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. 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 glacé 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: