without your inviting him?”
“I spoke to him, because he was lost.”
“You should think before you speak. Dogs take advantage.”
Aunt Juley’s face mutinied. “Well, I’m glad,” she said, “and that’s flat. Such a how-de-do!”
Aunt Ann looked pained. A considerable time passed. Aunt Juley began playing solitaire—she played without presence of mind, so that extraordinary things happened on the board. Aunt Ann sat upright, with her eyes closed; and Aunt Hester, after watching them for some minutes to see if they would open, took from under her cushion a library volume, and hiding it behind a firescreen, began to read—it was volume two and she did not yet know ‘Lady Audley’s’ secret: of course it WAS a novel, but, as Timothy had said, ‘Better the day, better the deed.’
The clock struck three. Aunt Ann opened her eyes, Aunt Hester shut her book. Aunt Juley crumpled the solitaire balls together with a clatter. There was a knock on the door, for not belonging to the upper regions, like Smither, Cook always knocked.
“Come in!”
Still in her pink print frock, Cook entered, and behind her entered the dog, snowy white, with its coat all brushed and bushy, its manner and its tail now cocky and now deprecating. It WAS a moment! Cook spoke:
“I’ve brought it up, miss; it’s had its dinner, and it’s been washed. It’s a nice little dear, and taken quite a fancy to me.”
The three Aunts sat silent with their eyes now on the dog, now on the legs of the furniture.
“‘Twould ‘ave done your ’eart good to see it eat, miss. And it answers to the name of Pommy.”
“Fancy!” said Aunt Hester, with an effort. She did so hate things to be awkward.
Aunt Ann leaned forward; her voice rose firm, if rather quavery.
“It doesn’t belong to us, Cook; and your master would never permit it. Smither shall go with it to the Police Station.”
As if struck by the words, the dog emerged from Cook’s skirt and approached the voice. It stood in a curve and began to oscillate its tail very slightly; its eyes, like bits of jet, gazed up. Aunt Ann looked down at it; her thin veined hands, as if detached from her firmness, moved nervously over her glace skirt. From within Aunt Juley emotion was emerging in one large pout. Aunt Hester was smiling spasmodically.
“Them Police Stations!” said Cook. “I’m sure it’s not been accustomed. It’s not as if it had a collar, miss.”
“Pommy!” said Aunt Juley.
The dog turned at the sound, sniffed her knees, and instantly returned to its contemplation of Aunt Ann, as though it recognised where power was seated. “It’s really rather sweet!” murmured Aunt Hester, and not only the dog looked at Aunt Ann. But at this moment the door was again opened.
“Mr. Swithin Forsyte, miss,” said the voice of Smither.
Aunts Juley and Hester rose to greet their brother; Aunt Ann, privileged by seventy-eight years, remained seated. The family always went to Aunt Ann, not Aunt Ann to the family. There was a general feeling that dear Swithin had come providentially, knowing as he did all about horses.
“You can leave the little dog for the moment, Cook. Mr. Swithin will tell us what to do.”
Swithin, who had taken his time on the stairs which were narrow, made an entry. Tall, with his chest thrown forward, his square face puffy pale, his eyes light and round, the tiny grey imperial below his moustached lips gave to him the allure of a master of ceremonies, and the white dog, retreating to a corner, yapped loudly.
“What’s this?” said Swithin. “A dog?”
So might one entering a more modern drawing-room, have said: “What’s this—a camel?”
Repairing hastily to the corner, Aunt Juley admonished the dog with her finger. It shivered slightly and was silent. Aunt Ann said:
“Give dear Swithin his chair, Hester; we want your advice, Swithin. This little dog followed Juley home this morning—he was lost.”
Swithin seated himself with his knees apart, thus preserving the deportment of his body and the uncreased beauty of his waistcoat. His Wellington boots showed stiff beneath his almost light blue trousers. He said:
“Has Timothy had a fit?”
Dear Swithin—he was so droll!
“Not yet,” said Aunt Hester, who was sometimes almost naughty.
“Well, he will. Here, Juley, don’t stand there stuck. Bring the dog out, and let’s have a look at it. Dog! Why, it’s a bitch!”
This curiously male word, though spoken with distinction, caused a sensation such as would have accompanied a heavy fall of soot. The dog had been assumed by all to be of the politer sex, because of course one didn’t notice such things. Aunt Juley, indeed, whom past association with Septimus Small had rendered more susceptible, had conceived her doubts, but she had continued to be on the polite side.
“A bitch,” repeated Swithin; “you’ll have no end of trouble with it.”
“That is what we fear,” said Aunt Ann, “though I don’t think you should call it that in a drawing-room, dear.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Swithin. “Come here, little tyke!”
And he stretched out a ringed hand smelling of dogskin—he had driven himself round in his phaeton.
Encouraged by Aunt Juley, the little dog approached, and sat cowering under the hand. Swithin lifted it by the ruff round its neck.
“Well-bred,” he said, putting it down.
“We can’t keep it,” said Aunt Ann, firmly. “The carpets—we thought—the Police Station.”
“If I were you,” said Swithin, “I’d put a notice in The Times: ‘Found, white Pomeranian bitch. Apply, The Nook, Bayswater Road.’ You might get a reward. Let’s look at its teeth.”
The little dog, who seemed in a manner fascinated by the smell of Swithin’s hand and the stare of his round china-blue eyes, put no obstacle in the way of fingers that raised its upper and depressed its lower lip.
“It’s a puppy,” said Swithin. “Loo, loo, little tyke!”
This terrible incentive caused the dog to behave in a singular manner; depressing its tail so far as was possible, it jumped sideways and scurried round Aunt Hester’s chair, then crouched with its chin on the ground, its hindquarters and tail in the air, looking up at Swithin with eyes black as boot-buttons.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Swithin, “if it was worth money. Loo, loo!”
This time the little dog scurried round the entire room, avoiding the legs of chairs by a series of miracles, then, halting by a marqueterie stand, it stood on its hind legs and began to eat the pampas grass.
“Ring, Hester!” said Aunt Ann. “Ring for Smither. Juley, stop it!”
Swithin, whose imperial was jutting in a fixed smile, said:
“Where’s Timothy? I should like to see it bite his legs.”
Aunt Juley, moved by maternal spasms, bent down and picked the dog up in her arms. She stood, pouting over its sharp nose and soft warm body, like the very figure of daring with the smell of soft soap in its nostrils.
“I will take it downstairs myself,” she said; “it shan’t be teased. Come, Pommy!”
The dog, who had no say whatever in the matter, put out a pink strip of tongue and licked her nose. Aunt Juley had the exquisite sensation of being loved; and, hastily, to conceal her feelings, bore it lolling over her arm away. She bore it upstairs, instead of down, to her room which was at the back of dear Ann’s, and stood, surrounded by mahogany, with the dog still in her arms. Every hand was against her and the poor dog, and she squeezed it tighter. It was panting, and every now and then with its slip of a tongue it licked her cheek, as if to assure itself of reality. Since the departure of Septimus Small ten years ago, she had never been properly loved, and now that something was ready to love her, they wanted to take it away. She sat down on her bed, still holding the dog, while below, they would be talking of how to send Pommy to the Police Stati
on or put her into the papers! Then, noticing that white hairs were coming off on to her, she put the dog down. It sidled round the room, sniffing, till it came to the washstand, where it stood looking at her and panting. What DID it want? Wild thoughts passed through Aunt Juley’s mind, till suddenly the dog stood on its hind legs and licked the air. Why, it was thirsty! Disregarding the niceties of existence, Aunt Juley lifted the jug, and set it on the floor. For some minutes there was no sound but lapping. Could it really hold all that? The little dog looked up at her, moved its tail twice, then trotted away to inspect the room more closely. Having inspected everything except Aunt Juley, concerning whom its mind was apparently made up, it lay down under the valance of the dressing table, with its head and forepaws visible, and uttered a series of short spasmodic barks. Aunt Juley understood them to mean: ‘Come and play with me!’ And taking her sponge-bag, she dangled it. Seizing it—So unexpected! – the little dog shook it violently. Aunt Juley was at once charmed and horrified. It was evidently feeling quite at home; but her poor bag! Oh! its little teeth WERE sharp and strong! Aunt Juley swelled. It was as if she didn’t care what happened to the bag so long as the little dog were having a good time. The bag came to an end; and gathering up the pieces, she thought defiantly: ‘Well, it’s not as if I ever went to Brighton now!’ But she said severely:
“You see what you’ve done!” And, together, they examined the pieces, while Aunt Juley’s heart took a resolution. They might talk as they liked: Finding was keeping; and if Timothy didn’t like it, he could lump it! The sensation was terrific. Someone, however, was knocking on the door.
“Oh! Smither,” said Aunt Juley, “you see what the little dog has done?” And she held up the sponge-bag defiantly.
“Aoh!” said Smither; “its teeth ARE sharp. Would you go down, ma’am? Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte are in the drawing-room. Shall I take the little dog now? I daresay it’d like a run.”
“Not to the Police Station, Smither. I found it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“I’m sure, Ma’am. It’ll be company for me and Cook, now that Tommy’s gone. It’s took quite a fancy to us.”
With a pang of jealousy Aunt Juley said: “I take all the responsibility. Go with Smither, Pommy!”
Caught up in her arms, the little dog lolled its head over the edge of Smither and gazed back sentimentally as it was borne away. And, again, all that was maternal in Aunt Juley swelled, beneath the dark violet of her bosom sprinkled with white hairs.
“Say I am coming down.” And she began plucking off the white hairs.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused; then went in, weak at the knees. Between his Dundreary whiskers James was telling a story. His long legs projected so that she had to go round; his long lips stopped to say:
“How are you, Juley? They tell me you’ve found a dog,” and resumed the story. It was all about a man who had been bitten and had insisted on being cauterised until he couldn’t sit down, and the dog hadn’t been mad after all, so that it was all wasted, and that was what came of dogs. He didn’t know what use they were except to make a mess.
Emily said: “Pomeranians are all the rage. They look so amusing in a carriage.”
Aunt Hester murmured that Jolyon had an Italian greyhound at Stanhope Gate.
“That snippetty whippet!” said Swithin—perhaps the first use of the term: “There’s no body in THEM.”
“You’re not going to KEEP this dog?” said James. “You don’t know what it might have.”
Very red, Aunt Juley said sharply: “Fiddle-de-dee, James!”
“Well, you might have an action brought against you. They tell me there’s a Home for Lost Dogs. Your proper course is to turn it out.”
“Turn out your grandmother!” snapped Aunt Juley; she was not afraid of James.
“Well, it’s not your property. You’ll be getting up against the Law.”
“Fiddle the Law!”
This epoch-making remark was received in silence. Nobody knew what had come to Juley.
“Well,” said James, with finality, “don’t say I didn’t tell you. What does Timothy say—he’ud have a fit.”
“If he wants to have a fit, he must,” said Aunt Juley. “I shan’t stop him.”
“What are you going to do with the puppies?” said Swithin: “Ten to one she’ll have puppies.”
“You see, Juley,” said Aunt Ann.
Aunt Juley’s agitation was such that she took up a fan from the little curio table beside her, and began to wave it before her flushed face.
“You’re all against me,” she said: “Puppies, indeed! A little thing like that!”
Swithin rose. “Good-bye to you all. I’m going to see Nicholas. Good-bye, Juley. You come for a drive with me some day. I’ll take you to the Lost Dogs’ Home.” Throwing out his chest, he manoeuvred to the door, and could be heard descending the stairs to the accompaniment of the drawing-room bell.
James said mechanically: “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin!”
It was as much his permanent impression of his twin brother as was Swithin’s: “He’s a poor stick, James!”
Emily, who was bored, began talking to Aunt Hester about the new fashion of eating oysters before the soup. Of course it was very foreign, but they said the Prince was doing it; James wouldn’t have it; but personally she thought it rather elegant. She should see! James had begun to tell Aunt Ann how Soames would be out of his articles in January—he was a steady chap. He told her at some length. Aunt Juley sat pouting behind her moving fan. She had a longing for dear Jolyon. Partly because he had always been her favourite and her eldest brother, who had never allowed anyone else to bully her; partly because he was the only one who had a dog, and partly because even Ann was a little afraid of him. She sat longing to hear him say: “You’re a parcel of old women; of course Juley can keep what she found.” Because, that was it! The dog had followed her of its own free will. It was not as if it had been a precious stone or a purse—which, of course, would have been different. Sometimes Jolyon did come on Sundays—though generally he took little June to the Zoo; and the moment he came James would be sure to go away, for fear of having his knuckles rapped; and that, she felt sure, would be so nice, since James had been horrid about it all!
“I think,” she said, suddenly, “I shall go round to Stanhope Gate, and ask dear Jolyon.”
“What do you want to do that for?” said James, taking hold of a whisker. “He’ll send you away with a flea in your ear.”
Whether or no this possibility deterred her, Aunt Juley did not rise, but she ceased fanning herself and sat with the expression on her face which had given rise to the family saying: ‘Oh! So-and-so’s a regular Juley!’
But James had now exhausted his weekly budget. “Well, Emily,” he said, “you’ll be wanting to get home. We can’t keep the horses any longer.”
The accuracy of this formula had never been put to the proof, for Emily always rose at once with the words:
“Good-bye, dears. Give our love to Timothy.” She had pecked their cheeks and gone out of the room before James could remember what—as he would tell her in the carriage—he had specially gone there to ask them.
When they had departed, Aunt Hester, having looked from one to the other of her sisters, muffled ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ in her shawl and tiptoed away. She knew what was coming. Aunt Juley took the solitaire board with hands that trembled. The moment had arrived! And she waited, making an occasional move with oozing fingers, and stealing glances at that upright figure in black silk with jet trappings and cameo brooch. On no account did she mean to be the first to speak; and she said, suddenly:
“There you sit, Ann!”
Aunt Ann, countering her glance with those grey eyes of hers that saw quite well at a distance, spoke:
“You heard what Swithin and James said, Juley.”
“I will NOT turn the dog out,” said Aunt Juley. “I will not, and that’s flat.” The blood beat in her temples and she tappe
d a foot on the floor.
“If it were a really nice little dog, it would not have run away and got lost. Little dogs of that sex are not to be trusted. You ought to know that, at your age, Juley; now that we’re alone, I can talk to you plainly. It will have followers, of course.”
Aunt Juley put a finger into her mouth, sucked it, took it out, and said:
“I’m tired of being treated like a little girl.”
Aunt Ann answered calmly:
“I think you should take some calomel—getting into fantods like this! We have never had a dog.”
“I don’t want you to have one now,” said Aunt Juley; “I want it for myself. I—I—” She could not bring herself to express what was in her heart about being loved—it would be—would be gushing!
“It’s not right to keep what’s not your own,” said Aunt Ann. “You know that perfectly well.”
“I will put an advertisement in the paper; if the owner comes, I’ll give it up. But it followed me of its own accord. And it can live downstairs. Timothy need never see it.”
“It will spoil the carpets,” said Aunt Ann, “and bark at night; we shall have no peace.”
“I’m sick of peace,” said Aunt Juley, rattling the board. “I’m sick of peace, and I’m sick of taking care of things till they—till you—till one belongs to them.”
Aunt Ann lifted her hands, spidery and pale.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If one can’t take care of one’s things, one is not fit to have them.”
“Care—care—I’m sick of care! I want something human—I want this dog. And if I can’t have it, I will go away and take it with me; and that’s flat.”
It was, perhaps, the wildest thing that had ever been said at Timothy’s. Aunt Ann said very quietly:
“You know you can’t go away, Juley, you haven’t the money; so it’s no good talking like that.”
“Jolyon will give me the money; he will never let you bully me.”
On Forsyte ‘Change Page 11
