The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. Who shall

tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his hair was brown like

the hair of that young fellow dead before him? Of himself, with his

battle just beginning, the long, long battle he had loved; the battle

that was over for this young man almost before it had begun? Of his

grand-daughter, with her broken hopes? Of that other woman? Of the

strangeness, and the pity of it? And the irony, inscrutable, and bitter

of that end? Justice! There was no justice for men, for they were ever

in the dark!

Or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: Better to be out of, it all!

Better to have done with it, like this poor youth....

Some one touched him on the arm.

A tear started up and wetted his eyelash. "Well," he said, "I'm no good

here. I'd better be going. You'll come to me as soon as you can, Jo,"

and with his head bowed he went away.

It was young Jolyon's turn to take his stand beside the dead man, round

whose fallen body he seemed to see all the Forsytes breathless, and

prostrated. The stroke had fallen too swiftly.

The forces underlying every tragedy--forces that take no denial, working

through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and fused with

a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to the ground all

those that stood around.

Or so at all events young Jolyon seemed to see them, lying around

Bosinney's body.

He asked the Inspector to tell him what had happened, and the latter,

like a man who does not every day get such a chance, again detailed such

facts as were known.

"There's more here, sir, however," he said, "than meets the eye. I don't

believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. It's more likely I

think that he was suffering under great stress of mind, and took no

notice of things about him. Perhaps you can throw some light on these."

He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table.

Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady's handkerchief, pinned through

the folds with a pin of discoloured Venetian gold, the stone of which

had fallen from the socket. A scent of dried violets rose to young

Jolyon's nostrils.

"Found in his breast pocket," said the Inspector; "the name has been cut

away!"

Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: "I'm afraid I cannot help you!"

But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen light up, so

tremulous and glad, at Bosinney's coming! Of her he thought more than

of his own daughter, more than of them all--of her with the dark, soft

glance, the delicate passive face, waiting for the dead man, waiting

even at that moment, perhaps, still and patient in the sunlight.