The Forsyte saga - Complete
Forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable
grandchild sadly—for he felt in her that quality which above all
others he unconsciously admired.
“Do you know what they say is going on?” he said slowly.
June crimsoned.
“Yes—no! I know—and I don’t know—I don’t care!” and she stamped
her foot.
“I believe,” said old Jolyon, dropping his eyes, “that you’d have
him if he were dead!”
There was a long silence before he spoke again.
“But as to buying this house—you don’t know what you’re talking
about!”
June said that she did. She knew that he could get it if he
wanted. He would only have to give what it cost.
“What it cost! You know nothing about it. I won’t go to
Soames—I’ll have nothing more to do with that young man.”
“But you needn’t; you can go to Uncle James. If you can’t buy the
house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? I know he is terribly hard
up—I’ve seen it. You can stop it out of my money!”
A twinkle came into old Jolyon’s eyes.
“Stop it out of your money! A pretty way. And what will you do,
pray, without your money?”
But secretly, the idea of wresting the house from James and his
son had begun to take hold of him. He had heard on Forsyte
’Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house.
It was “too artistic,” but a fine place. To take from the “man of
property” that on which he had set his heart, would be a crowning
triumph over James, practical proof that he was going to make a
man of property of Jo, to put him back in his proper position,
and there to keep him secure. Justice once for all on those who
had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast.
He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he
was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why,
perhaps he would do it!
And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her.
But he did not commit himself. He would think it over—he said to
June.
CHAPTER VIII BOSINNEY’S DEPARTURE
Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that
he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house
at Robin Hill, had not Jun’s face told him that he would have no
peace until he acted.
At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should
order the carriage.
“Carriage!” he said, with some appearance of innocence; “what
for? _I’m_ not going out!”
She answered: “If you don’t go early, you won’t catch Uncle James
before he goes into the City.”
“James! what about your Uncle James?”
“The house,” she replied, in such a voice that he no longer
pretended ignorance.
“I’ve not made up my mind,” he said.
“You must! You must! Oh! Gran—think of me!”
Old Jolyon grumbled out: “Think of you—I’m always thinking of
you, but you don’t think of yourself; you don’t think what you’re
letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!”
At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at
Park Lane—he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat;
telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went,
without being announced, into the study, and sat down.
James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had
come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor
was, he muttered nervously: “Now, what’s _he_ want, I wonder?”
He then got up.
“Well,” he said to Soames, “don’t you go doing anything in a
hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is—I should go to
Stainer’s about it; they’re the best men, if they can’t find her,
nobody can.” And suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered
to himself, “Poor little thing, _I_ can’t tell what she was
thinking about!” and went out blowing his nose.
Old Jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his
hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a Forsyte.
James took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his
hand.
“Well,” he said, “how are you? We don’t see much of _you_
nowadays!”
Old Jolyon paid no attention to the remark.
“How’s Emily?” he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on “I’ve
come to see you about this affair of young Bosinney’s. I’m told
that new house of his is a white elephant.”
“I don’t know anything about a white elephant,” said James, “I
know he’s lost his case, and I should say he’ll go bankrupt.”
Old Jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him.
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit!” he agreed; “and if he goes bankrupt,
the ‘man of property’—that is, Soames’ll be out of pocket. Now,
what I was thinking was this: If he’s not going to live
there....”
Seeing both surprise and suspicion in James’ eye, he quickly went
on: “I don’t want to know anything; I suppose Irene’s put her
foot down—it’s not material to me. But I’m thinking of a house in
the country myself, not too far from London, and if it suited me
I don’t say that I mightn’t look at it, at a price.”
James listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt,
suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind,
and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon
his elder brother’s good faith and judgment. There was anxiety,
too, as to what old Jolyon could have heard and how he had heard
it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if
Jun’s connection with Bosinney were completely at an end, her
grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow.
Altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show
this, or to commit himself in any way, he said:
“They tell me you’re altering your Will in favour of your son.”
He had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having
seen old Jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that
he had taken his Will away from Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. The
shot went home.
“Who told you that?” asked old Jolyon.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said James; “I can’t remember names—I
know somebody told me Soames spent a lot of money on this house;
he’s not likely to part with it except at a good price.”
“Well,” said old Jolyon, “if, he thinks I’m going to pay a fancy
price, he’s mistaken. I’ve not got the money to throw away that
he seems to have. Let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and
see what he’ll get. It’s not every man’s house, I hear!”
James, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: “It’s a
gentleman’s house. Soames is here now if you’d like to see him.”
“No,” said old Jolyon, “I haven’t got as far as that; and I’m not
likely to, I can see that very well if I’m met in this manner!”
James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a
commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was
dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations
such as these made him nervous—he never knew quite how far he
could go.
“Well,” he said, “I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me
nothing; I should think he’d entertain it—it’s a question of
price.”
“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!
So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke
out: “Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: ‘Run over in the fog!’
They didn’t know his name!” He turned from one face to the other
in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was
rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this
thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his
son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature
ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety
accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident!
It must have been!
Old Jolyon broke in on his reverie.
“Death was instantaneous. He lay all day yesterday at the
hospital. There was nothing to tell them who he was. I am going
there now; you and your son had better come too.”
No one opposing this command he led the way from the room.
The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park
Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open.
Sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had