The town was about an hour’s walk from Southbourne. After quitting the handful of houses which formed the village, Hanwitch came upon you as a metropolis. To describe it in homely guide-book fashion:—It had two good churches, and a public square full of evergreens, rock-work, and stone images; several snug inns, one wide street and a quantity of narrow ones; a town-hall, a market-place, a prison, and a town-crier; a large number of old ladies and fat poodles, invalids, sedan-chairs, and camp-stools. In olden times—and now I am talking of the eighteenth century—it had held some sort of position as a third-rate inland watering-place; but what had become of the springs which had brought the gout, the vapours, and the spleen from places as distant as London to drink, the oldest inhabitant never could remember. But one thing was certain: there was no lack of water in the place. A river ran close to it, and from this river meandered some crystal streamlets which ran right into the town. And where the river was, the scenery was exquisite in summer—cool, deep, and leafy, with a bridge at each end of the town, a little landing-stage, a punt or two, and midway between the bridges, a cluster of trees on either bank, with huge gnarled trunks and roots which ran naked for many feet along the ground, whilst, high above, their branches mingled and formed a tunnel for the water to flow under. Here the trout would leap; here the water-rat would sneak from its earthy chamber and break the tide into thin ripples as it noiselessly made for the opposite shore; here the sunshine would fall in threads through the leaves and gild the black long-legged insects on the surface of the water.
Ten o’clock was striking when Holdsworth was driven into Hanwitch by the landlord of the Southbourne inn, who was rich enough to own a horse and gig. The drive had been a very short one, and in the landlord’s opinion seven-and-sixpence had never been more easily earned. The gig was stopped at the door of the “Hanwitch Arms,” and Holdsworth got out. Then came a porter, who nodded pleasantly to the owner of the gig, and hoisted the portmanteau on his shoulder.
“My respecks to the governor, Joe. How is he?”
“Pretty middlin’! How’s yourself?”
“Why, I can’t say as I’m quite the thing. The weather’s been rayther agin my rheumatiz.—Wish you good mornin’, sir.”
And with this farewell to Holdsworth, the landlord drove himself away.
Holdsworth’s plans had been fully settled by him the night before; and one part of them was that he should put up at some inn at Hanwitch, while he made inquiries of deep interest to himself, and obtained a lodging. Having followed the porter into the bar and ordered a bed for the night, he re-entered the street.
His emotions, as he first began to walk, were conflicting and painful. He was now in the town where his wife lived; any moment might bring them face to face, and the wildest anxiety to see her was mixed up with a sensation of shrinking fear of the encounter. He stared eagerly at the people, and now and again, when a little child passed, his heart beat rapidly, and he felt his blood leave his face. But he mastered himself soon, repeatedly muttering, as a reassuring argument, that, were they to meet, Dolly would not know him.
He was in the main street, walking slowly, and helping his step with a stick, not more from habit than from necessity, for he was frequently seized with a weakness in the legs which would sometimes oblige him to stop, or seat himself if a seat were at hand. His object now was to find out where Dolly lived, a question he would not ask the landlady at Southbourne, lest, added to the inquiries he had already made, it should excite her suspicion and set her surmising.
He noticed a small chemist’s shop opposite, and, his mind establishing a friendly connection between drugs and dentistry, he crossed and entered. A bald-headed man in spectacles received him with a bow.