THE wanderer, of whose name even the landlord at the tavern seemed uncertain, passed some curious days after this. Upon the plea of wanting work, he visited house after house in the village, staying in each one as long as he was made welcome. Though no talker, he seemed to like to have talk going on around him, and if he sometimes went to sleep over it, he was forgiven by the simple and credulous inhabitants on account of his old age and seeming decrepitude. In one house he was given breakfast, in another dinner, but in none did he find work, though he assured everybody that he was very good in the field, notwithstanding the unfortunate curvature of his back.

It was not an uncommon thing in Hamilton for men to pass from house to house in this way, and he was little noted, but if anyone had been curious enough to watch his eye they would have observed that it had a remarkably penetrating power, and that but little escaped its notice. Another thing that would also have been noticed was the curious look of recognition which would suddenly creep into his eyes, as if he saw some of these things for the second time; and if anyone had walked near enough to him to listen as well as watch, he would have heard a name drop from his lips now and then as he walked up the phlox-bordered walk of some humble garden, or stopped at the back door of one of the more pretentious mansions on the main street.

Another thing: When he had done this, when he had uttered in his odd, musing way, at the threshold of a house, the name of Fisher, Hutton, Brown, Unwin, or what not, he invariably managed in some way, either slyly or by bold question, to ascertain if this name really belonged to the family then residing there. If it did, he nodded his head complacently. If it did not, he frowned as if disappointed in his memory or whatever it was that had played him false.

At one place he showed conclusively that he had been in the house before, though no one seemed keen enough to detect the fact. He was passing down a hall, when he turned to the right and came plumb up against a wall. This was where there had formerly been a door of egress, but a change which had been made some ten years back in the inner arrangement of the house had placed it farther on, and his face showed surprise when he noted it, though the expression was speedily suppressed. Again at the Fishers’ he was very careful to sit in the deep shadow, and though he eagerly drank in all that was said, he himself made no remark after his first appeal for work. The Fishers were old neighbors of the Earles, and it was with them that Polly was living.

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.

“I wonder who put up this monument,” he muttered, and shuddered slightly as he recalled the chilliness of the stone against which he had pressed his breast the night before. But the emotion was but transitory, and he was soon surveying the small square window through whose panes the one light had shone on the previous night. It was near the office door, and was surrounded, as he had so gratefully experienced at that time, by a thick-leaved trumpet-vine, whose long and swaying branches recalled to him the anxious moment when the doctor had stepped to the door, drawn by some sound he had made in his curiosity and interest. Just now a curtain hung before the window, sure sign that the doctor was within; but he did not heed this, possibly because he did not understand the signal, and remained where he was, musing on the past, till the steps of some advancing visitor advised him that he might better indulge his thoughtful mood in a less conspicuous place, and in a solitude not so likely to be invaded by curious eyes.

The dog which had joined him at his first appearance in town continued to be his constant companion. All day this faithful animal followed him, and when night came, they went together into the small attic chamber which was the only room in the house he could afford to pay for. But one journey which the man took was not shared by the dog. It took place at midnight and in the following mysterious way:

He had noticed by a minute inspection of the roof stretching below his one small window that by a few daring steps down the first incline one might reach a ledge from which descent to the ground would be easy. It was a path which might be taken with safety by a young man or a still vigorous middle-aged man. But would it be a feasible one for him? He seemed to decide in the affirmative, for in the small wee hours of the night he rose from his bed, and quieting his ready dog, dressed himself, and took another long survey from the window. Then he proceeded to open the bundle he had brought into town, taking from it a small object, which he hid in the breast of his coat. Then he thrust a box of matches into the pocket of his shirt, and ignoring his hat, which hung on a nail in one corner, he began his daring descent. Throwing one leg out of the window and clinging to the narrow jamb, he whirled himself about, and developing some of the instincts of the cat, soon reached the ledge in safety. Instantly his form, which had hitherto been so bent as to present almost the appearance of deformity, straightened itself until his whole person betrayed an agility and precision surprising to behold in any man past the first flush of youth.

To pass from the eaves to the shed and thence to the ground was the work of a moment. The crooked branch of an old apple-tree which grew near the house, was of decided use to him and enabled him to make his risky descent with comparatively no noise. When he was on the ground, he stopped and listened, then wheeling rapidly about, proceeded to walk up the street.

The night was dark and threatened storm. Everywhere there was a sound of swishing boughs and rattling panes which served to deaden the noise of his tread on the pavement, but he seemed so anxious not to attract attention even in the darkness and solitude of this midnight hour that he stepped into the grass that bordered the road, and even took off his shoes that no echo might follow his movements.

The course he took led him in an entirely different direction from any he had traversed during the day. As soon as he reached the point where the court house stands, he turned east and went up Carberry hill. As there are but two or three houses on this slope, his destination became speedily apparent. On the brow of the hill where the wind blows strongest, stands the old Earle cottage, with its windows closed to every eye and its untrod doorstep hidden amid weeds that had choked up the entrance for many a year. In the daylight it had an utterly lonesome and deserted look, but at night, especially when the moon was hidden and the winds blew, it possessed a forbidding, almost an ominous look, which would have deterred anyone whose errand was less pressing than that of our midnight wanderer, from approaching, much less examining a spot so given over to solitude. A row of stunted oak trees shielded the house on one side, and marked off the limits of the deserted garden, where burdock and thistles grew instead of the homely vegetables and old-fashioned flowers of years ago. To-night all these trees were bending one way in the sharp gale, their whistling leaves and the pat, pat of the long limbs against the clap-boards of the house adding to the lugubriousness of the scene.

But to the man who stood in the long grass at the rear of this disused dwelling there was nothing in the hour or place to arouse dread or awaken apprehension. He studied the house, but not with the eyes of a dreamer, and when he finally made up his mind to approach the rear door it was with determination in his face and a certain calculation in his movement which proved that he was there with a definite purpose.

One pull at the door evidently satisfied him of the uselessness of endeavoring to enter by force, for he left the spot at once, and began climbing a small shed near by. Reversing the plan he had followed at the tavern, he succeeded in climbing from ledge to ledge, until he reached a certain window which he ruthlessly smashed in. In less time than one would think, he had effected entrance into the house at the very place where there was least likelihood of the attempt being discovered, namely, under the shadow of one of those swishing trees whose branches brushed so close against the wall that a spray of leaves immediately thrust itself into the opening after him, covering up his passage with unnecessary haste, considering that there were no watchers within half a mile or more.

The place in which he found himself on dropping to the floor was so close and dark that he involuntarily opened out his arms to grope his way. But fearing broken floors and open staircases, he presently stopped and drew out the small object he had hidden in his breast, and which proved to be a pocket lantern. Lighting this, he looked around him and drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He was in a small attic room whose unfinished beams were so overlaid with cobwebs that he involuntarily ducked his head, though he was in but little danger of thrusting it against these noisome objects. A bed covered with a patched quilt was within reach of one hand, and on the other side was a chest of drawers with the articles necessary for making an humble toilet still on it, but so covered by the dust and cobwebs of years that he choked as he looked at it, and hesitated to set down his lantern on it.

Finally he compromised matters by placing it on an old chair; after which he took out a small blank book and began to jot down notes of what he saw. When finished with this room, he passed into another and so on into the more roomy living chambers in front. Here he paused and took a deeper breath, though the air was still stifling and musty.

An opening, square in shape, occupied the middle of this upper floor, from which branched off the three sleeping rooms of this simple but not uncomfortable cottage. In the square were books, many of which this strange intruder took from the shelves and rapidly glanced over. Then he opened the small drawers at the bottom of the shelves, examining the trinkets and knick-knacks thus disclosed, with an eye rapidly brightening into an expression of mingled hope and determination. The pictures on the wall were few, but he apparently saw them all, nor did he pass the decayed fringes of the window curtains without touching them and noting their faded colors. When all that was to be seen in this small place was carefully remarked, the man crossed the threshold of the right-hand door and entered the large west chamber.

Something,—was it the atmosphere of the place, or some train of recollections awakened by the objects about him?—seemed to subdue him at this point, and he paused for a moment with his head fallen on his breast. Then he raised it again, and with even more resolution than before began to survey the mildewed walls and faded furniture, with an eye that missed nothing, from the great four-poster to the mould-covered bellows at the side of the open fireplace. It had been Mrs. Earle’s bed-room, and had witnessed the birth of Polly and the long and mysterious illness which had terminated in the death of the mother. Here Ephraim Earle had lavished kisses on his babe and laid his icy hand over the scarcely colder lids of his dead wife. Here had he experienced his keenest joys and here had he suffered his greatest sorrows. The room seemed alive with them yet, and from every corner stared mementos of the past which were all the more eloquent and impressive that no foreign hand had touched them since their owner had passed away from their midst a dozen years before. Even the candle which had lighted her last gasp remained where it had been left on a little table in one corner; and beside it was a book from which the finger seemed to have been just withdrawn, though the dust that covered it lay thick on its browned cover, and the mark which issued from one end of its discolored leaves had lost its pristine hue and had faded to a tint almost beyond recognition. The stranger stopped before this book and seemed to be tempted to take it up, but refrained from doing so, as he had already refrained from meddling with many another object lying on the high cupboards and the tall mantel-shelf. But before the sticks in the fireplace he showed no such hesitation. He turned them and twirled them, and examined the ashes in which they had lain, and finally, seeing the end of a piece of paper, he drew it out. It was the fragment of a letter, worthless probably and of no especial interest in itself, but he seemed to regard it as a treasure, and after looking at it for a minute, he thrust it into his pocket.

There were a few articles of apparel hanging in the press at the foot of the bed, and these he looked carefully over. Some of them were men’s clothes, and these he handled with a lingering touch, smiling grimly as he did so. He even took down a coat, and after a moment’s thought put it on, and surveyed himself thus accoutered in the film-covered mirror at the other end of the room. But the latter was too clouded to make a good reflection, and pleased to see that the sleeves came naturally to the wrist, though the buttons failed to fasten over the chest, he muttered stealthily as he drew the garment off, “One’s arms do not lengthen with age, though the body often grows larger. A very good test indeed!”

There was a chest under the bed, and this he drew out, though with some evident misgivings and many a sly look at the worm-eaten carpet over which he had been obliged to drag it. The lock had been fastened, but he opened it with the crooked nail he drew from his pocket; and plunging into the trunk, pulled out one article after another, muttering in an indescribable tone as he handled each:

“My wife’s wedding dress! The locket and chain I gave her! The cashmere shawl she always called her best! The lace folderols Aunt Milicent used to wear, and Grandpa Hallam’s gown in which he died when he was struck with apoplexy while preaching in Brother Burton’s pulpit in Charlestown. A collection of keepsakes all remembered by me, even to this old spectacle case which must have been her grandmother’s.”

Putting the things all back in the exact order in which he found them, he relocked the trunk and thrust it carefully back into its old place. But before leaving the room he stood for several minutes in the doorway, and let, or seemed to let, the full aspect of the place sink into his consciousness, after which with a half-frightened look at the floor, as if he feared he had left the print of his feet behind him, he stepped again to the hall, and so into a small room adjoining.

Here he remained longer than in the one he had just left; for it had been Mr. Earle’s workroom and it was full of reminiscences of his old labors. To enumerate the various objects which this strange intruder examined would occupy us too long and needlessly encumber this narrative. Enough that he gave the place the same minute inspection he had accorded to every other spot he had previously entered, and by force of vivid imagination or a faithful remembrance seemed to live for a short half-hour in a past of hopeful work and mechanical triumphs. There was an inventor’s model in one corner, and to this he gave his closest attention. Though he laid no finger upon it, fearful perhaps of leaving some trace of his presence behind him, he studied its parts with a glistening eye and half-sarcastic smile, saying, as he turned away at last:

“This is where the art of making explosives stood in ’63. We have got further than that now.”

There was a secretary in this room and before it he spent most of the remaining time. Some old letters which he found there engrossed him completely, and from one small drawer he took an object that interested him so much he failed to replace it on leaving the room. It was the faded miniature of a pale young mother and a blue-eyed babe. The mother had the look of the Lawrence family, and the child the promise of that saucy and irresponsible loveliness he had seen the day before in the new-made heiress, Polly Earle. This was not all he carried away. After he had finished the letters, he sat a long time musing with knitted brows and rigid hands, then he examined the desk, and sounding it, listened with accustomed ear to the echo made by his knuckles on the various partitions.

Suddenly he stopped, and leaning over a certain receptacle, from which he had drawn a small drawer, he tapped again, and seeming to be satisfied with the result, began to manipulate the place with his penknife till the false bottom came out and he found in the shallow space thus disclosed a small box which he eagerly pulled out, opened, and examined. What it held I do not know, but whatever it was, he thrust it with a triumphant look into his breast, and then repairing the mischief he had done, first closed the drawers and then the desk, shaking visibly as he did so, perhaps with something of the feeling of a thief, though his face had none of the aspects of one, and his step when he moved away had a resolution in it that added height to his stature, which since he had allowed himself to walk upright was imposing.

In another moment he had carried the lantern from the room, and the sleep of years had descended again upon its dark and silent precincts.