The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

"Oh!" said old Jolyon, "don't let him make a favour of it!" He placed

his hat on his head in dudgeon.

The door was opened and Soames came in.

"There's a policeman out here," he said with his half smile, "for Uncle

Jolyon."

Old Jolyon looked at him angrily, and James said: "A policeman? I don't

know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know something about

him," he added to old Jolyon with a look of suspicion: "I suppose you'd

better see him!"

In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with

heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked up by

James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square. "You'll find my

brother in there," said James.

The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, and

entered the study.

James saw him go in with a strange sensation.

"Well," he said to Soames, "I suppose we must wait and see what he

wants. Your uncle's been here about the house!"

He returned with Soames into the dining-room, but could not rest.

"Now what does he want?" he murmured again.

"Who?" replied Soames: "the Inspector? They sent him round from Stanhope

Gate, that's all I know. That 'nonconformist' of Uncle Jolyon's has been

pilfering, I shouldn't wonder!"

But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease.

At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to the table,

and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white moustaches.

James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had never seen his brother

look like this.

Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly:

"Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed."

Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down at him

with his deep eyes:

"There's--some--talk--of--suicide," he said.

James' jaw dropped. "Suicide! What should he do that for?"

Old Jolyon answered sternly: "God knows, if you and your son don't!"

But James did not reply.

For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had bitter

experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in cloaks of custom,

wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that such black shadows had

fallen on their roads. To every man of great age--to Sir Walter Bentham

himself--the idea of suicide has once at least been present in the

ante-room of his soul; on the threshold, waiting to enter, held out from

the inmost chamber by some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful

hope. To Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it

is hard! Seldom--perhaps never--can they achieve, it; and yet, how near

have they not sometimes been!