He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father's house,
reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte family. The stroke
had indeed slipped past their defences into the very wood of their tree.
They might flourish to all appearance as before, preserving a brave show
before the eyes of London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same
flash that had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take
its place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property.
Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon--soundest timber of our
land!
Concerning the cause of this death--his family would doubtless reject
with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so compromising! They
would take it as an accident, a stroke of fate. In their hearts they
would even feel it an intervention of Providence, a retribution--had not
Bosinney endangered their two most priceless possessions, the pocket and
the hearth? And they would talk of 'that unfortunate accident of young
Bosinney's,' but perhaps they would not talk--silence might be better!
As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver's account of the accident as
of very little value. For no one so madly in love committed suicide for
want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of fellow to set much store by
a financial crisis. And so he too rejected this theory of suicide, the
dead man's face rose too clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his
summer--and to believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the
full sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon.
Then came a vision of Soames' home as it now was, and must be hereafter.
The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny gleam on bare
bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising flesh was gone....
In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone when
his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair. And his eyes
travelling round the walls with their pictures of still life, and the
masterpiece 'Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset' seemed as though passing
their gaze over his life with its hopes, its gains, its achievements.
"Ah! Jo!" he said, "is that you? I've told poor little June. But that's
not all of it. Are you going to Soames'? She's brought it on herself,
I suppose; but somehow I can't bear to think of her, shut up there--and
all alone." And holding up his thin, veined hand, he clenched it.