In the afternoon he found himself at the eastern end of the town near the church. As he noticed the venerable building he seemed to call to mind his experiences of the night before, for he glanced eagerly toward the cemetery, and finally turned his steps in that direction, saying quietly to himself, “Let’s see how it looks by daylight.”
The street, which takes a sharp turn at this point, was headed by the stately house whose dim columns and embowering trees had so struck the wanderer’s attention the night before. Seen by daylight it was less mysterious in appearance but fully as imposing, though there were signs of neglect on its painted front and solitary balconies, which spoke of long disuse as a dwelling. It had the name of Izard engraved on the tarnished door-plate.
“Let me see,” mused the tramp, leaning upon one of the old-fashioned gate-posts guarding the entrance, “I should remember how the house looks inside; I was here to a ball once when we were all young folks together. It was a fine old dwelling then, and Mrs. Izard, who always said she could remember Martha Washington, looked like a queen in it.” Lifting his head, he glanced up at the pillared front. “There was a large double drawing-room on this side,” he murmured, “with a big-figured carpet on the floor and panelled paper on the walls. I think I could remember the very tints if I tried, for I sat that night for full ten minutes staring at it, while Lillie Unwin chattered nonsense in my ear, and—” the rest was lost in his long, dishevelled beard, which was much too gray to be worn by any contemporary of Dr. Izard.
“On the left,” he presently proceeded, “was the library, with one or two windows looking out upon the cemetery, which was then a respectable distance off; and down the hall, which was wide enough to dance a Virginia reel in, there hung a map of the Holy Land, with one corner torn off. I wonder if it is hanging there still, and if I can remember which corner was lacking.” He mused a minute with a sour smile. “Something must be pardoned in one who has been gone fourteen years,” he murmured. “I cannot remember whether it was the left or the right-hand corner.” Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head again on the post, while short, broken sentences issued by fits and starts from amid his beard as he brooded over the past.
“Under the big front staircase,—I remember it well,—there was a smaller circular one, which went down to a certain green door: the same one I noticed in the doctor’s office, though there was no office then,—only a rectangular porch. He must have had the office built in since I left the town, for he used to see his patients in the library. Now, how did that porch look? It was broad and low, and raised but a step or two above the ground. There were two pillars in the opening toward the graveyard, similar to the big columns in front, but smaller and set further apart. At one end was a wooden seat built in the wood-work, and at the other a green door, the same as that seen in the doctor’s room now. Will these details answer for one recollection? I think they will. And now for a glimpse of that shaft.”
Lifting his head from the gate-post, he picked his way through the tangled weeds to the little gate on the highway which led directly to the doctor’s office. Entering, he approached the tombstone against which he had leaned the night before, and heedless of passers-by, took up his stand before it and began reading the inscription.
SACRED
TO THE MEMORY
OF
HULDAH EARLE.