Part 2

"Aye, Baxter. _Singin' in the street_! There's few fowk in this toon ken that, or mind it. But Baxter just drufted into the place one wet day, with the toes stickin' oot of his boots, and the Archdeacon found him standin' in the rain and took him intil the hoose and kept him. Twenty-five shillin' a week he got, with two suits of clothes a year and a bit present at Christmas. He bided there thirty years, and the Archdeacon never repented of his bargain. Good servants is scarce."

McAndrew paused impressively, to allow this last truth to sink in, and continued.

"I jalouse the way Baxter got an so weel with the Archdeacon was the interest he took in the library. He was never oot of it, unless he was pitten oot. It wasna so much that he would read the books as worship them. He would take them oot and hold them in his hands by the hour, or sit back on a chair and glower at their backs on the shelves. So Mistress Corby's dochter that married on the ironmonger tellt me."

"By the way, when did Mr. Baxter's granddaughter appear on the scene?" I inquired.

"That was long after the old man died. He left Baxter an annuity, with two bookcases and a wheen books to start a library of his ain. Mistress Corby's dochter says he left him fufty, and Baxter pinched other twenty-five. That was the nucleus, you'll understand. The rest he has been collecting for himself for many a year."

"And the granddaughter?" I inquired gently.

"Oh, aye; I was coming to her. She came along aboot five years ago, long after the old man had settled into yon wee hoose where he stays now. She just appeared. Naebody could ever find oot where from, although Mistress Corby's dochter asked Baxter to tea in her own hoose twice and called on him herself three times. Baxter is as close as an oyster, and as for the lassie"--McAndrew shuddered slightly--"she has an ill tongue tae provoke."

Thirdly, _chez_ Baxter.

As already indicated, it was the old gentleman's custom of an evening to receive visitors in the front room and discourse to them on literature, poetry, history, and science. Light refreshments--very light refreshments--were handed round by Miss Weeks; but these were a mere appendage to the literary provender supplied. I formed the habit of joining this symposium upon one evening every week--at first out of idle curiosity (and perhaps with the pardonable desire of indulging in one of the few forms of advertisement open to a struggling physician), but subsequently through sheer interest in the academy itself and the amazingly sure touch with which the master handled his disciples.

They were a motley crew. There were socially ambitious young shop-assistants, anxious to acquire a literary polish likely to impress the opposite sex. There were artisans who wished to advance themselves in the technique of their profession. There were heavy-handed, heavy-shouldered, rather wistful men, with muscles made lusty by hard physical labour, conscious of minds grown puny and attenuated for lack of intellectual nourishment. There were humble folk with genuine literary leanings, who came to consult Mr. Baxter's poems and essays, and sometimes shyly proffered compositions of their own for perusal and comment. There were men--uneducated men--dimly conscious of the fact that they possessed immortal souls, who had waded into the deep waters of theological speculation, and got out of their depth. For each and all Mr. Baxter had a word of welcome and counsel.

"I am very happy to see you, Mr. Wright. And your friend, Mr.--? Mr. Dennis. Thank you. We are going to read and discuss a passage from 'The Tempest' presently. Shakespeare, you know. Be seated, and my granddaughter will offer you a little refreshment.... I have been consulting various authorities on statical electricity for you, Mr. Armitage. I have marked a few passages in my Encyclopædia, Volume Twenty in my library, which seem to me to treat the subject most lucidly. You might also derive some information from the life of Mr. Faraday--Volume Eighteen. My granddaughter will look up the passage for you presently.... Ah, Mr. Jobson! How are they down at the factory to-day? You are just in time. We are about to read and discuss a passage from 'The Tempest.' Shakespeare, of course. Be seated, pray.... For me to read, Mr. Penton? Thank you: that indeed will be an intellectual treat. I will peruse your manuscript at leisure, and comment upon it at our next meeting.... The Agnostics still bothering you, Mr. Clamworthy? Well, I am no theologian; but for sheer old-fashioned common sense I don't think you can beat Paley's 'Evidences of Christianity.' The late Archdeacon used to say that he always came back to Paley in the end. Ada, my dear, that passage I marked in Volume Forty-Seven! Now friends, 'The Tempest'!"

After that the Presentation Shakespeare would be opened, and Mr. Baxter would declaim selected passages. His voice was mellow, and his manner ecclesiastical; plainly his whole deportment was moulded, to the last gesture and inflexion, on one unvarying model. A discussion would follow--a quite naïve and rather pathetic discussion, sometimes. Ultimately Mr. Baxter would sum up, generally with extracts from other Shakespearian passages, which he turned up with great readiness and dexterity, rolling them from off his tongue with obvious relish. Occasionally he would ask Ada for some other volume, and read from that. There were great moments when he would actually call for Homer or Horace and, with apologies for rusty scholarship, offer to our respectful ears a quite coherent rendering of some famous passage.

Finally, at a moment selected by herself, the vigilant Ada Weeks would terminate the proceedings with the curt announcement that her grandfather was tired. The precious volumes were locked in the library again, and we were bidden, without ceremony, to say good-night to our host and not to bang the street door. Both of which commands we obeyed promptly and reverently, and departed homeward.

IV

Possibly it may have occurred to the reader to wonder whether in a community at once so erudite and progressive as Broxborough--it possesses both a Cathedral Close and a Linoleum Factory, you will remember--there can have been no official alternative to Twenty-One, The Common--no Public Library, no Public Lecture Courses, no Municipal Oracle, as it were.

In truth Broxborough once had all these things. Before the War there existed an institution known as Broxborough Pantheon. Here was an excellent library of reference; lectures and classes, too, were constantly in operation throughout the winter months. In its lighter moments the Pantheon lent itself to whist drives. But the entire building had been destroyed by fire in Nineteen Fifteen, and had never been rebuilt, for the good and sufficient reason that during those days there were other things to do. After the Armistice money was scarce and rates were high. Moreover, that shrinking sensitive-plant, the British bricklayer, had been instructed by his Union to limit his professional activities to a tale of bricks so tenuous that his labours for the day were completed, without undue strain, by the time that he knocked off for breakfast. The months passed; such constructive energy as the district could compass was devoted to Government housing schemes, and still the Pantheon lay in ruins.

But one day a man from Pittsburgh, who had been born in Broxborough nearly forty years previously, and had relinquished his domicile and civil status therein by becoming an American citizen at the age of three, returned, rugged, prosperous, and beneficently sentimental, to revisit the haunts of his youth, and refresh his somewhat imperfect memories of his birthplace.

Naturally he found the place profoundly changed. The Cathedral organ-bellows were now inflated by a gas-engine, and the nine-seventeen up-train did not start until nine-forty-two. And--where the Broxborough Pantheon had once reared its stucco pseudo-Doric façade upon the market-square, there was nothing but an untidy hoarding masking a heap of charred débris, and labelled, 'Site of proposed new premises of the Broxborough Pantheon.' The label appeared to have been there for some years.

John Crake of Pittsburgh made inquiries, and the truth was revealed. The old Pantheon had ceased to exist for nearly five years, and the new Pantheon, in the present condition of the rate-payers' pockets, seemed unlikely ever to exist at all. So John Crake, having pondered the matter in his large and sentimental heart, put his hand into his own capacious pocket, and lo! the new Pantheon arose. The plasterers had wreaked their will upon the donor's bank account, and were making sullen way for the plumbers and electricians, about the time when I first encountered Mr. Baxter outside the second-hand bookshop.

And now the building was ready for occupation, and the exact procedure at the opening ceremony was becoming a matter of acute recrimination at the Council meetings. So that genial gossip the Rector informed me, as we encountered one another one afternoon on our professional rounds.

"Things are more or less arranged," he said, "so far as our city fathers are capable of arranging anything. The place is to be called Crake Hall, which I think is right, and Crake himself is coming over from America for the opening, which I call sporting of him. Old Broxey" (The Most Noble the Marquis of Broxborough, the Lord Lieutenant of our County) "will perform the opening ceremony. That is to say, he will advance up the steps in the presence of the multitude and knock three times upon the closed doors of the Hall. A solemn pause will follow, to work up the excitement. Then the donor, who will be standing inside, wearing a top-hat for the first time in his life--"

"Rector, I have frequently warned you that your ribald tongue will some day lose you your job."

"Never mind that. It's a poor heart that never rejoices, and I am too fat to be serious all the time, anyhow. Well, after the appointed interval of silence Crake will open a kind of peep-hole in the oaken door, and say: 'Who goes there?' or something of that kind. Broxey, if he is still awake, will reply: 'The Citizens of this Ancient Borough,' or words to that effect. Then the doors will be thrown open--assuming that they will open; but you know what our local contractors are--and Crake will be revealed in his top-hat, and will say: 'Welcome, Stranger!' or, 'Walk right in, boys!' or, 'Watch your step!' or something like that, and will hand the key of the Institute to Broxey, who will probably lose it."

"I see. And then to lunch at the Town Hall, I suppose?"

"Not so fast. Remember this is a Cathedral city: the Dean and Chapter must be given an opportunity to put their oar in. The Dean will speak his piece, and then I understand that the Choir, who are to be concealed somewhere behind one of the doors, will create a brief disturbance. After that the Town will assert itself, as against the County and the Close."

"What is their stunt going to be?"

"An Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks to Crake."

"That seems reasonable. But who is going to compose it?"

"I have already done so, by request. It is not half bad," said the Rector modestly.

"Who is going to read it? The Mayor?"

"The Mayor is an imperfect creature, but he possesses one superlative quality: he harbours no illusions about his own ability to grapple with the letter H. He declines to read the Address. Most of the Corporation are in the same boat--though they don't all admit it."

"Why don't you read it yourself?"

"Trades-Union rules forbid. If I read it, it would be regarded as the propaganda of the Established Church. The forces of Town and Chapel would combine to fall upon me and crush me. No, we must have a citizen--a citizen of credit and renown, locally known and esteemed." The Rector eyed me furtively. "I suppose _you_, now--

"Not on your life!" I replied hastily.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing I am a comparative stranger: I haven't been here two years yet. Besides, in opening a literary and intellectual emporium of this kind you want--I have it! The very man!"

"Who?" asked the Rector eagerly.

I told him.

The Rector halted in the middle of the street and shook me by the hand.

"Ideal!" he said. "I'll fix it with the Council. You go and ask _him_."

V

I repaired to the Home of The Oracle that same evening. It was destined to be a memorable visit.

Something unusual in the atmosphere impressed itself on my senses the moment Ada Weeks opened the door to me. Miss Weeks's manner could never at any time be described as genial: at its very best it was suggestive of an indulgent sergeant-major. But this evening Ada resembled a small, lean cat, engaged in a rear-guard action with dogs. Her green eyes blazed: one felt that she would like to arch her back and spit.

"Pettigrew and Mould is here," she said. "Hang up your own hat: I can't leave them." And she vanished into the front room.

Messrs. Pettigrew and Mould were a sore trial to Mr. Baxter. They did not consult The Oracle regularly, but when they did they made trouble. Their efforts appeared mainly to be directed towards embarrassing their host by asking frivolous questions, and then humiliating him in the presence of his disciples by the manner in which they received his answers.

The attitude of Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist, was understandable; for he was a mean little man, and jealous. He possessed diplomas and certificates of his own: he was steeped in all the essences of the Pharmacopoeia: yet none did him reverence. The townspeople purchased cough mixtures and patent pills from him with no more respect than if they had been sausages or yards of tape. Even when he assumed an air of portentous solemnity and retired behind his carved oak screen with a prescription, most of his customers took it for granted that he filled up the bottle from a water-tap and added colouring matter and a dash of something unpleasant to the taste. Probably they were not far wrong. But wrong or right, it never occurred to any of them to treat Mr. Pettigrew as an Oracle, or Savant, or Philosopher; and Mr. Pettigrew undoubtedly felt very badly about it.

Mr. Mould was our local undertaker--which was unfortunate, for nature had intended him for a low comedian. Under a professionally chastened exterior he concealed the sense of humour and powers of repartee of a small boy of ten. To him Mr. Baxter, with his studied little mannerisms and his pedantic little courtesies, was fair game.

When I entered the parlour these two worthies were heavily engaged in their favourite sport of philosopher-baiting. The philosopher himself, I noticed, was looking very old and very tired. I had not seen him for a week, and I was secretly shocked at his appearance.

"You're not looking well," I said, as I shook hands. "You ought not to be entertaining your friends to-night."

"Indeed," replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, "my friends have been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has he not, Ada?"

"If I was his wife," replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would have permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than Mr. Mould, "I should die of laughing--at myself!"

This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment.

"I certainly venture to claim," he observed complacently, "that we pulled our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night." Pettigrew sniggered.

"What was the joke?" I asked, without enthusiasm.

"Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here," began the undertaker, "knowing Mr. Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a little poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find anything in his library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona. He said he would look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his little lecture all ready for us. Highly enjoyable, it was. Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known figures in Ancient Greek Mythology--wasn't that it, Pettigrew?"

Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking creature, with false teeth which did not fit.

"In fact," continued Mould, with immense relish, "poor old Cinchona was such a little-known figure that most people--common uneducated druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew--thought Cinchona was the name of the bark they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!"

The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, smiled again, though I could see he was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from the factory, sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful manner. One could see that he felt his master ought to have known all about Cinchona.

"An interesting coincidence," commented the old man gently. "The drug cinchona is, of course, well known scientifically, but classically, Cinchona the demi-god is hardly known at all. In fact, he is only mentioned once or twice in the whole of ancient literature. I have been dipping into my Homer"--he indicated the familiar volume in his hand--"and I find--"

"May I look for myself?" asked Pettigrew suddenly; and before even Ada could spring to the old man's side he had snatched the book and opened it. Baxter put out his hand anxiously.

"Let me find the passage for you, Mr. Pettigrew," he said. "I do not know whether you are familiar with ancient Greek--"

"No," said Mr. Pettigrew grimly, looking up from the book, "I am not. But I _am_ familiar with modern German. This book is printed in German!"

"The marginal comments are in German, of course," said the old man quickly. "The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give me back the book, pray!" I noticed he was breathing very shortly.

Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.

"You can go!" she announced. "We only entertain gentlemen here."

Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of the company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a particularly unpleasant moment.

"Good-night, Mr. Baxter," said Pettigrew, moving towards the door, which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him. "Sometimes I wonder," he sniggered, turning again, "whether you are quite as ripe a scholar as you would have some of the less educated people in this town believe."

"Ripe? He's over-ripe--rotten!" announced Mould confidently.

Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you insult me in my own house. It is your privilege to do so. You are my guests--"

I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered my old friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They were all on their feet by this time.

"Now look here," I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy voice, "you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you are, all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny-ha'penny point of scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients"--I patted Baxter solemnly on the shoulder--"to an attack of insomnia! You mustn't do it, you know--especially just now!"

"What do you mean, just now?" asked Ada quickly. She shot an apprehensive glance at her grandfather's drawn features.

"I mean this. You know the opening of Crake Hall takes place on Saturday?"

Every one looked up, surprised at the diversion.

"Yes: what of it?" said Pettigrew.

"You know that an Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks is to be read to Mr. Crake by a representative citizen of the town?"

"Yes," said Pettigrew again; and he said it with an intensity which gave him away badly.

"Well, Mr. Baxter here--our very dear and esteemed friend Mr. Baxter"--I spoke the words deliberately, and felt the old shoulder suddenly stiffen under my hand--"has been unanimously selected by the Council"--I breathed a prayer that the Rector might not have failed me--"to read that Address! That is why I am thoroughly angry with you all for tiring him out with your conundrums. He is not a young man, or a strong man; and I want to have him in first-class trim for his appearance on Saturday. Home to bed, all of you!"

"Outside!" commanded Miss Weeks; and shepherded the entire company into the passage, closing the door behind her.

Baxter and I were left alone. I took my stand on the worn hearth-rug, with my back to the fire, lingering over the lighting of my pipe with the uneasy self-consciousness of the Englishman who has just participated in a scene. My old friend's thin hands were extended upon the arms of his chair; his head was sunk upon his breast. I decided to say something cheerful.

"Well," I remarked, "I think the Council's invitation came to you at a very appropriate moment."

Baxter raised his head, and I noticed that he seemed to have grown many years older.

"I fear you have done me an ill service, sir," he said. "Unintentionally, of course!" he hastened to add.

"In what way?"

"I cannot accept the Council's invitation."

"Why not? I'll have you fit and well by Saturday."

"It's not that, sir. I cannot do it."

"Why not?"

"Because--because I happen to be an impostor!"

"Oh, come! You must not take things too much to heart. A man can be a sound scholar without knowing very much about Greek or German."

"It's not that, sir."

"What, then?"

"I can neither read nor write."

VI

I mixed a glass of weak whiskey and water, and made him drink it. Presently he began to talk--in a low voice, with pauses for breath; but after a while with a flicker of his old graciousness and dignity.

"The late Archdeacon, sir, used to observe that a man should have no secrets from his banker, his lawyer, or his doctor. (He had a great many from all three, but no matter!) I have no banker, and no lawyer; but I have a doctor--a very kind doctor--and I am going to tell him something which it is only fair he should know.

"I was born before the days of Free Education. I was earning my living in the streets of London when Mr. Forster brought in the Bill of Eighteen Seventy. My circumstances were extremely humble. I passed the first years of my life on a canal barge. (My uncle steered the barge. I think he was my uncle.) It is difficult to educate children so reared. They have no permanent place of abode; no particular school-district is responsible for such little vagrants. So I grew up illiterate. My uncle died. I earned my living as best I could. I was strong and active: I engaged in tasks which demanded no knowledge of letters. I learned to cipher a little in my head and to read the ordinary numerals: but the alphabet remained a mystery to me."

"Why did you not learn to read and write?"

"I did try. At the age of twenty I determined to master my ignorance. I purchased a primer, and endeavoured to teach myself. But that task was hopeless. I entered a night-school--and they asked me what I wished to study. Languages--Mathematics--Science--Engineering? How could I, a great grown man, tell them that I wanted to learn to read and write? I hurried out of the building.

"Then I married. I married a woman as unlettered as myself. Whom else could I ask? We were happy together, in our humble way. But we had few associates, and such as we had possessed all our ignorance and none of our aspirations."

"Had you children?"

"One daughter--Ada's mother. You may depend upon it we sent _her_ to school! And she learnt quickly--far too quickly for me. I had cherished a hope that my child and I might commence our education together. But how could the muscle-bound intellect of an illiterate of thirty keep pace with the nimble wits of a sharp little girl?"

The nimble wits of a sharp little girl! Somehow I seemed to recognize that portrait.