One morning about three months later, my butler, footman, valet-de-chambre, chauffeur, and general supervisor, McAndrew, thrust his head round the dining-room door as I sat at breakfast and announced:
"There's a wee body in the hall."
I have known McAndrew for seven years now, and I understand his vernacular. We met in that great rendezvous of all time, the Western Front, on a day when I took command of a Field Ambulance in which McAndrew was functioning as a stretcher-bearer. When our unit was demobilized in Nineteen Nineteen, McAndrew came before me and announced that he had relinquished all intention of resuming his former profession of "jiner" in his native Dumbarton, and desired henceforth to serve me in the capacity mentioned above for the joint term of our natural lives. I took him on, and he does very well. He has his own ideas about how to wait at table, and his methods with unauthenticated callers are apt to be arbitrary; but he is clean and honest, and—well, he wears a vertical gold stripe on his left sleeve and three ribbons just above his watch-pocket. That is enough for me.
As I say, his vernacular now contains no mysteries for me. So when he made the alarming announcement just mentioned I realized at once that no case of infant mortality had occurred on my premises, but that a person of small stature desired an interview.
"Man or woman?" I asked.
"A lassie."
"A patient?"
"I couldna say: she wouldna tell me," replied McAndrew, not without bitterness.
"Bring her in," I said. Forthwith the Ancient Mariner was ushered into my presence.
"Grampa's in bed with one of his legs again," she announced.
I forbore to ask an obvious and fatuous question, and nodded.
"Dr. Wiseman used to attend him," continued my visitor; "but he didn't charge him very much—next to nothink, almost," she added, with a shade of anxiety.
"Is your grandfather insured, or on any club?" I asked. "If so, the panel doctor—"
"No, he isn't insured, or anything. He's a gentleman. He has a liberry."
Toujours the Liberry! "Where does he live?" I inquired.
"Twenty-One, The Common. When can you come?"
"Eleven o'clock."
"All right. Don't be earlier than that: I have the room to straighten."
The Home of The Oracle proved to be one of a row—something between a villa and a cottage. The door was opened by my sharp-featured little friend.
"Walk in," she said—"and wipe your boots."
Mr. Baxter was in bed in the front parlour. As I had suspected, he had both legs with him—but one of these was inflamed and swollen.
"I always bring him in here when he's poorly," explained the granddaughter (whose name I discovered later to be Ada Weeks), "because he likes to be with his old books." She favoured her patient with an affectionate glare. "He's half silly about them."
I attended to the invalid's immediate wants, and then overhauled him generally. He was not what an insurance agent would have termed "a good life." After that, I was introduced to the library, which occupied the wall opposite to the bed. It consisted of a couple of mahogany bookcases, of solid Victorian workmanship, with locked glass doors lined with faded green silk. Ada Weeks produced a key from under her grandfather's pillow and unlocked one of the doors, revealing the books. They were all neatly covered in brown paper. There were no titles on the backs, but each book bore a number, in sprawling, irregular figures.
"There, sir!" announced my patient, with simple pride. "There you behold the accumulated wealth of a man who is just as wealthy as he wishes to be!"
"Rats!" remarked a sharp voice from the recesses of the library; but the old gentleman appeared not to hear.
"It dates from the lamented death of the late Archdeacon. There are a hundred and seventy-nine volumes in all. The little Southey is the last arrival. Show it to us, Ada."
Miss Weeks extracted Volume One Hundred and Seventy-Nine from the lowest shelf, and handed it to the old man. He turned over the pages lovingly.
"Here is the passage which made us acquainted, sir," he said. "A delightful thing." He produced spectacles from somewhere in the bed, adjusted them, and read:
"My days among the Dead are passed:
Around me I behold
(Where'er these casual eyes are cast)
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom—With whom—"
He faltered.
"'With whom I converse day by day,'" said Ada Weeks in a matter-of-fact voice. "Don't strain your eyes."
"You are right, my dear," admitted Mr. Baxter, laying down the book. "The type is somewhat small. But this little poem is strangely suggestive of my own condition. It is called 'The Scholar'—just about an old man living in the past among his books. I have read it to myself many a time since last I saw you, sir. Put it back, Ada; and show the Doctor an older friend. Something out of the late Archdeacon's library—say Number Fourteen."
Miss Ada pulled down the volume indicated, blew viciously upon the top edges, and handed it to me. It proved to be part of an almost obsolete Encyclopædia.
"A useful little compendium of knowledge," was Mr. Baxter's comment. "Unfortunately, I have not the set complete—only eight volumes. They go as far as Pocahontas. There are four more, really."
"Prairie Oyster to Zymotic," confirmed the ever-ready Miss Weeks.
"Precisely. You would be surprised at the number of my callers who desire information on matters that come between Prairie Oyster and Zymotic!" The old gentleman sighed. "But where their requirements are limited to the earlier letters of the alphabet, I can usually find a passage which both interests and enlightens them." He glanced at the number on the back of the book. "This is the first volume of the set—A—Byzantium. Many a hungry soul have I fed from it." He turned over the pages. "Addison—Algebra—Archæology—Adenoids— That reminds me, a neighbour is coming in to consult me about adenoids this afternoon. A mother—a woman in quite humble circumstances. I must look up adenoids."
"Isn't that rather trespassing on my department?" I asked.
"Oh, dear! no, sir. All I shall do will be to find the passage relating to adenoids, and read it aloud to Mrs. Caddick."
"Mrs. Caddick? I am treating a child of hers for adenoids at present."
"Quite so, sir. And Mrs. Caddick naturally wishes to know what they are. I shall read aloud to her the scientific definition of the ailment. It is surprising what a comfort that will be to her. Poor soul, she's almost illiterate; and the printed word is a sacred mystery to such!"
"You are an authority on human nature, Mr. Baxter, I perceive."
"You are kind to say so, sir. But I was a mere disciple of the late Archdeacon. It's a strange thing, human nature," he continued pensively. "I have studied it all my life. My recreation is to help it—and it needs all the help it can get. I am at home every evening, and folk look in quite regularly to ask for my guidance on some literary, historical, or scientific point of interest. 'Consulting The Oracle,' they are kind enough to call it. Such visits enable me to gratify at once my hobby and my vanity!" He smiled.
"You have one or two bulky-looking volumes up there," I said, approaching the bookcase and inspecting the top shelf. "Who is this big fellow—Number Eighty-Seven?"
I half raised my hand; but in a flash Ada Weeks was before me.
"It's Shakespeare," she announced, snatching the volume down and holding it to her flat little bosom. "Presentation!"
"Ada is always a little jealous about letting the presentation volumes out of her hands," explained Mr. Baxter, from the bed. "That book was conferred upon me as a small token of esteem by a certain literary circle in London in which I was interested before I came here, many years ago. Bring it to me, my dear."
Ada Weeks, with a sidelong and defiant glance in my direction, handed the great book to the old man. He opened it at random, and began to read aloud.
"This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,—"
He broke off, and smiled.
"You see I do not need glasses," he said, "for such a passage as that! I almost know it by heart, although I never possessed the Archdeacon's astonishing facility in that direction. He was accustomed to commit a passage to memory every day. Put it back, Ada, dear."
Miss Weeks restored the volume to the case, closed the door, turned the key, and faced me with the air of a small but determined hen which has safely shut her chickens into the coop in the very face of an ill-disposed but inexperienced young fox. I took up my hat.
"Good-bye, Mr. Baxter," I said. "I shall come and see you to-morrow. Don't let your disciples overtire you."
The old man flushed. "I thank you for that flattering word, sir," he said.
Halfway down the street I realized that I had forgotten my stethoscope. Accordingly, I retraced my steps.
I found the front door open. I might have walked in without ceremony; but, inspired by a very proper fear of Miss Ada Weeks, I tapped respectfully and waited. There was no response. Presently I became aware of voices proceeding from the front parlour, the door of which stood wide open just inside the passage. This is what I heard.
"Adenitis, and Adenoid Growths—that's the nearest I can find. Which do you want?"
"I think Adenoid Growths, my dear. Read it through once, as usual; then again line by line."
"All right. Pay attention, mind!" said Miss Weeks sharply, and began:
"Adenoid Growths of the lym—lymphatic tissues of the upper throat occur chiefly in children from four to fourteen. Yes, that's right: Johnny Caddick is eight. The child breathes through the mouth—Where do they expect him to breathe through? His ear?—suffers from Nasal Cat—cat something; we'll call it cater—from Nasal Cater. I wonder how people can write such words, let alone read them!"
"To me," said the gentle voice of the old man, "it seems wonderful that they should be able to do either."
"Listen again," commanded Miss Weeks, oblivious of a resounding knock from me.
"—Nasal Cater, and slight deafness; and is stupid and sluggish— This book takes off Johnny Caddick to the life, and no mistake! I wonder what his mother will say—with a cha-rac-ter-is-tic—oh, crumbs!—facial expression. Cure is effected by a simple operation of removal. Does that mean his face? A good job if it does! That's all. Now I'll learn you it. Adenoid Growths—"
"Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths—"
"Of the lymphatic tissues—"
"Of the lymphatic tissues—"
I recollected that I had a spare stethoscope at home, and tiptoed down the steps.