"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?"