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DOCTOR IZARD
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WORKS BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.
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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
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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 WAKEHAM’S MONEY. 16mo, paper, 50 $1 00
cents; cloth
MARKED “PERSONAL.” 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
RISIFI’S DAUGHTER. A DRAMA. 16mo, cloth $1 00
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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: “MERCIFUL HEAVENS, WAS THAT THE DOCTOR?”—SEE PAGE 228.]
DOCTOR IZARD
by
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
(Mrs. Charles Rohlfs)
Author of “The Leavenworth Case,” “Marked ‘Personal,’”
“The Doctor, His Wife, and the Clock,” etc., etc.
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G. P. Putnam’S 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 Stationer’s Hall, London
All Rights Reserved
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO MY FRIEND
JOSEPH FRANCIS DALY
A. K. G. R.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
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PAGE
NO. THIRTEEN, WARD THIRTEEN 1
HADLEY’S 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. IZARD’S LAST DAY IN HAMILTON 251
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DOCTOR IZARD.
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PART I.
A MIDNIGHT VISITANT.
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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 man’s 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
something—he never knew what—made 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.
“Is No. Twelve asleep?” 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.
“I am afraid we shall have to wake him,” pursued the attendant
physician. “This 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?”
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, “Is this man as low as
he looks? Is he dying, too?”
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:
“Are you sure this man is asleep?”
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:
“I have not seen him move since eight o’clock; 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.”
The “humph” 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:
“This is a hopeless case, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long a time do you give him?”
The tone was professional, though not entirely unsympathetic.
“Dr. Sweet says a week; I say three days.”
The stranger bent over the patient, and it was at this point that the
watcher’s eyes opened.
“Three days is nearer the mark,” the visitor at last declared.
At which the attending physician bowed.
“I should be glad to have a few moments’ conversation with your
patient,” the stranger now pursued. “If he is unhappy, I think I can
bring him comfort. He has relatives, you say.”
“Yes, a daughter, over whose helpless position he constantly grieves.”
“He is poor, then?”
“Very.”
“Good! I have pleasant news for him. Will you allow me to rouse him?”
“Certainly, if you have a communication justifying the slight shock.”
The stranger, whose head had sunk upon his breast, cast a keen look
around. “I beg your pardon,” said he, “but I must speak to the man
alone; he himself would choose it, but neither you nor the nurse need
leave the room.”
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: “Your
little daughter sends her love.”
Opening his eyes a trifle, he saw the stranger bending over the other’s
pillow. A sigh which was not new to his ears rose from his dying
companion, at sound of which the stranger added softly:
“You 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?”
A low cry, then a sudden feeble move, and No. Twelve was speaking in
hurried, startled words:
“Who are you, sir? What do you want with me, and what are you saying
about my child? I don’t know you.”
“No? 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 am—” He whispered a name into the sick man’s ear
which his companion could not catch. “That is our secret,” he added,
“and one which I charge you to preserve.”
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.
“O sir,” came from the pale and working lips, as he tried to raise a
feeble hand. “You 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?”
“No claim,” came in the stranger’s calm but impressive tones. “It 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,” he
hastened to add, as the man’s face showed doubt.
“What—what is it?” faltered from the sick man’s lips in mingled doubt
and hope. “What can a poor and wretched being, doomed to speedy death,
do for a man like you? I fear you are mocking me, sir.”
“You can be the medium—” the words came slowly and with some
hesitation—“for the payment of a debt I dare not liquidate in my own
person. I owe someone—a large amount—of money. If I give it to you—” (he
leaned closer and spoke lower, but the ears that were listening were
very sharp, and not a syllable was lost) “will you give it to the person
whom I will name?”
“But how? When? I am dying, they say, and——”
“Do 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?”
“Five thousand dollars? O sir, do not mislead a dying man. Five thousand
dollars? Why, it would be a fortune to Lucy!”
“A fortune that she shall have,” the other assured him.
“Just for signing my name?”
“Just 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.”
“It seems right. I do not see anything wrong in it,” murmured the dying
father in a voice that had strangely strengthened. “Will you assure me
that it is all right, and that no one will suffer by my action?”
“Did I not tell you who I was?” asked the stranger, “and 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.”
“But why this secrecy? Why do you come to me instead of paying the debt
yourself? Is she——”
“She is who she is,” was the somewhat stern interruption. “You 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?”
“I—I want to do it, sir. Five thousand dollars! Let me feel of the bills
that represent so much.”
There was a movement, and the sick and feeble voice rose again in a tone
of ecstatic delight. “And 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.”
“Then you consent?” cried the stranger, with a thrill of some strong
feeling in his voice.
“I do, sir, and thank you; only you must be quick, for there is no
knowing how soon the end may come.” 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.
“You will say nothing of our compact,” he enjoined in a final whisper,
as the two summoned ones approached. “Nor will you express surprise at
the wording of the will or, indeed, at anything I may say.”
“No,” came in an almost undistinguishable murmur, and then there was
silence, till the doctor and the nurse were within hearing, when the
stranger said:
“Our 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.”
The amazement in the nurse’s 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.
“Mr. Hazlitt’s property,” continued the stranger in a low and mechanical
tone, “consists entirely of money. Is that not so?” he asked, smiling
upon the dazed but yet strangely happy face of the patient lying before
him. “Namely, 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,” and
he turned to the doctor, “to take charge of these valuables, and see
that they are forthcoming at the proper time?”
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, “I will have them placed in the safe deposit vaults
to-morrow.”
“Very well,” cried the stranger; “that will be all right, will it not?”
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: “You know best; anything, so that my Lucy gets her five
thousand.”
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 to——
“Is your daughter’s name Lucy, and is the sum you wish given her five
thousand dollars exact?” asked the stranger, sitting down at the small
table near by and taking out a pen from his pocket.
“Yes,” was the feeble response, “five thousand dollars to Lucy Ellen, my
only and much-beloved child.”
The stranger rapidly wrote in the words, adding, “she lives in Chicago,
I suppose.”
It was the nurse who answered:
“She is in this hospital, too, sir; but not for any mortal complaint.
Time and care will restore her.”
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 to——
“Did you say the name was Mary Earle, and that she lived in Hamilton, ——
county, Massachusetts?” he interjected, looking inquiringly at the man
whose sagacity he thus trusted.
“Yes, yes,” was the hurried, almost faint answer. “You know, you know;
go on quickly, for I’m feeling very weak.”
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, —— 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.
“Does this paper express your wishes and all your wishes?” asked the
stranger pausing. “Is there any change you would like made or is the
will as it stands right?”
“Right! right!” came in more feeble tones from the fast sinking
sufferer.
“Then if you will call in another witness, I will submit the paper to
him to sign,” said the stranger turning toward the doctor. “As executor
you cannot act as witness.”
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.
“Mr. Hazlitt is about to sign his will,” explained the stranger; and
turning to the sick man, he put the formal question: “Is 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?”
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.
“Lucy’s future is assured,” 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 witnesses’ 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 stranger’s 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
sufferer’s heart, and a slight smile crossed his features.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” were the words he dropped, cold
and stinging, into the apparently deaf ear.
But the man’s will was indomitable and an icy silence was the sole
answer which the intruder received.
“I have still a thousand to give away,” 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, “This case here is on the mend. His heart has a very normal beat.”
Some few more words were said, and he and his companion were left alone
again with the nurse.
At three o’clock 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.
“I could drink some broth,” said he.
“Why, you are better!” she cried.
But he shook his head. “No,” said he, “but—” 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. “Mary Earle! Mary Earle, of Hamilton,
—— county, Massachusetts.”
He had found the interest which had been lacking to his recovery.
------------------------------------------------------------------------