When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving
me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space
upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen
minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only
outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives
call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that
stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his
rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes,
made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer.
We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It
was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat;
but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and
cod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the
Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac.
We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the
country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and
always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep
and kept bright green by the moisture.
"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the
buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in
which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and
the bluer waters were blended.
"Yes, I do," replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I
were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close
my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell
of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at
that," he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see
how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields.
Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed
through it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One
is called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a
funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them
by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever
set foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?"
"Yes, yes," I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and--" But Mac
turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a
buggy.
"Good morning, Doctor," he called. The doctor bowed with what looked
like gracious condescension.
Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I
must love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way,
that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a
college in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very
important part of Island life."
"But I do not think, Mac," I suggested, "that he was quite as
fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be."
"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer," said Mac quickly. "In
fact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec
McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know that
Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this
Island--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's
farm. But say, Bruce," and Mac turned to me very quickly, "what
brought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit.
Now, own up." He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and
looked me in the face. "Surely," he went on, "you would not have
thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times."
"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came," I answered,
"but you guess well, for this time I was sent."
Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent?
Good! I am glad. Now, out with it."
"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a
chance to get you."
"Get me?" Mac grew grave again.
"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old
Chalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than
the best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come,
and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you.
You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this." And I
waved my hand toward the bay.
Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the
interview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the
conversation abruptly.
"Look over there, Bruce," and he pointed with his whip toward the
distance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman
of Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around
here. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the
Interior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning
next. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the
Island itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'"
"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac," I answered, not quite seeing why
he had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know _you_."
"No," he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. It
would frighten them off. It would require explanations. What
difference if I have six letters after my name? To these people,
worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any
more."
"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you;
you mustn't refuse."
There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce,
old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not
know. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love
I have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine
that old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an
army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his
heart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in
this world I would rather have had than your message, but I must
refuse the offer."
"Now Mac," I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you.
Scenery won't make up."
"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it?
But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things
God made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not
think I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, if
you can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give
up one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix,
Bruce."
"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?" I began
urging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card.
"Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life but
that farm, and you--heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one of
the greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe the
world something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressed
even the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You get
a curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call you
Alec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doing
work that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work that
no one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for other
people, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?"
"Yes, Bruce." Mac said it sadly. "There's the rub. I was given
obligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now,
instead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I
want you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubborn
Islander. And there is home."
He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from the
road nearly a quarter of a mile. Mac opened the gate, led the horse
through it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me.
There were tears in his brown eyes.
"Is every one well?" said Mac hesitatingly. "Is everybody well--I mean
of the people I knew best back there?" he asked. I knew what he meant.
"Yes, Mac, _she_ is well," I said, "and I know she is waiting."