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?”