On Forsyte ‘Change

“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 di

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 François 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 A

Dear, dear! That little white dog was ru

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 A