Gently that following midsummer the old president's crutch thumped the
sidewalk leading to the college. Between the pillars of the gateway he
paused, lifted his undimmed keen blue eyes, and more gently still the
crutch thumped on the gravelled road as he passed slowly on under the
trees. When he faced the first deserted building, he stopped quite
still. The campus was deserted and the buildings were as silent as
tombs. That loneliness he had known many, many years; but there was a
poignant sorrow in it now that was never there before, for only that
morning he had turned over the reins of power into a pair of younger
hands. The young men and young women would come again, but now they
would be his no longer. There would be the same eager faces, dancing
eyes, swift coming and going, but not for him. The same cries of
greeting, the tramp of many feet, shouts from the playgrounds-but not
for his ears. The same struggle for supremacy in the class-room--but
not for his favor and his rewarding hand. That hand had all but
upraised each building, brick by brick and stone by stone. He had
started alone, he had fought alone, and in spite of his Scotch
shrewdness, business sagacity, indomitable pluck and patience, and a
nationwide fame for scholarship, the fight had been hard and long. He
had won, but the work was yet unfinished, and it was his no longer. For
a little while he stood there, and John Burnham, coming from his
class-room with a little bag of books, saw the still figure on crutches
and paused noiselessly on the steps. He saw the old scholar's sensitive
mouth quiver and his thin face wrenched with pain, and he guessed the
tragedy of farewell that was taking place. He saw the old president
turn suddenly, limp toward the willow-trees, and Burnham knew that he
could not bear at that moment to pass between those empty beloved
halls. And Burnham watched him move under the willows along the edge of
the quiet pond, watched him slowly climbing a little hill on the other
side of the campus, and then saw him wearily pass through his own
gate-home. He wished that the old scholar could know how much better he
had builded than he knew; could know what an exchange and
clearing-house that group of homely buildings was for the human wealth
of the State. And he wondered if in the old thoroughbred's heart was
the comfort that his spirit would live on and on to help mould the
lives of generations unborn, who might perhaps never hear his name.
There was a youthful glad light in John Burnham's face when he turned
his back on the deserted college, for he, too, was on his way at last
to the hills--and St. Hilda. As he swept through the Blue-grass he
almost smiled upon the passing fields. The betterment of the tobacco
troubles was sure to come, and only that summer the farmer was
beginning to realize that in the end the seed of his blue-grass would
bring him a better return than the leaf of his troublesome weed-king.
There were groaning harvests that summer and herds of sheep and hogs
and fat cattle. There was plenty of wheat and rye and oats and barley
and corn yet coming out of the earth, and, as woodland after woodland
reeled past his window, he realized that the trees were not yet all
gone. Perhaps after all his beloved Kentucky would come back to her
own, and there was peace in his grateful heart.
Two nights later, sitting on the porch of her little log cabin, he told
St. Hilda about Gray and Marjorie, as she told him about Mavis and
Jason Hawn. Gray and Jason had gone back, each to his own, having
learned at last what Mavis and Marjorie, without learning, already
knew--that duty is to others rather than self, to life rather than
love. But John Burnham now knew that in the dreams of each girl another
image would live always; just as always Jason would see another's eyes
misty with tears for him and feel the comforting clutch of a little
hand, while in Gray's heart a wood-thrush would sing forever.
And, looking far ahead, both could see strong young men hurrying up
from the laggard Blue-grass into the lagging hills and strong young men
hurrying down from them, and could hear the heart of the hills beating
as one with the heart of the Bluegrass, and both beating as one with
the heart of the world.