The Mystery of Monastery Farm

by H. R. Naylor

CHAPTER XVI

THE FAREWELL COMMENCEMENT

Commencement exercises this year were very interesting; more than ordinarily so. There were twenty-two graduates in the classical course, and twenty-seven seniors in the theological class. There were four hundred and sixty students in all. This was a much larger number than in any preceding year. Nothing had occurred during the year to mar the peace of the institution. Sixteen professors, clothed in their official garments, with the president, occupied the platform, which was profusely decorated with plants and cut flowers, while an immense American flag floated over the president's table. But, somehow, there was a feeling of sadness pervading the whole program; probably no one could have told what caused it.

The four addresses, delivered by as many graduates, were of a high order—vivacious, brilliant, and one or two of them quite exhilarating and fine. Yet there was prevalent something like the feeling of a funeral occasion—a feeling which follows the loss of a friend. But no one was dead. Even the applause at the end of any well-given number was gentle and subdued. The president and Professor McLaren presented the diplomas. After the graduating classes were again seated the president arose to deliver his annual address.

This was Bishop Albertson's thirtieth time during his presidential career. How changed since he delivered the first address to seventeen students, and with only three professors by his side! Now four hundred and sixty students in his audience; sixteen professors sat by his side and he had just delivered forty-nine diplomas to as many graduates. Usually the annual address was mainly to the graduates. This address took a wider scope. It was intended and did touch everyone who had an interest in this great institution. It was full of affectionate counsel and expressions of honest gratitude. The atmosphere which had been unconsciously affecting the people throughout the program was beginning to be analyzed. Farewell words were of course expected at this time; such were customary at such a time. But these were no common words. There was more than a common "Good-by" in them. This president had spoken similar words twenty-nine times, but never just such words. His eyes were growing misty when at the end he said: "My dear friends, this is not simply a 'Good-by' that I speak, but a sincere, heartfelt 'Farewell.'" A few minutes later seven hundred persons stood with eyes suffused with tears, and with bowed heads to receive the apostolic benediction.

Next day at ten o'clock the joint board met in the board room, in its annual meeting. The attendance was large—trustees, faculty, and visiting brethren. The word had gone out that important changes would likely take place, but none knew just what they would be.

J. M. Quintin, chairman of the board, presided. Reports from each officer were made. The secretary of the board read his report; it was a model of perspicuity and encouragement. Each member of the faculty presented an account of his work. A glowing report was made by Quintin of Sparrow's work on the farm, and a resolution of appreciation was sent to the farmer. Indeed, the board had never received such reports of the prosperous condition of the Monastery. Then came the president's annual report. This was his thirtieth annual report; nor was it very different from the twenty-nine that had preceded it. It was permeated with hopefulness for the future and gratitude for the past. Then came that which seemed to be the great burden of his heart. This was to be his last official message. He said, in substance, that the wise man's description of old age was fast coming into his experience. The keepers of the house begin to tremble, the grinders were ceasing because they were few. He was beginning to be afraid of that which was high. The almond was flourishing; the grasshopper was becoming a burden; desire was beginning to fail. In a word, three score and ten years reminded him that he must be relieved of some of his official burdens. He did not dare to interfere with his episcopal duties, feeling that possibly for a year or two more he might be able to meet and discharge them. But that from the arduous duties of the University he must be relieved and a younger man asked to become its president. And he wished that these remarks be considered as his positive resignation as president of Monastery University.

It was now four o'clock. They had been in session since ten o'clock. So, by motion, they, without remarks, adjourned to meet at seven o'clock in the evening.

In reality the president's resignation was a surprise to many. "What now?" was the question. As the hour approached the men were seen in groups, engaged in earnest discussion. But when they came together it was soon manifest that there was no concert of thought, much less readiness for concert of action. The prevailing thought seemed to be to postpone any attempt to elect a president, it being the feeling that it was too precipitous. But a majority of the board insisted on at once proceeding to fill the vacant presidency, their chief argument being that the new incumbent might have time to prepare for the fall term, and, further, that no outside parties might be formed and no politics should be allowed to interfere.

Bishop Albertson was asked to preside, and when the board was called to order, Mr. Quintin arose and modestly asked permission to address them. All were glad to hear this faithful servant of the institution.

He begged them not to construe his remarks into self-praise, but to understand them as intending to simply show his unselfish interest in the prosperity of the Monastery. Only this and nothing more. Thirty-one years ago he had been made a trustee. He was then nineteen years of age, and at their first meeting he was elected treasurer of said board. From, that date every dollar received or paid out in the interest of this institution had passed through his hands. He had planned every building and paid for its erection; laid off the Monastery Park, superintended the farm, stocked it with all its live stock, purchased and paid for all the agricultural implements. He had planned, built and paid for the erection of the new church building. He had charge of Mr. Thorndyke's endowment fund, to which had been added fifty thousand dollars, making now one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was safely invested at six per cent interest per annum. All this had been simply a labor of love, he never having received a dollar for his services. This was not boasting, but simply to show them his love for the interests of Monastery University and church. And this love alone inspired him to nominate a man for the vacant presidency. And to still further gain their confidence in his unselfish judgment and love, he continued: "Seventeen years ago, when Mr. Rixey died, I engaged a young man twenty-six years of age to work our farm. Surely I made no mistake. There is no better man than William Sparrow, and no better farm in the county. Ten years ago, I made bold to nominate a man for the place made vacant by the resignation of Dr. Worth. Did I make any mistake in that nomination? Did you make any mistake in confirming that nomination? And now our beloved president is retiring, full of honors and esteem, and that great and responsible place is vacant, and I confess that my past successes make me confident as I pronounce the name of a successor. I have consulted no man, not even the man whose name I shall speak. I do not know but he may decline the nomination, but my best judgment and unbiased conscience unite and prompt me to nominate Edward McLaren, LL.D., for presidency of Monastery University."

This nomination did not seem to surprise anyone except the man nominated. The thought of such an occurrence had not so much as come to him. Several weeks before the bishop had in an incidental way intimated that he was seriously contemplating shaking off some of his responsibilities, but nothing more had been said, and Edward had forgotten the remark. And when the bishop had presented his resignation, and it was accepted, McLaren simply concluded that this would entail extra work upon him for a month or two, until the trustees found a suitable man to fill the vacancy. But now as he heard his name spoken, it came like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: "O, no! This must not be. It cannot be!" He then moved a postponement of the election. He said: "It is only thirteen years since I stood in front of that old farmhouse, tired and hungry, a timid wandering youth, seeking work and bread, but more, seeking rest of soul and conscience. The farmer and his precious wife took me in and have been to me more than brother and sister." Then, turning round and facing the bishop, he continued: "And this man has been more than a father; but for him and the wife he gave me, I should not be here today. No! no! You have honored me too much already, and I move a postponement of this election until a future meeting of the board of trustees."

There was not a man but what was affected by these unselfish and grateful words; but they affected the auditors in just the opposite direction from that intended—really they insured his election.

A moment of silence followed. Then Mr. Quintin arose and said. "Mr. President, I hear no second to Dr. McLaren's motion to postpone. His words have indeed touched my heart, and in their modesty and unselfishness I see only a confirmation that I am making a wise nomination. I am thoroughly convinced that I am commending the right man, and with all due respect to the opinion of Dr. McLaren, I now renew my nomination."

The chairman, with his usual dignity, put the question, and Edward
McLaren, LL.D., was unanimously elected president of Monastery
University.

Such election of course created another vacancy in the faculty of the Monastery. The chairman proceeded at once to state this fact. Again there was silence.

"Cannot the work of this chair be divided among the other professors for a time?" asked Professor Ware, the Professor of Belles-Lettres.

Mr. Smithson, one of the trustees, moved to adjourn, but the motion was defeated by a large majority.

"What now is the pleasure of the board?" asked the chairman. Then someone moved to proceed at once to the election of a professor to fill the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature.

This motion prevailed, and the chair announced its readiness to hear nominations for the vacant chair.

Abram Smithson, Jr., son of one of the trustees, who graduated the day before, was nominated. But this nomination met with no second.

There were some indications of surprise, which brought Professor Cummins to his feet, and with some asperity to say that he saw no reasons for expressions of surprise. It was certainly not the first time that this chair had been filled by a man who had recently graduated. This made several men smile, among them McLaren, who had been elected to fill that chair the day after his graduation.

Then the bishop stated that during the thirty years in the past he had never made a nomination, but that he now felt inclined to do so; and he would nominate Thomas Sparrow, Ph.D., for the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature. Sparrow was one of their own graduates. First, in their preparatory course; then in classics, and afterward three years in Heidelberg, where he had won the Philosophy Doctorate.

At this moment the newly-elected president who had been sitting with drooping head, as if he had been rebuked instead of having received their highest honor, arose and stated that he would be greatly pleased if Dr. Sparrow could be elected to fill the vacant chair, but he feared they were too late. Forty-eight hours ago the joint board of Burrough Road Institute, a noted school in London, had elected him to fill the chair of Belles-Lettres and History, and he feared that Sparrow had before now telegraphed his acceptance.

"Then," said Quintin, "I move that we elect him anyhow—even if I have to cross the sea to give Burrough Road satisfaction."

The inspiration was complete; every man was ready to vote, and did vote for the man who was wanted in London—and Tom Sparrow became Dr. Sparrow, Professor of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University, a result which none ever regretted.

An earnest throng clustered around the newly-elected president, with hearty congratulations. Not only the trustees, but more than two hundred students, graduates included, who had been nervously waiting outside to hear the news—rushed impetuously as far as they could into the board room, and seizing McLaren, hoisted him to the shoulders of four sturdy men, and then marched out from the chapel into the park singing boisterously their latest college song:

Rah! Rah! Monastery,
Biggest Lion of them all,
Albertson and Mack and Quintin,
Rah! Rah! Rah!

A full moon made it almost as light as day, and even dignified Albertson joined in the jovial song, while Billy Sparrow, dressed in his best blue broadcloth with its bright brass buttons, joined lustily in the chorus: "Rah! Rah! Rah! Albertson, Mack, and Jerry Quintin."

Quintin's team stood at the gate, and its owner told the driver to drive to the farmhouse and wait there. Quintin himself was somewhat nervous, knowing that he had something more to accomplish before he slept.

The leader in this carnival of pleasure and song was Joe Elliot, a next year's senior. He was a stalwart man, the largest in the crowd, six feet four inches in height, broad-shouldered and clear-eyed—a leader in everything he undertook. He stalked in front, bearing a United States flag, setting the pace in both step and song.

Quintin after some effort succeeded in reaching Joe's side, and said to the leader: "Joe, get to the farm as soon as you can and set him down, I want to speak to him as soon as possible. Stop with three cheers for Mack." Joe took the hint, and with march and song, he halted his men in front of the farmhouse, and setting McLaren down, took off his cap, an example which was immediately followed, and they gave three tremendous cheers for the new president of the Monastery and dispersed.

Immediately, grasping McLaren's arm, Quintin said: "We must find Tom and learn whether he has cabled to London." They entered the house and found Nancy at once, as if she had been awaiting their coming, who, without being asked, remarked: "Tom waited until the president was elected, and then started to Centerville, taking Leon with him to cable to London his acceptance. It is about half an hour since they started."

"How did he go?" asked Quintin.

"On foot; he took the boy with him for company. It is such a beautiful night, and the lad wanted to go."

"That is enough," exclaimed Quintin. "Jump in, we may catch him yet. Now, Cyrus, let them go," and they did go. In ten minutes they were in front of the telegraph office at the wharf at Centerville Landing. Just as they began to ascend the stairs a man and a boy came out of the office—Tom and Leonidas.

"Tom, what have you done?" exclaimed McLaren.

"I have just sent my acceptance to London," and, thinking that perhaps he had done wrong in bringing the boy, added, "and it was such a beautiful night, I brought Leon for company."

"But, Tom, why were you so hasty in the matter? Why did you not consult your friends?"

In the meantime Quintin pushed past them into the office, where Reid, the operator, sat.

"Reid," asked Quintin, "have you sent Dr. Sparrow's message?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply, "but two minutes more and it would have been on the wires; here it is," holding up the yellow paper.

"Hold on, then. It must not go in its present shape."

Reid at once laid the message down on his desk, and turned to other work, feeling assured that it was all right if Quintin and McLaren were interrupting its transit. In the meanwhile McLaren had pushed Tom into a small private room adjoining, and the younger man heard for the first time that he had been elected to the chair of Greek at the Monastery. Then heavy steps were heard and Billy Sparrow rushed into the room exclaiming: "Tom, what have you done?"

"Father," said the young man, "I did what I thought was best. They kindly offered me an honorable place at Burrough Road, and I had no expectation of anything of the kind here, and really did not think that anyone would object, so I accepted; that is all there is to it. I am truly sorry if you don't like what I have done. Had I known it, I might not have been so quick in replying. But it is now too late, and we must make the best of it. But you must remember my future wife is in England."

"No! No!" interrupted Quintin, "It is not too late," and he held up the unsent message. "It has not been sent. Here it is, and your acceptance would be the most unnatural and ungrateful thing you could do. Here is your father and mother. Here is one, who has been to you more than a brother, and here is the fostermother that has fitted you for your great career, and now offers you one of her most important professorships. We are all aware that the girl who is to be your future wife is in England, but think you that Eleen would urge you because of that to make the sacrifice that your acceptance of the Burrough Road professorship demands? No. She would say: 'We are young. We can wait. Stay with your father and mother a while—it will be best.'"

Tom was visibly affected, and after a moment's silence he turned to McLaren. "Carl," he said, "take the blank and fill it out as you think best. You can sign my name," and taking Leon by the hand, together they went out, descended the stairs, and started homeward.

Without a word, McLaren took the blank and wrote: "Honor appreciated, but cannot accept. T. Sparrow, Professor of Greek, Monastery University."

Thus ended a most eventful day at the Monastery.

Quintin was not to be seen. His work for the day was ended when Tom told McLaren to fill out the cablegram; he had slipped away and by this time was in his bed, but not before he had told Cyrus to take the party back to the farm.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Mystery of Monastery Farm, by H. R. Naylor