Chapter V: Soames Acts

A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained
unopened in Soames’ pocket throughout two hours of sustained
attention to the affairs of the “New Colliery Company,” which,
declining almost from the moment of old Jolyon’s retirement from
the Chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now
nothing for it but a “winding-up.” He took the letter out to
lunch at his City Club, sacred to him for the meals he had eaten
there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to
like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future
life.

Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed
potato, he read:

“DEAR SIR,
“In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the
matter up at the other end with gratifying results.
Observation of 47 has enabled us to locate 17 at the Green
Hotel, Richmond. The two have been observed to meet daily
during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely
crucial has so far been notified. But in conjunction with
what we had from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am
confident we could now satisfy the Court. We shall, of
course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you.

“Very faithfully yours,
“CLAUD POLTEED.”

Soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter:

“Take this away; it’s cold.”

“Shall I bring you some more, sir?”

“No. Get me some coffee in the other room.”

And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two
acquaintances without sign of recognition.

“Satisfy the Court!” he thought, sitting at a little round marble
table with the coffee before him. That fellow Jolyon! He poured
out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in
the eyes of his own children! And rising, with that resolution
hot within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of
being his own solicitor. He could not treat this scandalous
matter in his own office. He must commit the soul of his private
dignity to a stranger, some other professional dealer in family
dishonour. Who was there he could go to? Linkman and Laver in
Budge Row, perhaps—reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding
acquaintances. But before he saw them he must see Polteed again.
But at this thought Soames had a moment of sheer weakness. To
part with his secret? How find the words? How subject himself to
contempt and secret laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew
already—oh yes, he knew! And, feeling that he must finish with it
now, he took a cab into the West End.

In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed’s room was
positively open, and the only precaution was a wire gauze,
preventing the intrusion of flies. Two or three had tried to come
in, and been caught, so that they seemed to be clinging there
with the intention of being devoured presently. Mr. Polteed,
following the direction of his client’s eye, rose apologetically
and closed the window.

“Posing ass!” thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe
in themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little
sideway smile, he said: “I’ve had your letter. I’m going to act.
I suppose you know who the lady you’ve been watching really is?”
Mr. Polteed’s expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so
clearly said: “Well, what do you think? But mere professional
knowledge, I assure you—pray forgive it!” He made a little half
airy movement with his hand, as who should say: “Such things—such
things will happen to us all!”

“Very well, then,” said Soames, moistening his lips: “there’s no
need to say more. I’m instructing Linkman and Laver of Budge Row
to act for me. I don’t want to hear your evidence, but kindly
make your report to them at five o’clock, and continue to observe
the utmost secrecy.”

Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. “My
dear sir,” he said.

“Are you convinced,” asked Soames with sudden energy, “that there
is enough?”

The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed’s shoulders.

“You can risk it,” he murmured; “with what we have, and human
nature, you can risk it.”

Soames rose. “You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don’t get
up.” He could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as usual between him
and the door. In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his
forehead. This had been the worst of it—he could stand the
strangers better. And he went back into the City to do what still
lay before him.

That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was
overwhelmed by his old longing for a son—a son, to watch _him_
eat as he went down the years, to be taken on _his_ knee as James
on a time had been wont to take him; a son of his own begetting,
who could understand him because he was the same flesh and
blood—understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and
cultured than himself because he would start even better off. To
get old—like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there—and
be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to take no
interest in anything because it had no future and must pass away
from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot!
No! He would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have
a son to care for him before he grew to be like the old old man
his father, wistfully watching now his sweetbread, now his son.

In that mood he went up to bed. But, lying warm between those
fine linen sheets of Emily’s providing, he was visited by
memories and torture. Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling
of her body, beset him. Why had he ever been fool enough to see
her again, and let this flood back on him so that it was pain to
think of her with that fellow—that stealing fellow.