Carefully he burnt the letter. To-morrow he would look in at the office of those people, hear their story, and so have done with it.
Next morning he was still in the same mind. He went to Tulks & Crowe's, and spent about an hour closeted with the senior member of that useful firm. "A benevolent interest—anxious to help the poor devil if possible—miserable story, that of the marriage—was to be hoped that the girl would be persuaded to acknowledge him, and help him to lead an honest life—no idea where she was." The information he received was very full and satisfactory; on the spot he paid for it, and issued into the street again with tolerably easy mind.
To-morrow he must run down to Polterham again. How to pass the rest of today? Pressing business was all off his hands, and he did not care to look up any of his acquaintances; he was not in the mood for talk. Uncertain about the future, he had decided to warehouse the furniture, pictures, and so on, that belonged to him. Perhaps it would be well if he occupied himself in going through his papers—making a selection for the fire.
He did so, until midway in the afternoon. Perusal of old letters will not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active. Within reach of where he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.
At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington Station—rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office—caught the Bristol train just as the guard had signalled for starting.
He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined. Such glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, he rambled for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult to account for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither, it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to years long past. He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge—and there, possibly, lay the point of association. Coleridge: then he fell upon literary reminiscences. Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He put the inquiry to a passer-by, and was directed. By dreary thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the spire, dark against a blotchy sky. Then he mocked at himself for acting as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name signified boredom to him. Oh, these English provincial towns! What an atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all! And people were born, and lived, and died in Bristol—merciful powers!
He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and went to bed.
After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where he could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here. It didn't matter much; he could strike off by the Midland to Polterham, and be there before noon. And again he slept.
When he had breakfasted, he called to the waiter and asked him how far it was to that part of the town called Hotwells. Learning that the road thither would bring him near to Clifton, he nodded with satisfaction. Clifton was a place to be seen; on a bright morning like this it would be pleasant to walk over the Downs and have a look at the gorge of the Avon.
A cab was called. With one foot raised he stood in uncertainty, whilst the driver asked him twice whither they were to go. At length he said "Hotwells," and named a street in that locality. He lay back and closed his eyes, remaining thus until the cab stopped.