“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 tapped 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.”
An expression of real pain centred itself between Aunt Ann’s old eyes.
“I do not think I bully,” she said; “you forget yourself.”
For a full minute Aunt Juley said nothing, looking to and fro from her twisting fingers to the wrinkled ivory pale face of her eldest sister. Tears of compunction had welled up in her eyes. Dear Ann was very old, and the doctor was always saying—! And quickly she got out her handkerchief.
“I—I’m upset.—I—I didn’t mean—dear Ann—I—” the words bubbled out: “b-b-but I d-do so w-want the little d-d-dog.”
There was silence, broken by her sniffing. Then rose the voice of Aunt Ann, calm, a little tremulous:
“Very well, dear; it will be a sacrifice, but if it makes you happier—”
“Oh!” sobbed Aunt Juley: “Oh!”
A large tear splashed on the solitaire board, and with the small handkerchief she wiped it off.
MIDSUMMER MADNESS, 1880
George, second son to Roger Forsyte of Prince’s gate, was in the year 1880 twenty-four years of age, and supposed to be a farmer. That is to say he had failed for the Army, and had definitely refused to enter any indoor profession. This was why he spent the inside of his weeks in any country pursuit which was not farming, and the outside of his weeks in or about the Club in Piccadilly which he had nicknamed ‘The Iseeum.’ Nominally resident at Plumtree Park in Bedfordshire, where a gentleman farmer eked out his losses with the premiums paid by the fathers of his pupils, George Forsyte’s wit, of which he had a good deal, enabled him to spend most of his time with neighbouring landowners, who let him ride their horses or shoot their pheasants and rabbits. In the summer, when horses were turned out, pheasants turned in, and even rabbits were breeding, George would sometimes look at other people shearing sheep, and cheer them with his jests; but as a general thing he would be found studying the conformation of the horse on Newmarket Heath, or the conformation of chorus girls on the stage of the Liberty Theatre. But in this particular summer of 1880, as will sometimes happen with men of the world, he had fallen in love. The object of his affection was a very pretty woman with dark dove-like eyes, who was somewhat naturally the wife of a man he knew called Basset, a neighbouring landowner and Major in the Militia. It may come as a shock to those who fifty years later have claimed for themselves the abolition of morals to learn that George already had none. It was with a mere glow that he discovered himself to be in love with a married woman. Flora Basset, like most people with dove-like eyes, was what was then known as a ‘flirt’; and since she lived in the country to please her husband, when she would rather have lived in London, she considered herself entitled to such amusement as came her way. George was very amusing.