”
Old Jolyon nodded. “Shouldn’t be surprised if they pinched her more than ever now. She looks to me a poor thing.”
“Well, I’m going to protect her.”
“How?” said old Jolyon, twinkling.
“I shall dare them to pinch her.”
“First catch your hare–”
“I know,” said June, suddenly. “She can do lessons with ME, Gran, instead of going to school.”
Old Jolyon shook his head.
“That cock won’t fight. Coming to the Zoo?”
June clapped her hands, then said at once:
“No. I must look after Susie.”
Old Jolyon stared. It was his first introduction to the real nature of his little grand-daughter.
“She’s a poor timid little stick,” he said; “and you’ll never make anything of her.”
When June had gone, he sat contemplating the ash of his cigar. Children! What things they thought of! She would learn some day that you couldn’t go ‘protecting’ everything you came across. Sooner the better, perhaps! Generous little thing–though; giving up the Zoo. Lessons! “What would her mother say to that? She was such a good woman–that you never knew.” And old Jolyon sighed. If his son hadn’t married such a good woman, it might all have turned out very different; and Jo–Well, well! A nap! Just forty winks. And, crushing out his cigar, he leaned back with eyes fixed on ‘Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset’; and his thin hand with pointed nails depending over the arm of his old chair. A warmhearted little thing! Lame ducks!…
In spite of the misgivings of the good woman afraid of the effect on her accent, and the opposition of her governess, too deep for words, June had her way. Susie Betters, almost unnecessarily clean, sat every morning at the schoolroom table shedding tears over her vowels and aitches. Delivered from pinches, and advanced in all material things, soap, pudding, and frocks, she seemed at first to exude as much water per day as ever, for June frequently protected her from the governess.
“You oughtn’t to make Susie cry, Miss Pearson, just because she speaks commonly. She doesn’t know any better. You can’t help being common, can you, Susie?”
This protection, indeed, produced as much water as any educational exhortations. Out of school hours she taught Susie every game she knew and some she didn’t; instructed her in dressing and undressing dolls; delivered her from the Italian greyhound; helped her to burn her cheeks cooking cocoanut ice and toffee; and prick her fingers sewing at dolls’ nightgowns. When Susie was put in the corner, June had invariably to be put in the opposite corner–so loyal was she to her ‘lame duck.’ The ‘good woman’ watched the experiment with equanimity–it would help June not to be selfish. Old Jolyon, with innate sagacity, waited for its inevitable end; he had no belief in ‘lame ducks.’
The end came stealthily with every ounce of weight that Susie Betters put on from the dinners and teas she ate, and every deepening of the contempt which familiarity slowly bred in her. She had ceased to exude water, her cheeks were becoming pink, and she wore a sky blue ribbon in hair no longer unwashed. In fact she had come to be ‘twice the child’; and she no longer excited June’s compassion. The habit of protection, however, lasted till the middle of November. It vanished in one day.
Susie had a doll, given her by June, which, following the law of compensation–advocated by the then fashionable philosopher Mr. Emerson–she treated in the manner in which she herself was treated, possessing its soul, placing its body in corners, and harassing it over her knee for its own good. With the increase of adipose, her treatment of the doll became more and more protective, if not arbitrary. It was not long before this treatment excited June’s concern, and the doll began to seem to her a ‘lame duck.’
One Saturday morning when the doll had been whipped and put first in one corner and then in another, her feelings became too much for her.
“You oughtn’t to treat poor Amy like that, Susie, it’s a shame!”
Susie answered:
“Why not? She’s my doll!”
“Well, you shan’t!” said June. “So there!”
“I will,” said Susie, and promptly turned up the doll’s petticoats.
June’s eyes grew very blue, her hair seemed to shine.
“If you whip her,” she said, “I’ll whip you.”
“Will you?” said Susie. “I’m bigger than you.”
She laid the doll over her knee.
“Stop!” said June.
“I won’t!” said Susie.
June rushed at her. The doll fell to the floor, and the two children struggled. Susie had so far profited by six weeks of good feeding that she was the stronger; but she had not June’s spirit. The combat, short and sharp, ended with June sitting on her chest. Susie sobbed, wriggled and scratched. June sat tighter.
“Promise not to whip her any more.”
“Shan’t!”
“Then I shall sit here till you do.”
Susie began to scream. June covered her mouth with a hand. Susie bit it.
The screams had attracted old Jolyon, who was in his dressing-room. The sight when he entered the room was precisely that which he had been expecting for some time.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Get up, June! Now, what’s it all about?”
June, who had picked up the doll, stood crimson and defiant, Susie stood whimpering and overawed.
“What’s that mark on your hand?” said old Jolyon to his grand-daughter.
“She shan’t whip Amy,” said June; “I won’t have it!”
“Did you bite her?” said old Jolyon to Susie.
Susie sobbed.
The instinct to protect Susie caused June to say automatically:
“I began it, because she’s not to whip Amy.”
Susie blurted:
“I wasn’t going to until she told me not.”
“That’ll do,” said old Jolyon. “Give me the doll. Go and get your hand bathed, June. And you,” he added to Susie, “go home for dinner.”
The children went; Susie, sniffing, June, very red.
Old Jolyon was left with the doll, a furbelowed affair in wax–which is indeed more inviting to chastisement than china–whose round blue eyes expressed nothing but indifference. Rum little toads, children! Fancy getting into a fantod over a bit of wax! Well, well–! Another lame duck, he supposed. He rearranged the doll’s petticoats, and his eyes twinkled. There was the end of Susie Betters! And just as well!
Placing the doll on the table he descended slowly to the dining-room, pondering on the rumness of little toads.
June came to lunch with her hand bound up. She would not eat her pudding, and could be heard whispering to Francois that it was to be saved for Susie.
When told later that Susie was not to come any more, but to go to school again, she was silent; and nobody could tell what she was feeling. It was the impression of old Jolyon, however, that she was not unhappy. He had always known how it would be.
The last state of Susie Betters was worse than the first. Wild animals that are captured and regain their liberty receive but a poor welcome from their fellows. So with June’s past lame duck. She was soon as thin, pinched and tearful as ever; but, as June never saw her, she remained in memory pink and plump, with a sky blue ribbon, no longer worthy of compassion. Besides, June had found a new lame duck, on organ-grinder’s wife with a baby in her arms.

DOG AT TIMOTHY’S, 1878

Mrs. Septimus Small, known in the Forsyte family as Aunt Juley, returning from service at St. Barnabas’, Bayswater, on a Sunday morning in the Spring of 1878, took by force of habit the path which led her into the then somewhat undeveloped gardens of Kensington. The Reverend Thomas Scoles had been wittier than usual, and she had the longing to stretch her legs, which was the almost invariable effect of his ‘nice’ sermons. While she walked, in violet silk under a black mantle, with very short steps–skirts being extremely narrow in that year of grace–she was thinking of dear Hester and what a pity it was that she always had such a headache on Sunday mornings–the sermon would have done her so much good! For now that dear Ann was unable to stand the fatigue of service, she did feel that Hester ought to make a point of being well enough to go to church. What dear Mr. Scoles had said had been so helpful–about the lilies of the fields never attempting to improve their figures, and yet, about ladies of fashion in all their glory never being attired like one of them. He had undoubtedly meant ‘bustles’–so witty–and Hester would have enjoyed hearing it, because only yesterday, when they had been talking about the Grecian bend, Emily had come in with dear James and said that the revival of crinolines was only a question of time and that she personally intended to be in the fashion the moment there was any sign of it. Dear Ann had been rather severe with her; and James had said he didn’t know what was the use of them. Of course, crinolines did take up a great deal of room, and a ‘bustle,’ though it was warmer, did not. But Hester had said they were both such a bore, she didn’t see why they were wanted; and now Mr. Scoles had said it too. She must really think about it, if Mr. Scoles thought they were bad for the soul; he always said something that one had to think about afterwards. He would be SO good for Hester! And she stood a minute looking out over the grass.
Dear, dear! That little white dog was running about a great deal. Was it lost? Backwards and forwards, round and round! What they called–she believed–a Pomeranian, quite a new kind of dog. And, seeing a bench, Mrs. Septimus Small bent, with a little backward heave to save her ‘bustle,’ and sat down to watch what was the matter with the white dog. The sun, flaring out between two Spring clouds, fell on her face, transfiguring the pouting puffs of flesh, which seemed trying to burst their way through the network of her veil. Her eyes, of a Forsyte grey, lingered on the dog with the greater pertinacity in that of late–owing to poor Tommy’s (their cat’s) disappearance, very mysterious–she suspected the sweep–there had been nothing but ‘Polly’ at Timothy’s to lavish her affection on. This dog was draggled and dirty, as if it had been out all night, but it had a dear little pointed nose. She thought, too, that it seemed to be noticing her, and at once had a swelling-up sensation underneath her corsets. Almost as if aware of this, the dog came sidling, and sat down on its haunches in the grass, as though trying to make up its mind about her. Aunt Juley pursed her lips in the endeavour to emit a whistle. The veil prevented this, but she held out her gloved hand. “Come, little dog–nice little dog!” It seemed to her dear heart that the little dog sighed as it sat there, as if relieved that at last someone had taken notice of it. But it did not approach. The tip of its bushy tail quivered, however, and Aunt Juley redoubled the suavity of her voice: “Nice little fellow–come then!”
The little dog slithered forward, humbly wagging its entire body, just out of reach. Aunt Juley saw that it had no collar. Really, its nose and eyes were sweet!
“Pom!” she said. “Dear little Pom!”
The dog looked as if it would let her love it, and sensation increased beneath her corsets.
“Come, pretty!”
Not, of course, that he was pretty, all dirty like that; but his ears were pricked, and his eyes looked at her, bright, and rather round their corners–most intelligent! Lost–and in London! It was like that sad little book of Mrs. – What WAS her name–not the authoress of Jessica’s First Prayer? – dear, dear! Now, fancy forgetting that! The dog made a sudden advance, and curved like a C, all fluttering, was now almost within reach of her gloved fingers, at which it sniffed. Aunt Juley emitted a purring noise. Pride was filling her heart that out of all the people it MIGHT have taken notice of, she should be the only one. It had put out its tongue now, and was panting in the agony of indecision. Poor little thing! It clearly didn’t know whether it dared try another master–not, of course, that she could possibly take it home, with all the carpets, and dear Ann so particular about everything being nice, and–Timothy! Timothy would be horrified! And yet–! Well, they couldn’t prevent her stroking its little nose. And she too panted slightly behind her veil. It WAS agitating! And then, without either of them knowing how, her fingers and the nose were in contact. The dog’s tail was now perfectly still; its body trembled. Aunt Juley had a sudden feeling of shame at being so formidable; and with instinct inherited rather than acquired, for she had no knowledge of dogs, she slid one finger round an ear and scratched. It WAS to be hoped he hadn’t fleas! And then! The little dog leaped on her lap. It crouched there just as it had sprung, with its bright eyes upturned to her face. A strange dog–her dress–her Sunday best! It WAS an event! The little dog stretched up, and licked her chin. Almost mechanically Aunt Juley rose. And the little dog slipped off. Really she didn’t know–it took such liberties! Oh! dear–it WAS thin, fluttering round her feet! What would Mr. Scoles say? Perhaps if she walked on! She turned towards home, and the dog followed her skirt at a distance of six inches. The thought that she was going to eat roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and mincepies, was almost unbearable to Aunt Juley, seeing it gaze up as if saying: “Some for me! Some for me!” Thoughts warred within her: must she ‘shoo’ and threaten it with her parasol? Or should she–? Oh! This would never do! Dogs could be SO–she had heard? And then–the responsibility! And fleas! Timothy couldn’t endure fleas! And it might not know how to behave in a house! Oh, no! She really couldn’t! The little dog suddenly raised one paw. Tt, tt! Look at its little face! And a fearful boldness attacked Aunt Juley. Turning resolutely towards the Gate of the Gardens, she said in a weak voice: “Come along, then!” And the little dog came. It was dreadful!
While she was trying to cross the Bayswater Road, two or three of those dangerous hansom cabs came dashing past–so reckless! – and in the very middle of the street a ‘growler’ turned round, so that she had to stand quite still. And, of course, there was ‘no policeman.’ The traffic was really getting beyond bounds. If only she didn’t meet Timothy coming in from his constitutional, and could get a word with Smither–a capable girl–and have the little dog fed and washed before anybody saw it. And then? Perhaps it could be kept in the basement till somebody came to claim it. But how could people come to claim it if they didn’t know it was there? If only there were someone to consult! Perhaps Smither would know a policeman–only she hoped not–policemen were rather dangerous for a nice-looking girl like Smither, with her colour, and such a figure, for her age. Then, suddenly, realising that she had reached home, she was seized by panic from head to heel. There was the bell–it was not the epoch of latchkeys; and there the smell of dinner–yes, and the little dog had smelt it! It was now or never. Aunt Juley pointed her parasol at the dog and said very feebly: “Shoo!” But it only crouched. She couldn’t drive it away! And with an immense daring she rang the bell. While she stood waiting for the door to be opened, she almost enjoyed a sensation of defiance. She was doing a dreadful thing, but she didn’t care! Then, the doorway yawned, and her heart sank slowly towards her high and buttoned boots.
“Oh, Smither! This poor little dog has followed me. Nothing has ever followed me before. It must be lost. And it looks so thin and dirty. What SHALL we do?”
The tail of the dog, edging into the home of that rich smell, fluttered.
“Aoh!” said Smither–she was young! “Paw little thing! Shall I get cook to give it some scraps, Ma’am!” At the word “scraps” the dog’s eyes seemed to glow.
“Well,” said Aunt Juley, “you do it on your own responsibility, Smither. Take it downstairs quickly.”
She stood breathless while the dog, following Smither and its nose, glided through the little hall and down the kitchen stairs. The pit-pat of its feet roused in Aunt Juley the most mingled sensations she had experienced since the death of Septimus Small.
She went up to her room, and took off her veil and bonnet. What WAS she going to say? She went downstairs without knowing.
In the drawing-room, which had just had new pampas grass, Ann, sitting on the sofa, was putting down her prayer-book; she always read the Service to herself. Her mouth and chin looked very square, and there was an expression in her old grey eyes as if she were in pain. She wanted her lunch, of course–they were trying hard to call it lunch, because, according to Emily, no one with any pretension to be fashionable called it dinner now, even on Sundays. Hester, in her corner by the hearth, was passing the tip of her tongue over her lips; she had always been so fond of mincepies, and these would be the first of the season. Aunt Juley said:
“Mr. Scoles was delightful this morning–a beautiful sermon. I walked in the Gardens.”
Something warned her to say no more, and they waited in silence for the gong; they had just got a gong–Emily had said it was ‘the thing.’
It sounded. Dear, dear! What a noise–bom–bom! Timothy would never–Smither must take lessons. At dear James’ in Park Lane the butler made it sound almost cosy.
In the doorway of the dining-room, Smither said:
“It’s ate it all, Ma’am–it was THAT hungry.”
“Shhh!”
A heavy footstep sounded in the hall; Timothy was coming from his study, square in his frock-coat, his face all brown and red–he had such delicate health. He took his seat with his back to the window, where the light was not too strong.
Timothy, of course, did not go to church–it was too tiring for him–but he always asked the amount of the offertory, and would sometimes add that he didn’t know what they wanted all that for, as if Mr. Scoles ever wasted it. Just now he was getting new hassocks, and when they came she had thought perhaps dear Timothy and Hester would come too. Timothy, however, had said:
“Hassocks! They only get in the way and spoil your trousers.”
Aunt Ann, who could not kneel now, had smiled indulgently:
“One should kneel in church, dear.”
They were all seated now with beef before them, and Timothy was saying:
“Mustard! And tell cook the potatoes aren’t browned enough; do you hear, Smither?”
Smither, blushing above him, answered: “Yes, sir.”
Within Aunt Juley, what with the dog and her mind and the difficulty of assimilating Yorkshire pudding, indigestion had begun.
“I had such a pleasant walk in the Gardens,” she said painfully, “after church.”
“You oughtn’t to walk there alone in these days; you don’t know what you may be picking up with.”
Aunt Juley took a sip of brown sherry–her heart was beating so! Aunt Hester–she was such a reader–murmured that she had read how Mr. Gladstone walked there sometimes.
“That shows you!” said Timothy.
Aunt Ann believed that Mr. Gladstone had high principles, and they must not judge him.
“Judge him!” said Timothy: “I’d hang him!”
“That’s not quite a nice thing to say on Sunday, dear.”
“Better the day, better the deed,” muttered Timothy; and Aunt Juley trembled. He was in one of his moods. And, suddenly, she held her breath. A yapping had impinged on her ears, as if the white dog were taking liberties with Cook. Her eyes sought Smither’s face.
“What’s that?” said Timothy. “A dog?”
“There’s a dog just round the corner, at No. 9,” murmured Aunt Juley; and, at the roundness of Smither’s eyes, knew she had prevaricated. What dreadful things happened if one was not quite frank from the beginning! The yapping broke into a sharp yelp, as if Cook had taken a liberty in turn.
“That’s not round the corner,” said Timothy; “it’s downstairs. What’s all this?”
All eyes were turned on Smither, in a dead silence. A sound broke it–the girl had creaked.
“Please, Miss, it’s the little dog that followed Madam in.”
“Oh!” said Aunt Juley, in haste; “THAT little dog!”
“What’s that?” said Timothy. “Followed her in?”
“It was so thin!” said Aunt Juley’s faint voice.
“Smither,” said Aunt Ann, “hand me the pulled bread; and tell Cook I want to see her when she’s finished her dinner.”
Into Aunt Juley’s pouting face rose a flush.
“I take the entire responsibility,” she said. “The little dog was lost. It was hungry and Cook has given it some scraps.”
“A strange dog,” muttered Timothy, “bringing in fleas like that!”
“Oh! I don’t think,” murmured Aunt Juley, “it’s a well-bred little dog.”
“How do YOU know? You don’t know a dog from a door-mat.”
The flush deepened over Aunt Juley’s pouts.
“It was a Christian act,” she said, looking Timothy in the eye. “If you had been to church, you wouldn’t talk like that.”
It was perhaps the first time she had openly bearded her delicate brother. The result was complete. Timothy ate his mincepie hurriedly.
“Well, don’t let ME see it,” he muttered.
“Put the wine and walnuts on the table and go down, Smither,” said Aunt Ann, “and see what Cook is doing about it.”
When she had gone there was silence. It was felt that Juley had forgotten herself.
Aunt Ann put her wineglass to her lips; it contained two thimblefuls of brown sherry–a present from dear Jolyon–he had such a palate! Aunt Hester, who during the excitement had thoughtfully finished a second mince-pie, was smiling. Aunt Juley had her eyes fixed on Timothy; she had tasted of defiance and it was sweet.
Smither returned.
“Well, Smither?”
“Cook’s washing of it, Miss.”
“What’s she doing that for?” said Timothy.
“Because it’s dirty,” said Aunt Juley.
“There you are!”
And the voice of Aunt Ann was heard, saying grace. When she had finished, the three sisters rose.
“We’ll leave you to your wine, dear. Smither, my shawl, please.”
Upstairs in the drawing-room there was grave silence. Aunt Juley was trying to still her fluttering nerves; Aunt Hester trying to pretend that nothing had happened; Aunt Ann, upright and a little grim, trying to compress the Riot Act with her thin and bloodless lips. She was not thinking of herself, but of the immutable order of things, so seriously compromised.
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.
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