Harvard Yard by William Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

on the harbor and town and hills beyond, but his eyes were closed, his face as white as the pillows.
    Upon a whisper from his wife, his eyes opened, focused, sought about the room until they found Isaac. Then a hand rose from the bed.
    Isaac took it. “Master Harvard.”
    “How fares your study?” Harvard’s voice was all but inaudible.
    And Eaton’s face appeared over Isaac’s shoulder. “He’ll make a fine minister, John. You know quality.”
    “’Twas a simple matter,” said Harvard, stifling a cough. “My father always said a man could be known by his books, and Isaac’s Bible be well thumbed.”
    Isaac felt sudden and powerful emotions rise in his throat. He stepped back and brought a hand to his mouth, as if to keep them from escaping.
    “Don’t cry for me,” said John Harvard. “I look to a better world. But my books—”
    “Yes, John,” said Eaton, taking Harvard’s hand in both of his. “What of them?”
    “My books remain in this world.” Harvard looked past Eaton to Isaac. “Can the students be trusted to respect them?”
    Eaton said, “They’re students, John. They live for books.”
    Harvard did not even look at Eaton. “Isaac?”
    “I would trust them, sir,” said Isaac.
    “Good.” Only then did Harvard turn to Eaton. “May I trust that at the college, my library will be respected? Not scattered about?”
    “Of course,” said Eaton.
    “Good. If a man is known by his books, I would keep mine together.”
    “Your books will have their place in our library,” said Eaton, “when it’s built.”
    “Good.” Harvard shifted his eyes to his wife and then to Elder Nowell, as if it was too great an effort to move his head. “I bequeath all my books to our new college, in the knowledge that students like Isaac will respect them . . . protect them . . . and benefit from them, and that they will be kept together as the seedbed for a greater library.”
    “So shall it be attested,” said Elder Nowell.
    “And, Isaac”—Harvard coughed and a foam of blood appeared at the corners of his mouth—“you will find in my library books on many topics. Some may surprise you. But you must respect every volume.”
    “I will,” said Isaac. “I promise.”
    “Of course he will, John,” said Eaton. “We all will, for there can be nothing in your library to make a man anything but enriched . . . in spirit, at least.”
    Harvard kept his eyes on Isaac. “There may come times in your life when the words you read and the ideas you meet do not glorify God but man, his vanities . . . his passions . . . his appetites . . . all things that lead us toward sin.”
    “Not at my college,” said Eaton.
    “Quiet, Nathaniel,” said Harvard. “You have many years yet to speak your mind. Let me say my piece now.”
    But another fit of coughing took Harvard, cracking in his chest and bringing up bloody shards of lung, which he left in his spittoon. Then he sank deeper into his pillow, gasped for breath, and said, “So . . . Isaac, when your reading challenges your beliefs, remember the words of Rector Morton, who saw St. Saviour’s through the plague: Turn your mind to higher things. In them will you find the answers. . . . Now, friends, a prayer.”
    The prayer by Elder Nowell was a good one, thought Isaac. It did not request John Harvard’s return to health, for that was plainly not in God’s plan. It did not request the repose of his soul, for that time had not yet come. It simply expressed a faith in God’s goodwill, and that was something in which all, even a dying man, could take comfort.
    Then John Harvard closed his eyes and seemed to settle into sleep.
    Elder Nowell gestured for Isaac and Eaton to leave, but Ann Harvard said to her husband, “John, is there not one thing more?”
    Harvard’s eyes opened. “Oh, yes. Nathaniel—”
    Eaton again took Harvard’s hand. “Yes, John.”
    “Half of all my earthly possessions go to Ann, to see to her future.”
    “Yes, John.”
    Harvard