At the Municipal luncheon which followed the inauguration of Crake
Hall, one chair was vacant; the Mayor, in his opening remarks,
referring sympathetically to the fact. Mr. Baxter, to whom had
fallen the honour of reading the Address of Welcome to their
distinguished guest that morning, had found the strain of the
proceedings rather too great for his advanced years, and had
reluctantly begged to be excused from participating further in the
ceremonies of the day. In short, Mr. Baxter, his task completed, had
gone home to bed. Later in the proceedings the Lord Lieutenant also
alluded to the matter. His Lordship was a statesman of somewhat
limited ideas, and it is just possible that he was grateful to have
had a topic suggested to him. So he spoke quite feelingly of the
empty chair--the chair which was to have been occupied by "our
eminent fellow-citizen, Mr.--er--Buxton." It was a cheering and
reassuring sign, he continued, of our national and civic solidity of
character and sense of proportion that Broxborough, where to the
unseeing eye of the outside world nothing seemed to matter save
linoleum, should yet be able, amid its manifold industrial
activities, to produce a man--a man in quite humble circumstances--to
whom Linoleum was nothing and Letters everything. Napoleon had
called us a nation of shopkeepers; but so long as a commercial
community like Broxborough could go on breeding homespun scholars
like Mr.--ah--Dexter, we as a nation could continue to give the lie
to Napoleon. (Loud and prolonged applause.)
Meanwhile the recipient of these testimonials lay a-dying in his own
front parlour. Ada Weeks had put him straight to bed there on his
return, utterly exhausted, from the Inauguration. All his frail
physical powers had been concentrated for three days on making
himself word-perfect in the Address--which he had delivered, by the
way, flawlessly. Now reaction had come. An hour later, more nearly
frightened than I had ever seen her, Ada fetched me.
My patient had just asked me, faintly but fearlessly, one of the last
questions that mortal man can ask; and I had given him his answer.
"I am quite ready," he replied calmly. "I am only seventy-four; but
it is well that a man should go at the zenith of his career."
"Are there any arrangements you would like to make?" I asked.
"Anything you would like to say?"
"Yes. Is Ada there?"
"Of course I am there!" The small, stricken figure crouching on the
other side of the bed put out a skinny paw and took the old man's
hand. She held it steadfastly for the rest of the time he lived.
"Would you like to see the Rector?" I asked.
"No, no. I am at peace with God. It is of my little granddaughter
that I would speak." His voice was stronger now. "My annuity dies
with me. I have some small savings, which she will receive. But
they will not keep her. I shall be grateful if you will exert your
influence, sir, in enabling her to go into service."
"There is a vacancy in my house, if Ada will come," I said.
"Thank you. Will you go to the Doctor, Ada?"
Ada, with tears running freely at last, nodded in answer; and the
dying man proceeded to the business which was ever uppermost in his
thoughts.
"Then, sir, my Library."
"Yes. What are you going to do with it? Leave it to the town?"
"No, no, no, no!" He was strangely emphatic.
"What, then?" I asked. I had an uneasy feeling that the Library was
going to be bequeathed to me, and I did not want it in the least.
But my fears were relieved at once.
"I intend to leave it to Ada--temporarily."
"Temporarily?"
"Yes. But as she will be an inmate of your household, she will
probably desire to take you into her confidence, and possibly avail
herself of your assistance." His voice failed again; his grip on
life was relaxing rapidly. Then he recovered himself, and almost sat
up.
"Will you promise me, sir, to assist Ada to carry out my wishes with
regard to the disposal--"
"I promise," I said. "Don't exhaust yourself."
The old man sank back, with a long and gentle sigh.
"Then I die contented, and reassured. Re--" His voice weakened
again. Then he rallied, for a final effort:
"I have lived respected, I think!"
That was all.
I looked across to Ada, and nodded. Characteristically, she rose
from her knees, crossed to the window, and drew down the blind.