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DOCTOR IZARD ------------------------------------------------------------------------ WORKS BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. ------- THE LEAVENWORTH CASE. 4to, paper, 20 $1 00 cents; 16mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. 4to, paper, 20 $1 00 cents; 16mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00 cents; cloth HAND AND RING. 4to, paper, 20 cents; $1 00 16mo, paper, illustrated, 50 cents; 16mo, cloth, illustrated X. Y. Z. A DETECTIVE STORY. 16mo, paper 25 cents. THE MILL MYSTERY. 16mo, paper, 50 cents; $1 00 cloth 7 TO 12 A DETECTIVE STORY. 16mo, paper 25 cents. BEHIND CLOSED DOORS. 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00 cents; cloth THE OLD STONE HOUSE, AND OTHER STORIES. $ 75 16mo, paper, 40 cents; cloth CYNTHIA WAKEHAMâS MONEY. 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00 cents; cloth MARKED âPERSONAL.â 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00 cents; cloth MISS HURD: an Enigma. 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00 cents; cloth THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK. $ 50 Oblong 32mo, cloth DR. IZARD. 16mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00 THE DEFENCE OF THE BRIDE, AND OTHER $1 00 POEMS. 16mo, cloth RISIFIâS DAUGHTER. A DRAMA. 16mo, cloth $1 00 ------- G. P. PUTNAMâS SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: âMERCIFUL HEAVENS, WAS THAT THE DOCTOR?ââSEE PAGE 228.] DOCTOR IZARD by ANNA KATHARINE GREEN (Mrs. Charles Rohlfs) Author of âThe Leavenworth Case,â âMarked âPersonal,ââ âThe Doctor, His Wife, and the Clock,â etc., etc. ------- G. P. PutnamâS Sons New York London 27 West Twenty-Third Street 24 Bedford Street, Strand The Knickerbocker Press 1895 Copyright 1895 By Anna Katharine Rohlfs Entered at Stationerâs Hall, London All Rights Reserved The Knickerbocker Press, New York ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TO MY FRIEND JOSEPH FRANCIS DALY A. K. G. R. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS. ------- PAGE NO. THIRTEEN, WARD THIRTEEN 1 HADLEYâS CAVE 22 THE YOUNG HEIRESS 29 DR. IZARD 45 NOCTURNAL WANDERINGS 71 THE PORTRAIT 92 WHAT THE STROKE OF A BELL CAN DO 97 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 114 ASK DR. IZARD 125 AN INCREDIBLE OCCURRENCE 136 FACE TO FACE 145 AT HOME 152 A TEST 157 GRACE 167 THE SMALL, SLIGHT MAN 186 THE LETTER 206 MIDNIGHT AT THE OLD IZARD PLACE 220 A DECISION 230 TO-MORROW 237 DR. IZARDâS LAST DAY IN HAMILTON 251 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOCTOR IZARD. ------- PART I. A MIDNIGHT VISITANT. ------- I. NO. THIRTEEN, WARD THIRTEEN. IT was after midnight. Quiet had settled over the hospital, and in Ward 13 there was no sound and scarcely a movement. The nurse, a strong and beautiful figure, had fallen into a reverie, and the two patients, which were all the ward contained, lay in a sleep so deep that it seemed to foreshadow the death which was hovering over them both. They were both men. The one on the right of the nurse was middle-aged; the one on the left somewhat older. Both were gaunt, both were hollow-eyed, both had been given up by the doctors and attendants. Yet there was one point of difference between them. He on the left, the older of the two, had an incurable complaint for which no remedy was possible, while he on the right, though seemingly as ill as his fellow, was less seriously affected, and stood some chance of being saved if only he would arouse from his apathy and exert his will toward living. But nothing had as yet been found to interest him, and he seemed likely to die from sheer inanition. It is through this manâs eyes that we must observe the scene which presently took place in this quiet room. He had been lying, as I have said, in a dreamless sleep, when somethingâhe never knew whatâmade him conscious of himself and partially awake to his surroundings. He found himself listening, but there was no sound; and his eyes, which he had not unclosed for hours, slowly opened, and through the shadows which encompassed him broke a dim vision of the silent ward and the sitting figure of the weary nurse. It was an accustomed sight, and his eyes were softly re-closing when a sudden movement on the part of the nurse roused him again to something like interest, and though his apathy was yet too great for him to make a movement or utter a sound, he perceived, though with dim eyes at first, that the door at the other end of the ward had slowly opened, and that two men were advancing down the room to the place where the nurse stood waiting in evident surprise to greet them. One was the hospital doctor, and on him the sick man cast but a single glance; but the person with him was a stranger, and upon him the attention of the silent watcher became presently concentrated, for his appearance was singular and his errand one of evident mystery. There was but one light in the room, and this was burning low, so that the impression received was general rather than particular. He saw before him a medium-sized man who sought to hide his face from observation, though this face was already sufficiently shielded by the semi-darkness and by the brim of a large hat which for some reason he had omitted to remove. Around his shoulders there hung a cloak of an old-fashioned type, and as he approached the spot where the nurse stood, his form, which had shown some dignity while he was advancing, contracted itself in such a fashion that he looked smaller than he really was. The physician who accompanied him was the first to speak. âIs No. Twelve asleep?â he asked. The nurse bowed slightly, half turning her head as she did so. The watching man was No. Thirteen, not No. Twelve, but his eyes shut at the question, perhaps because he was still overcome by his apathy, perhaps because his curiosity had been aroused and he feared to stop events by betraying his interest in them. âI am afraid we shall have to wake him,â pursued the attendant physician. âThis gentleman here, who declines to give his name, but who has brought letters which sufficiently recommend him to our regard, professes to have business with this patient which will not keep till morning. Has the patient shown any further signs of sinking?â She answered in a cheerful tone that he had slept since ten without waking, and the two men began to approach. As they did so both turned toward the bed of the second sick man, and one of them, the stranger, remarked with something like doubt in his tones, âIs this man as low as he looks? Is he dying, too?â The answer was a qualified one, and the stranger appeared to turn his back, but presently the strained ears of the seemingly unconscious man heard a breath panting near his own, and was conscious of some person bending over his cot. Next minute the question was whispered in his hearing: âAre you sure this man is asleep?â The doctor, who was standing close by, murmured an affirmative, and the nurse to whom the questioner had apparently turned, observed without any hesitation in her slightly mystified tone: âI have not seen him move since eight oâclock; besides, if he were awake, he would show no consciousness. He is dying from sheer hopelessness, and a cannon fired at his side would not rouse him.â The âhumphâ which this assurance called forth from the stranger had a peculiar sound in it, but the attention which had been directed to No. Thirteen now passed to his neighbor, and the former, feeling himself for the instant unobserved, partially opened his eyes to see how that neighbor was affected by it. A few whispered words had accomplished what a cannon had been thought unable to do, and he was beginning to realize an interest in life, or at least in what was going on in reference to his fellow patient. The words were these: âThis is a hopeless case, is it?â âYes, sir.â âHow long a time do you give him?â The tone was professional, though not entirely unsympathetic. âDr. Sweet says a week; I say three days.â The stranger bent over the patient, and it was at this point that the watcherâs eyes opened. âThree days is nearer the mark,â the visitor at last declared. At which the attending physician bowed. âI should be glad to have a few momentsâ conversation with your patient,â the stranger now pursued. âIf he is unhappy, I think I can bring him comfort. He has relatives, you say.â âYes, a daughter, over whose helpless position he constantly grieves.â âHe is poor, then?â âVery.â âGood! I have pleasant news for him. Will you allow me to rouse him?â âCertainly, if you have a communication justifying the slight shock.â The stranger, whose head had sunk upon his breast, cast a keen look around. âI beg your pardon,â said he, âbut I must speak to the man alone; he himself would choose it, but neither you nor the nurse need leave the room.â The doctor bowed and withdrew with marked respect; the nurse lingered a moment, during which both of the sick men lay equally quiet and death-like; then she also stepped aside. The stranger was left standing between the two beds. Soon the sensitive ears of the watchful one heard these words: âYour little daughter sends her love.â Opening his eyes a trifle, he saw the stranger bending over the otherâs pillow. A sigh which was not new to his ears rose from his dying companion, at sound of which the stranger added softly: âYou fear to leave the child, but God is merciful. He makes it possible for you to provide for her; do you want to hear how?â A low cry, then a sudden feeble move, and No. Twelve was speaking in hurried, startled words: âWho are you, sir? What do you want with me, and what are you saying about my child? I donât know you.â âNo? And yet I am likely to be your greatest benefactor. But first take these few drops; they will help you to understand me. You are afraid? You need not be. I amââ He whispered a name into the sick manâs ear which his companion could not catch. âThat is our secret,â he added, âand one which I charge you to preserve.â No. Thirteen, unable to restrain his curiosity at this, stole another glance at the adjoining cot from under his scarcely lifted lids. His moribund neighbor had risen partially on his pillow and was gazing with burning intensity at the man who was leaning toward him. âO sir,â came from the pale and working lips, as he tried to raise a feeble hand. âYou mean to help my little one, you? But why should you do it? What claim has my misfortune or her innocence on you that you should concern yourself with our desperate condition?â âNo claim,â came in the strangerâs calm but impressive tones. âIt is not charity I seek to bestow on you, but payment for a service you can render me. A perfectly legitimate, though somewhat unusual one,â he hastened to add, as the manâs face showed doubt. âWhatâwhat is it?â faltered from the sick manâs lips in mingled doubt and hope. âWhat can a poor and wretched being, doomed to speedy death, do for a man like you? I fear you are mocking me, sir.â âYou can be the mediumââ the words came slowly and with some hesitationââfor the payment of a debt I dare not liquidate in my own person. I owe someoneâa large amountâof money. If I give it to youââ (he leaned closer and spoke lower, but the ears that were listening were very sharp, and not a syllable was lost) âwill you give it to the person whom I will name?â âBut how? When? I am dying, they say, andâââ âDo not worry about the whens and hows. I will make all that easy. The question is, will you, for the sum of five thousand dollars, which I here show you in ten five-hundred-dollar bills, consent to sign a will, bequeathing this other little package of money to a certain young woman whom I will name?â âFive thousand dollars? O sir, do not mislead a dying man. Five thousand dollars? Why, it would be a fortune to Lucy!â âA fortune that she shall have,â the other assured him. âJust for signing my name?â âJust for signing your name to a will which will bequeath the rest of your belongings, namely, this little package, to an equally young and equally unfortunate girl.â âIt seems right. I do not see anything wrong in it,â murmured the dying father in a voice that had strangely strengthened. âWill you assure me that it is all right, and that no one will suffer by my action?â âDid I not tell you who I was?â asked the stranger, âand cannot you trust one of my reputation? You will be doing a good act, a retributive act; one that will have the blessing of Providence upon it.â âBut why this secrecy? Why do you come to me instead of paying the debt yourself? Is sheâââ âShe is who she is,â was the somewhat stern interruption. âYou do not know her; no one here knows her. Will you do what I ask or must I turn to your companion who seems as ill as yourself?â âIâI want to do it, sir. Five thousand dollars! Let me feel of the bills that represent so much.â There was a movement, and the sick and feeble voice rose again in a tone of ecstatic delight. âAnd I need not worry any more about her feet without shoes and her pretty head without shelter. She will be a lady and go to school, and by and by can learn a trade and live respectably. Oh, thank God, sir! I know who I would like to have made her guardian.â âThen you consent?â cried the stranger, with a thrill of some strong feeling in his voice. âI do, sir, and thank you; only you must be quick, for there is no knowing how soon the end may come.â The stranger, who seemed to be equally apprehensive of the results of this strong excitement, raised himself upright and motioned to the doctor and the nurse. âYou will say nothing of our compact,â he enjoined in a final whisper, as the two summoned ones approached. âNor will you express surprise at the wording of the will or, indeed, at anything I may say.â âNo,â came in an almost undistinguishable murmur, and then there was silence, till the doctor and the nurse were within hearing, when the stranger said: âOur friend here has a small matter of business on his mind. It has been my pleasure, as I perhaps intimated to you, to bring him a considerable sum of money which he had quite despaired of ever having paid him; and as for reasons he is not willing to communicate, he desires to bequeath a portion of it to a person not related to him, he naturally finds it necessary to leave a will. Foreseeing this, I had the draft of one drawn up, which, if agreeable to you, I will read to him in your presence.â The amazement in the nurseâs eye gave way to a look of deference, and she bowed slightly. The doctor nodded his head, and both took their stand at the foot of the small cot. The man in the adjoining bed neither murmured nor moved. Had they looked at him, they would have doubtless thought his sleep was doing him but little good, for his pallor had increased and an icy sweat glistened on his forehead. âMr. Hazlittâs property,â continued the stranger in a low and mechanical tone, âconsists entirely of money. Is that not so?â he asked, smiling upon the dazed but yet strangely happy face of the patient lying before him. âNamely, this roll of bills, amounting as you see to five thousand dollars, and this small package of banknotes, of which the amount is not stated, but of whose value he is probably aware. Are you willing,â and he turned to the doctor, âto take charge of these valuables, and see that they are forthcoming at the proper time?â The doctor bowed, glanced at his patient, and meeting his eager eye, took the roll of bills and the package, and putting them into his breast pocket, remarked, âI will have them placed in the safe deposit vaults to-morrow.â âVery well,â cried the stranger; âthat will be all right, will it not?â he asked, consulting in his turn the man before him. Mr. Hazlitt, as they called him, gave him a short look, smiled again, and said: âYou know best; anything, so that my Lucy gets her five thousand.â The stranger, straightening himself, asked if he could not have more light, at which the nurse brought a candle. Immediately the stranger took a paper from under his cloak and opened it. The nurse held the candle and the stranger began to read: The last will and testament of Abram Hazlitt of Chicago, Cook county, Illinois. First: I direct all my just debts and funeral expenses to be paid. Second: I give, devise, and bequeath toââ âIs your daughterâs name Lucy, and is the sum you wish given her five thousand dollars exact?â asked the stranger, sitting down at the small table near by and taking out a pen from his pocket. âYes,â was the feeble response, âfive thousand dollars to Lucy Ellen, my only and much-beloved child.â The stranger rapidly wrote in the words, adding, âshe lives in Chicago, I suppose.â It was the nurse who answered: âShe is in this hospital, too, sir; but not for any mortal complaint. Time and care will restore her.â The stranger went on reading: I give, devise, and bequeath to my only and much-loved child, Lucy Ellen of Chicago, Cook county, Illinois, the sum of five thousand dollars. Second: I give, devise, and bequeath toââ âDid you say the name was Mary Earle, and that she lived in Hamilton, ââ county, Massachusetts?â he interjected, looking inquiringly at the man whose sagacity he thus trusted. âYes, yes,â was the hurried, almost faint answer. âYou know, you know; go on quickly, for Iâm feeling very weak.â They gave him stimulants, while the stranger rapidly wrote in certain words, which he as rapidly read in what one listener thought to be a much relieved tone. I give, devise, and bequeath to Mary Earle of Hamilton, ââ county, Massachusetts, all my remaining property as found in the package of banknotes deposited in the safe deposit vaults of this city, in payment of an old debt to her father, and as an expression of my regret that my hitherto destitute circumstances have prevented me from sooner recognizing her claims upon me. Third: I appoint Dr. Cusack of the Chicago General Hospital sole executor of this, my last will and testament. Witness my hand this thirteenth day of April in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-two. Signed, published, and declared by the testator to be his last will and testament, in our presence, who at his request and in his presence and in the presence of each other have subscribed our names hereto as witnesses on this thirteenth day of April, 1892. âDoes this paper express your wishes and all your wishes?â asked the stranger pausing. âIs there any change you would like made or is the will as it stands right?â âRight! right!â came in more feeble tones from the fast sinking sufferer. âThen if you will call in another witness, I will submit the paper to him to sign,â said the stranger turning toward the doctor. âAs executor you cannot act as witness.â The doctor turned to the nurse and a momentary consultation passed between them. Then she quietly withdrew, and in a few minutes returned with a man who from his appearance evidently occupied some such position as watchman. The sick man was raised higher in his bed and a pen put in his hand. âMr. Hazlitt is about to sign his will,â explained the stranger; and turning to the sick man, he put the formal question: âIs this paper which I here place before you, your last will and testament? And do you accept these two persons now before you as witnesses to your signing of the same?â A feeble assent followed both these questions, whereupon the stranger put his finger on the place where the dying man was expected to write his name. As he did so a strange sensation seemed to affect every one present, for the men with an involuntary movement all raised their eyes to the ceiling upon which the stooping form of the stranger made such a weird shadow, while the nurse gave evident signs of momentary perturbation, which she as a woman of many experiences would doubtless have found it hard to explain even to herself. A short silence followed, which was presently broken by the scratching of a pen. The patient was writing his name, but how slowly! He seemed to be minutes in doing it. Suddenly he fell back, a smile of perfect peace lighting up his shrunken features. âLucyâs future is assured,â he murmured, and lost or seemed to lose all connection with the scene in which he had just played such an important part. A deep sigh answered him. Whose? It had the sound of relief in it, a great soul-satisfying relief. Had the stranger uttered it? It would seem so, but his manner was too professional to be the cloak of so much emotion, or so it seemed to all eyes but one. The witnessesâ signatures were soon in place, and the stranger rose to go. As he did so his eyes flashed suddenly over his shoulder and rested for an instant on the man who occupied the neighboring cot. The movement was so quick that No. Thirteen had scarcely time to close his eyes undetected. Indeed, some glint of the half-hidden eyeball must have met the strangerâs eye, for he turned quickly and bent over the seemingly unconscious man with a gaze of such intentness that it took all the strength of what had once been called a most obstinate will for the man thus surveyed not to respond to it. Suddenly the stranger thrust his hand out and laid it on the unknown suffererâs heart, and a slight smile crossed his features. âIs there anything I can do for you?â were the words he dropped, cold and stinging, into the apparently deaf ear. But the manâs will was indomitable and an icy silence was the sole answer which the intruder received. âI have still a thousand to give away,â was whispered so close into his face that he felt the hot breath that conveyed it. But even these words fell, or seemed to fall, upon ears of stony deafness, and the stranger rising, moved quietly away, saying as he did so, âThis case here is on the mend. His heart has a very normal beat.â Some few more words were said, and he and his companion were left alone again with the nurse. At three oâclock No. Twelve called feebly for some water; as the nurse returned from giving it to him she felt her dress pulled slightly by a feeble hand. Turning to No. Thirteen she was astonished to see that his eyes were burning with quite an eager light. âI could drink some broth,â said he. âWhy, you are better!â she cried. But he shook his head. âNo,â said he, âbutââ The voice trailed off into a feeble murmur, but the eye continued bright. He was afraid to speak for fear his lips would frame aloud the words that he had been repeating to himself for the last two hours. âMary Earle! Mary Earle, of Hamilton, ââ county, Massachusetts.â He had found the interest which had been lacking to his recovery. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PART II. THE MAN WITH THE DOG. ------- II. HADLEYâS CAVE. ON the first day of June, 1892, there could be seen on the highway near the small village of Hamilton, a dusty wanderer with a long beard and rough, unkempt hair. From the silver streaks in the latter, and from his general appearance and feeble walk, he had already passed the virile point of life and had entered upon, or was about to enter upon, the stage of decrepitude. And yet the eyes which burned beneath the gray and shaggy brows were strangely bright, and had an alertness of expression which contradicted the weary bend of the head and the slow dragging of the rough-shod feet. His dress was that of a farm laborer, and from the smallness of the bundle which he carried on a stick over his shoulder, he had evidently been out of work for some time and was as poor as he was old and helpless. At the junction of the two roads leading to Leadington and Wells, he stopped and drew a long breath. Then he sat down on a huge stone in the cross of the roads and, drooping his head, gazed long and earnestly at the length of dusty road which separated him from the cluster of steeples and house roofs before him. Was he dreaming or planning, or was he merely weary? A sound at his side startled him. Turning his head, he saw a dog. It was a very lean one, and its attitude as it stood gazing into his face with wistful eyes, was one of entreaty. âCome!â it seemed to say, and ran off a few steps. The tramp, for we can call him nothing else, though there was a dash of something like refinement in his look and manner, stared for a moment after the animal, then he slowly rose. But he did not follow the dog. The disappointment of the latter was evident. Coming back to the man, he sniffed and pulled at his clothes, and cast such beseeching looks upward out of his all but human eyes that the man though naturally surly was touched at last and turned in the direction indicated by the dog. âAfter all, why not?â he murmured, and strolled on after his now delighted guide, up one of the roads to a meadow terminating in an abrupt and rocky steep. âWhy am I such a fool?â he asked himself when half way across this stubbly field. But at the short bark of the dog and the irresistible wagging of the animalâs tail, he stumbled on, influenced no doubt by some superstitious feeling which bade him regard the summons of this unusually sagacious beast as an omen he dared not disregard. At the foot of the rocks he, however, paused. Why should he climb them at the bidding of a dog? But his guide was imperative, and pulled at his trousers so energetically that he finally mounted a short distance, when to his surprise he came upon a cave into the entrance of which the dog plunged with a short sharp cry of pleasure and satisfaction. Hesitating to follow, the man stood for a moment gazing back upon the town and the stretch of lovely landscape before him. It was an outlook of great charm, but I doubt if he noticed its beauties. Some thought of an unpleasant and perplexing nature furrowed his brow, and it was with a start that he turned, when the dog, reissuing from the cave, renewed his blandishments, and by dint of bark and whine attempted to draw him into the opening before which he stood. What was in hiding there? Curiosity bade him look, but a certain not unreasonable apprehension deterred him. He finally, however, overcame his fear, if fear it was, and followed the dog, that no sooner saw him start toward the entrance than he gave a leap of delight and bounded into the cave before him. In another moment the man had entered also and was looking around for the helpless or wounded human being whom he evidently expected to find. But no such sight met his eyes. On the contrary, he saw nothing but an empty cave with here and there a sign of the place having been used as a domicile at a recent date. In one corner was a litter of boughs from which the covering had manifestly been roughly torn, and in the ledges overhead were to be seen spikes of wood, upon which utensils had doubtless been hung, for amid the _dÃ©bris_ of broken rock beneath lay an old tin pan with the handle broken off. As there was nothing in this to interest the man he turned and kicked at the inoffensive beast who had lured him out of his path on such a fruitless errand. But the latter instead of resenting this harshness only renewed his previous antics, and finally succeeding by them in re-attracting the manâs attention, led the way to a remote corner of the cave, where the shadows were thickest. Here he stood with his paws raised against the rocky sides, looking up over his head and then back at the man in a way which left no doubt as to his meaning. He wanted the man to climb, and when the man approaching saw the few rocky steps that had been hewn out of the wall, his curiosity was renewed and he lent himself to the effort, old as he was and tired with many a long hour of tramping in the summer sun. Above him he perceived a dark hole, and into this he presently thrust his head, but the darkness which he encountered was so impenetrable that he would have instantly retreated had he not remembered the box of matches which kept guard with an old pipe in a certain pocket of his red flannel shirt. Taking out this box, he struck a match and, as soon as the first dazzling flash was over, perceived that he was in a small but well furnished room, stocked with provisions and containing many articles of domestic use. This so surprised him that he withdrew in some haste, though he would dearly have liked to have made some investigation into the old chest of drawers he saw there, and had one peep at least into the odd, long box which took up so much of the darkened space into which he had intruded. The dog was waiting for him below and at his reappearance leaped and bounded with delight, and then lay down on the floor of the cave with such an inviting wriggle of the tail that the man understood him at last. It was a lodging that the dog offered him, a lodging which had been occupied by a former master, and which the faithful creature still watched over and hungered in, as his appearance amply showed. The man, to whom a human being might have appealed in vain, was grimly touched by this benevolent action on the part of a dog, and stooping quickly, he gave him a short caress, after which he rose and stood hesitating for a moment, casting short glances behind him. But the temptation, if it was such, to remain, did not hold him long, for presently he motioned to the dog to follow him, and issuing from the cave, began his weary tramp toward the town. The dog, with fallen tail and drooping head, trotted slowly after him. And this was the first adventure which met this man in the little town of Hamilton. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ III. THE YOUNG HEIRESS. THAT night five men sat on the porch of the one tavern in Hamilton. Of these, one was the landlord, a spare, caustic New Englander who understood his business and left it to his wife to do the agreeable. Of the remaining four, two were the inevitable loungers to be found around all such places at nightfall, and the other two, wayfarers who had taken up lodgings for the night. The dog lying contentedly at the feet of one of these latter tells us who he was. The talk was on local subjects and included more or less gossip. Who had started it? No one knew; but the least interested person in the group was apparently the man with the dog. He sat and smoked, because it was the hour for sitting and smoking, but he neither talked nor listened,âthat is, to all appearanceâand when he laughed, as he occasionally did, it was more at some unexpected antic on the part of the dog than at anything which was said in his hearing. But he was old and nobody wondered. The last subject under discussion was the engagement of a certain young lady to a New York medical student. âWhich means, I take it, that Dr. Izard will not continue to have full swing here,â observed one of the stragglers. âFolks say as how her people wonât hear of her leaving home. So heâll have to come to Hamilton.â âI shaânât lend him my old body to experiment on, if he does,â spoke up the surly landlord. âDr. Izard is good enough for me.â âAnd for me. But the women folks want a change, they say. The doctor is so everlasting queer; and then heâs away so much.â âThatâs because he is so skilful that even the big bugs in Boston and New York too, I hear, want his opinion on their cases. Heâs not to blame for that. Great honor, I say, not only to him but to all the town.â âGreat honor, no doubt, but mighty inconvenient. Why, when my wifeâs sister was took the other night I run all the way from my house to the doctorâs only to find the door closed and that everlasting placard up at the side: âGone out of town.â I say itâs a shame, I do, and no other doctor to be found within five miles.â âYou ought to live in Boston. There they have doctors enough.â âYet they send for ours.â âDo you know,â another voice spoke up, âthat I had rather go sick till morning, or have one of my folkâs sick, than take that road up by the churchyard after ten oâclock at night. I think itâs the gloomiest, most God-forsaken spot I ever struck in all my life. To think of a doctor living next door to a graveyard. Itâs a trifle too suggestive, I say.â âI wouldnât care about that if he wasnât so like a graveyard himself. I declare his look is like a hollow vault. If he wasnât so smart Iâd âaâ sent for the Wells doctor long ago. I hate long white faces, myself, no matter how handsome they are, and when he touches me with that slender cold hand of his, the shivers go all over me so that he thinks I am struck with a chill. And so I am, but not with a natural one, I vow. If we lived in the olden times and such a man dared come around the death-beds of honest people such as live in this town, heâd have been burnt as a wizard.â âCome, I wonât hear such talk about a neighbor, let alone a man who has more than once saved the lives of all of us. Heâs queer; but who isnât queer? He lives alone, and cooks and sleeps and doctors all in one room, like the miser he undoubtedly is, and wonât have anything to do with chick or child or man or woman who is not sick, unless you except the villageâs _protÃ©gÃ©e_, Polly Earle, whom everybody notices and does for. But all this does not make him wicked or dangerous or uncanny even. That is, to those who used to know him when he was young.â âAnd did you?â âWaâal, I guess I did, and a handsomer man never walked Boston streets, let alone the lanes of this poor village. They used to say in those days that he thought of marrying, but he changed his mind for some reason, and afterward grew into the kind of man you see. Good cause, Iâve no doubt, for it. Men like him donât shut themselves up in a cage for nothing.â âButâââ âDonât let us talk any more about the doctor,â cried the lodger who did not have a dog. âYou spoke of a little girl whom everybody does for. Why is that? The topic ought to be interesting.â The landlord, who had talked more than his wont, frowned and filled his pipe, which had gone out. âAsk them fellers,â he growled; âor get my wife into a corner and ask her. She likes to spin long stories; I donât.â âOh, I donât care about asking anybody,â mumbled the stranger, who was a sallow-faced drummer with a weak eye and a sensual mouth. âI only thoughtâââ âShe isnât for any such as you, if thatâs what you mean,â volunteered the straggler, taking up the burden of the talk. âShe has been looked after by the village because her case was a hard one. She was an only child, and when she was but four her mother died, after a long and curious illness which no one understood, and three days after, her fatherââ The dog yelped. As no one was near him but his master, he must have been hurt by that master, but how, it was impossible to understand, for neither had appeared to move. âWell, well,â cried the sallow young man, âher fatherâââ âDisappeared. He was last seen at his wifeâs funeral; the next day he was not to be found anywhere. That was fourteen years ago, and we know no more now than then what became of him.â âAnd the child?â âWas left without a soul to look after it. But the whole village has taken her in charge and she has never suffered. She has even been educated,âsome say by Dr. Izard, but for this I wonât vouch, for he is a perfect miser in his way of living, and I donât think he would trouble himself to help anybody, even a poor motherless child.â âWell, if he has spent a penny for her in the past, I donât think he will be called upon to spend any in the future. I heard yesterday that she has come into a pretty property, and that, too, in a very suspicious way.â âWhatâs that? You have? Why didnât you tell us so before? When a man has news, I say he ought to impart it, and that without any ifs and ands.â âWell, I thought it would keep,â drawled the speaker, drawing back with an air of importance as all the _habituÃ©s_ of the place pressed upon him, and even Mrs. Husted, the landlady, stepped out of her sitting-room to listen. âWaâal, it wonât,â snarled the landlord. âNews, like baked potatoes, must be eaten hot. Where did you hear this about Polly Earle, and what do you mean by suspicious?â âI mean that this money, and they do say itâs a pretty sum, came to her by will, and that the man who left it was a perfect stranger to her, someone she never heard of before, of that Iâll be bound. He said in his will that he left all this money in payment of an old debt to her father, but thatâs all bosh. Ephraim Earle got all the money that was owing to him two weeks before he vanished out of this town, and I sayâââ âNo matter what you say,â broke in the crabbed landlord. âSheâs had money left her, and now sheâll get a good husband, and make a show in the village. Iâm glad on it, for one. Sheâs sung and danced and made merry on nothing long enough. Let her try a little responsibility now, and return some of the favors she has received.â âDid you hear how much money it was?â timidly asked an old man who had just joined the group. âIt was just the same amount as was paid Ephraim Earle for his invention a few days before we saw the last of him.â âLord-a-mercy!â âAnd whichâââ âNow this is too interesting for anything,â exclaimed a female voice from a window overhead. âTwenty thousand dollars, really? What a romance. I must run and see Polly this minute.â âStop her!â came in guttural command from the landlord to his wife. âAnd why should I stop her?â asked that good woman, with a jolly roll of her head. âInstead of stopping her, I think I will go with her. But do let us hear more about it first. What was the name of the man who left her this splendid fortune?â âAbram Hazlitt. Somebody who lived out west.â From the looks that flew from one to the other and from the doubtful shakes of the head visible on every side, this was, as the speaker had declared, an utterly unknown name. The interest became intense. âI always thought there was something wrong about Ephraimâs disappearance. No man as good as he would have left a child like that of his own free will.â âWhat! do you think this man Hazlitt had anything to doâââ âHush, hush.â The monition came from more than one pair of lips; and even the man with the dog looked up. A young lady was coming down the street. âThere she is now.â âSheâs coming here.â âNo; more likely sheâs on her way to tell the doctor of her good luck.â âLook, she has the same old smile.â âAnd the same dress.â âWaâal sheâs pretty, anyhow.â âAnd such a sunbeam!â Yelp! went the dog again. His master had trod on his tail for the second time. Meanwhile the cause of all this excitement had reached the walk in front of the house. Though she was tripping along in a merry fashion which was all her own, she stopped as she met Mrs. Hustedâs eye, and, calling her down, whispered something in her ear. Then with a backward nod the young girl passed on, and everyone drew a long breath. There was something so satisfactory to them all in her ingenuous manner and simple expression of youthful delight. She was a slight girl, and to those who had seen her every day for the last dozen years she was simply prettier than usual, but to the two or three strangers observing her she was a vision of madcap beauty that for the moment made every other woman previously seen forgotten. Her face, which was heart-shaped and fresh as a newly-opened rose, was flushed with laughter, and the dimples which came and went with every breath so distracted the eye that it was not till she had turned her lovely countenance aside that one remembered the violet hues in her heavily-lashed eyes and the hints of feeling which emanated from them. That, with all the dignities of her new-born heirship upon her, she swung a white sunbonnet on her delicate forefinger was characteristic of the girl. The hair thus revealed to sight was of a glistening chestnut, whose somewhat rumpled curls were deliciously in keeping with the saucy poise of the unquiet head. Altogether a decided gleam of sunshine, made all the more conspicuously bright from the hints just given of the tragic history of her parents and the shadows surrounding the very gift which had called up all this pleasure into her face. âWhat did she say?â whispered more than one voice as the landlady came slowly back. âShe invited me to visit her, and hinted that she had something to tell me,â was the somewhat important reply. âAnd when are you going?â asked one more eager than the rest. âI may go back with her when she returns from Dr. Izardâs,â was the cool and consequential response. Evidently the landlady had been raised in her own estimation by the notice given her by this former little waif. âI wonder,â someone now ventured, âif she is going to buy the big house over the doctorâs office. I noticed that the windows were open to-day.â âPshaw, and her fatherâs house lying idle?â âHer fatherâs house! Good gracious, would you have the child go there?â âYou make the chills run over me.â âNobody would go into that house with her. It hasnât been opened in fourteen years.â âThe more shame,â growled the landlord. âSheâll never have anything to do with that. Iâve seen her run by it myself, as if the very shadow it cast was terrifying to her.â âYet folks thought it was a cozy home when Ephraim took his young wife there. I remember, myself, the brass andirons in the parlor and the long row of books in the big hall upstairs. To think that those books have never been opened these fourteen years, nor the floors trod on, nor the curtains drawn back! I declare, itâs the most creepy thing of the whole affair.â âAnd how do you know that the floor hasnât been walked on, nor the curtains drawn, since we took the child out from her desolate corner in the old bed-room upstairs?â suggested another voice in an odd, mysterious tone. âBecause the doors were locked and the keys put where no one in the town could get at âem. We thought it best; there was death on the walls everywhere, and the child had no money to be brought up in any such a grand way as that.â âFolks as I mean donât need keys,â murmured the other under his breath. But the suggestion, if it were such, was immediately laughed down. âYouâre a fool, Jacob; weâre in the nineteenth century now, the era of electric lights and trolley cars.â âI know; I know; but Iâve seen more than once on a dark night the shifting of a light behind those drawn curtains, and onceâââ But the laughter was against him and he desisted, and another man spoke upâthe lodger with the sallow face: âWhy didnât they sell the old place if the child was left as poor as you say?â âWhy, man, its owner might be living. Ephraim Earle only disappeared, you know, and might have returned any day. Leastwise that is what we thought then. Now, we no longer expect it. I wonder whoâll act as her guardian.â âSheâs of age; she donât need no guardian.â âWell, itâs a precious mystery, the whole thing. I wonder if the police wonât see something in it?â âBah, police! They had the chance at the thing fourteen years ago. And what did they do with it? Nothing.â âBut now thereâs a clue. This man Hazlitt knew what became of Ephraim Earle, or why did he leave that very same amount to his daughter?â âLorâ knows. Sheâs a taking minx and perhapsâââ âWell, perhapsâââ âHazlitt wasnât his name, donât you see?â This new theory started fresh talk and much excited reasoning, but as it was of the most ignorant sort, it is scarcely worth our while to record it. Meanwhile the twilight gave way to darkness and Polly Earle failed to reappear. When it was quite dark, the stragglers separated, and then it was seen that the man with the dog had fallen asleep in his chair. Someone strove to wake him. âCome, come, friend,â said he; âyouâll be getting the rheumatiz if you donât look out. This isnât the right kind of air to sleep in.â The old wayfarer yawned, opened his strange, uneasy eyes, and hobbling to his feet looked lazily up and down the street. âWhat time is it?â he asked. âNine oâclock,â shouted someone. âGive me a drink, then, and I and my dog will take a walk.â And he drew out a worn wallet, from which he drew a dime, which he handed in through the open window to the now busy landlord. âHot,â he croaked, âIâve got chilly sitting out here in the dew.â The glass was handed him, and he drank it off with the ease of an accustomed hand. âIâll be back before you lock up,â said he, and stepped down into the street, followed by the dog. âSeems to me Iâve seen that dog before,â remarked someone. âWhy, donât you know him? Thatâs old Piper, the dead hermitâs dog. I wonder how this fellow got hold of him.â ------------------------------------------------------------------------ IV. DR. IZARD. THE tramp, who was, as you have seen, not without some small means to make himself respected, paused for a moment in front of the tavern before
{'title': 'Doctor Izard by Anna Katharine Green', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}