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ROBERT HARDY'S SEVEN DAYS.
A Dream and Its Consequences.
by
CHARLES M. SHELDON,
Author of
"In His Steps," "The Crucifixion of Phillip Strong,"
"His Brother's Keeper," Etc.
[Frontispiece: "He continued kneeling there."]
London:
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited,
Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.
New York and Melbourne.
1899
PREFACE.
This story was first read by the author to his Sunday evening
congregation in the spring of 1892. The chapters were given one at a
time on consecutive Sundays, and the way in which the story was
received encouraged the pastor in his attempt to solve the problem of
the Sunday evening service in this manner.
CHARLES M. SHELDON.
Central Church, TOPEKA, Kansas.
CONTENTS.
THE DREAM
MONDAY--THE FIRST DAY
TUESDAY--THE SECOND DAY
WEDNESDAY--THE THIRD DAY
THURSDAY--THE FOURTH DAY
FRIDAY--THE FIFTH DAY
SATURDAY--THE SIXTH DAY
SUNDAY--THE SEVENTH DAY
ROBERT HARDY'S SEVEN DAYS.
THE DREAM.
It was Sunday night, and Robert Hardy had just come home from the
evening service in the church at Barton. He was not in the habit of
attending the evening service, but something said by his minister in
the morning had impelled him to go out. The evening had been a little
unpleasant, and a light snow was falling, and his wife had excused
herself from going to church on that account. Mr. Hardy came home
cross and fault-finding.
"Catch me going to evening service again! Only fifty people out, and
it was a sheer waste of fuel and light. The sermon was one of the
dullest I ever heard. I believe Mr. Jones is growing too old for our
church. We need a young man, more up with the times. He is
everlastingly harping on the necessity of doing what we can in the
present to save souls. To hear him talk you would think every man who
wasn't running round to save souls every winter was a robber and an
enemy of society. He is getting off, too, on this new-fangled
Christian Sociology, and thinks the rich men are oppressing the poor,
and that church members ought to study and follow more closely the
teachings of Christ, and be more brotherly and neighbourly to their
fellow men. Bah! I am sick of the whole subject of humanity. I shall
withdraw my pledge to the salary if the present style of preaching
continues."
"What was the text of the sermon tonight?" asked Mrs. Hardy.
"Oh, I don't remember exactly! Something about 'This night thy soul
shall be demanded,' or words like that. I don't believe in this
attempt to scare folks into heaven."
"It would take a good many sermons to scare you, Robert."
"Yes, more than two a week," replied Mr. Hardy, with a dry laugh. He
drew off his overcoat and threw himself down on the lounge in front of
the open fire. "Where are the girls?"
"Alice is upstairs reading the morning paper; Clara and Bess went over
to call on the Caxtons."
"How did they happen to go over there?"
Mrs. Hardy hesitated. Finally she said, "James came over and invited
them."
"And they know I have forbidden them to have anything to do with the
Caxtons! When they come in I will let them know I mean what I say. It
is very strange the girls do not appear to understand that."
Mr. Hardy rose from the lounge and walked across the room, then came
back and lay down again, and from his recumbent position poked the fire
savagely with the shovel.
Mrs. Hardy bit her lips and seemed on the point of replying, but said
nothing.
At last Mr. Hardy asked, "Where are the boys?"
"Will is getting out his lessons for to-morrow up in his room. George
went out about eight o'clock. He didn't say where he was going."
"It's a nice family. Is there one night in the year, Mary, when all
our children are at home?"
"Almost as many as there are when you are at home!" retorted Mrs.
Hardy. "What with your club and your lodge and your scientific society
and your reading circle and your directors' meeting, the children see
about as much of you as you do of them. How many nights in a week do
you give to us, Robert? Do you think it is strange that the children
go outside for their amusements? Our home"--Mrs. Hardy paused and
looked around at the costly interior of the room where the two
were--"our home is well furnished with everything but our own children."
The man on the lounge was silent. He felt the sharpness of the thrust
made by his wife, and knew it was too true to be denied. But Mr. Hardy
was, above all things else, selfish. He had not the remotest intention
of giving up his club or his scientific society or his frequent cosy
dinners with business men down town because his wife spent so many
lonely deserted evenings at home, and because his children were almost
strangers to him. But it annoyed him, as a respectable citizen, to
have his children making acquaintances that he did not approve, and it
grated on his old-fashioned, inherited New England ideas that his boys
and girls should be away from home so often in the evening, and
especially on Sunday evening. The maxim of Robert Hardy's life was
"Self-interest first." As long as he was not thwarted in his own
pleasures he was as good-natured as the average man. He provided
liberally for the household expenses, and his wife and children were
supplied with money and the means to travel as they requested it. But
the minute he was crossed in his own plans, or anyone demanded of him a
service that compelled some self-denial, he became hard, ill-natured,
and haughty.
He had been a member of the church at Barton for twenty-five years, one
of the trustees, and a liberal giver. He prided himself on that fact.
But so far as giving any of his time or personal service was concerned,
he would as soon have thought of giving all his property away to the
first poor man he met. His minister had this last week written him an
earnest, warm-hearted letter, expressing much pleasure at the service
he had rendered so many years as a trustee, and asking him if he would
not come to the Wednesday evening meeting that week and take some part,
whatever he chose, to help along. It was a season of anxious interest
among many in the church, and the pastor earnestly desired the presence
and help of all the members.
Robert had read the letter through hastily and smiled a little
scornfully. What! _he_ take part in a prayer meeting! He couldn't
remember when he had attended one--they were too dull for him. He
wondered at Mr. Jones for writing such a letter, and almost felt as
though he had been impertinent. He threw the letter in the waste
basket and did not even answer it. He would not have been guilty of
such a lack of courtesy in regard to a business letter, but a letter
from his minister was another thing. The idea of replying to a letter
from him never occurred to Mr. Hardy. And when Thursday night came he
went down to a meeting of the chess club and had a good time with his
favourite game: for he was a fine player, and was engaged in a series
of games which were being played for the State championship.
The superintendent of the Sunday-school had lately timidly approached
Mr. Hardy and asked him if he would not take a class of boys in the
Sunday-school. What! _he_ take a class of boys! He, the influential,
wealthy manager of one of the largest railroad shops in the world--_he_
give his time to the teaching of a Sunday-school class! He excused
himself on the score of lack of time, and the very same evening of his
interview with the superintendent he went to the theatre to hear a
roaring farce, and after he reached home spent an hour in his favourite
study of chemistry in his laboratory at the top of his house: for Mr.
Hardy was a man of considerable power as a student, and he had an
admirable physical constitution, capable of the most terrible strain.
Anything that gave him pleasure he was willing to work for. He was not
lazy; but the idea of giving his personal time and service and talents
to bless the world had no place in his mind.
And so, as he lay on the lounge that evening and listened to his wife's
plain statement concerning his selfishness, he had no intention of
giving up a single thing that gratified his tastes and fed his pride.
After a silence just about long enough for someone to make the
explanation just given, Mrs. Hardy said, speaking coldly, as if it were
a matter of indifference to her:
"Mr. Burns, the foreman, called while you were out."
"He did? What did he want?"
"He said four of the men in the casting room were severely injured this
afternoon by the bursting of one of the retorts, and the entire force
had quit work and gone home."
"Couldn't Burns supply the place of the injured men? He knows where
the extras are."
"That was what he came to see you about. He said he needed further
directions. The men flatly refused to work another minute, and went
out in a body. I don't blame them much. Robert, don't you believe God
will punish you for keeping the shops open on Sunday?"
"Nonsense, Mary," replied Mr. Hardy; yet there was a shadow of
uneasiness in his tone. "The work has got to go on. It is a work of
necessity. Railroads are public servants; they can't rest Sundays."
"Then when God tells the world that it must not work on Sundays, He
does not mean railroad men? The Fourth Commandment ought to read,
'Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy, except all ye men who work
for railroads. Ye haven't any Sunday.'"
"Mary, I didn't come from one sermon to listen to another. You're
worse than Mr. Jones."
Mr. Hardy half rose on the lounge and leaned on his elbow, looking at
his wife with every mark of displeasure on his face. Yet as he looked,
somehow there stole into his thought the memory of the old New England
home back in the Vermont Hills, and the vision of that quiet little
country village where Mary and he had been brought up together. He
seemed to see the old meeting-house on the hill, at the end of a long,
elm-shaded street that straggled through the village, and he saw
himself again as he began to fall in love with Mary, the beauty of the
village; and he had a vision of one Sunday when, walking back from
church by Mary's side, he had asked her to be his wife. It seemed to
him that a breath of the meadow just beyond Squire Hazen's place came
into the room, just as it was wafted up to him when Mary turned and
said the happy word that made that day the gladdest, proudest day he
had ever known. What, memories of the old times! What!
He seemed to come to himself, and stared around into the fire as if
wondering where he was, and he did not see the tear that rolled down
his wife's cheek and fell upon her two hands clasped in her lap. She
arose and went over to the piano, which stood in the shadow, and
sitting down, with her back to her husband, she played fragments of
music nervously. Mr. Hardy lay down on the lounge again. After a
while Mrs. Hardy wheeled about on the piano stool and said:
"Robert, don't you think you had better go over and see Mr. Burns about
the men who were hurt?"
"Why, what can I do about it? The company's doctor will see to them.
I should only be in the way. Did Burns say they were badly hurt?"
"One of them had his eyes put out, and another will have to lose both
feet. I think he said his name was Scoville."
"What, not Ward Scoville?"
"I think Burns said that was the name."
Mr. Hardy rose from the lounge, then lay down again. "Oh, well, I can
go there the first thing in the morning. I can't do anything now," he
muttered.
But there came to his memory a picture of one day when he was walking
through the machine shops. A heavy piece of casting had broken from
the end of a large hoisting derrick and would have fallen upon him and
probably killed him if this man, Scoville, at the time a workman in the
machine department, had not pulled him to one side, at the risk of his
own life. As it was, in saving the life of the manager, Scoville was
struck on the shoulder, and rendered useless for work for four weeks.
Mr. Hardy had raised his wages and advanced him to a responsible
position in the casting room. Mr. Hardy was not a man without
generosity and humane feeling; but as he lay on the lounge that evening
and thought of the cold snow outside and the distance to the shop
tenements, he readily excused himself from going out to see the man who
had once saved him, and who now lay maimed for life. If anyone thinks
it impossible that one man calling himself a Christian could be thus
indifferent to another, then he does not know the power that
selfishness can exercise over the actions of men. Mr. Hardy had one
supreme law which he obeyed, and that law was self.
Again Mrs. Hardy, who rarely ventured to oppose her husband's wishes,
turned to the piano and struck a few chords aimlessly. Then she
wheeled about and said abruptly:
"Robert, the cook gave warning tonight that she must go home at once."
Mr. Hardy had begun to doze a little, but at this sudden statement he
sat up and exclaimed:
"Well, you _are_ the bearer of bad news to-night, Mary! What's the
matter with everybody? I suppose the cook wants more pay."
Mrs. Hardy replied quietly: "Her sister is dying. And do you know, I
believe I have never given the girl credit for much feeling. She
always seemed to me to lack there, though she is certainly the most
faithful and efficient servant we ever had in the house. She came in
just after Mr. Burns left, and broke down, crying bitterly. It seems
her sister is married to one of the railroad men here in town, and has
been ailing with consumption for some months. She is very poor, and a
large family has kept her struggling for mere existence. The cook was
almost beside herself with grief as she told the story, and said she
must leave us and care for her sister, who could not live more than a
week at the longest. I pitied the poor girl. Robert, don't you think
we could do something for the family? We have so much ourselves. We
could easily help them and not miss a single luxury."
"And where would such help end? If we give to every needy person who
comes along we shall be beggars ourselves. Besides, I can't afford it.
The boys are a heavy expense to me while they are in college, and the
company has been cutting down salaries lately. If the cook's sister is
married to a railroad man, he is probably getting good wages and can
support her all right."
"What if that railroad man were injured and made a cripple for life?"
inquired Mrs. Hardy quietly.
"Then the insurance companies or the societies can help them out. I
don't see how we can make every case that comes along our care. There
would be no end of it if we once began."
"As nearly as I can find out," continued Mrs. Hardy, without replying
to her husband's remarks, "cook's sister is married to one of the men
who was hurt this afternoon. She talks so brokenly in our language
that I could not make out exactly how it is; and she was much excited.
Suppose it was Scoville: couldn't you do something for them then,
Robert?"
"I might," replied Mr. Hardy briefly. "But I can tell you, I have more
calls for my money now than I can meet. Take the church expenses for
example. Why, we are called upon to give to some cause or other every
week, besides our regular pledges for current expenses. It's a
constant drain. I shall have to cut down on my pledge. We can't be
giving to everything all the time, and have anything ourselves."
Mr. Hardy spoke with a touch of indignation. His wife glanced around
the almost palatial room and smiled; then her face grew a little stern
and almost forbidding, as she remembered that only last week her
husband had spent $150 for a new electrical apparatus to experiment
with in his laboratory. And now he was talking hard times, and
grudging the small sums he gave to religious objects in connection with
his church, and thinking he could not afford to help the family of a
man who had once saved his life.
Again she turned to the piano and played a while, but she could not be
rested by the music as sometimes she had been. When she finally arose
and walked over by the table near the end of the lounge, Mr. Hardy was
asleep, and she sat down by the table gazing into the open fire
drearily, a look of sorrow and unrest on the face still beautiful but
worn by years of disappointment and the loss of that respect and
admiration she once held for the man who had vowed at the altar to make
her 'happy.' She had not wholly lost her love for him, but she was
fast losing the best part of it, the love which has its daily source in
an inborn respect. When respect is gone, love is not long in following
after.
She sat thus for half an hour, and was at last aroused by the two
girls, Clara and Bess, coming in. They were laughing and talking
together, and had evidently parted with someone at the door. Mrs.
Hardy went out into the hallway.
"Hush, girls, your father is asleep! You know how he feels to be
awakened suddenly by noise. But he has been waiting up for you."
"Then I guess we'll go upstairs without bidding him good-night," said
Clara abruptly. "I don't want to be lectured about going over to the
Caxtons'."
"No; I want to see you both and have a little talk with you. Come in
here." Mrs. Hardy drew the two girls into the front room and pulled
the curtains together over the arch opening into the room where Mr.
Hardy lay. "Now tell me, girls, why did your father forbid your going
over to the Caxtons'? I did not know of it until to-night. Has it
something to do with James?"
Neither of the girls said anything for a minute. Then, Bess, who was
the younger of the two and famous for startling the family with very
sensational remarks, replied, "James and Clara are engaged; and they
are going to be married tomorrow."
Mrs. Hardy looked at Clara, who grew very red in the face, and then, to
the surprise of her mother and Bess, the girl burst out into a violent
fit of crying. Mrs. Hardy gathered her into her arms as in the olden
times when she was a little child and soothed her into quietness.
"Tell me all about it, dear. I did not know you cared for James in
that way."
"But I do," sobbed Clara. "And father guessed something and forbade us
going there any more. But I didn't think he would mind it if Bess and
I went just this one night. I couldn't help it, anyway. Mother, isn't
it right for people to love each other?"
"Tisn't proper to talk about such things on Sunday," said Bess,
solemnly.
"Clara," said Mrs. Hardy, "why, you're only a child yet! Is it true
that James is--why, he is only a boy!"
"He is twenty-one and I am eighteen, and he's earning forty dollars a
month in the office and is one of the best stenographers in the State.
We've talked it over, and I wish we could be married to-morrow, so!"
Clara burst out with it all at once, while Bess remarked quietly:--
"Yes, they're real sensible, and I think James is nice; but when I
marry I want more than forty dollars a month for candy alone. And then
he isn't particularly handsome."
"He is too!" cried Clara. "And he's good and brave and splendid, and
I'd rather have him than a thousand such men as Lancey Cummings!
Mother, I don't want money. It hasn't made you happy!"
"Hush, dear!" Mrs. Hardy felt as if a blow had smitten her in the
face. She was silent then.
Clara put her arms around her mother and whispered: "Forgive me,
mother! I didn't mean to hurt you. But I am so unhappy."
Unhappy! And yet the girl was just beginning to blossom out towards
the face of God under the influence of that most divine and tender and
true feeling that ever comes to a girl who knows that a true, brave man
loves her with all his soul. And some people would have us leave this
subject to the flippant novelist instead of treating it as Christ did
when He said, "For this cause [that is, for love] shall a man leave his
father and mother, and shall cleave unto his wife."
Mrs. Hardy was on the point of saying something when the sound of
peculiar steps on the stairs was heard, and shortly after Alice pushed
the curtains aside and came in. Alice was the oldest girl in the
family. She was a cripple, the result of an accident when a child, and
she carried a crutch, using it with much skill and even grace. The
minute she entered the room she saw something was happening, but she
simply said:--
"Mother, isn't it a little strange father sleeps so soundly? I went up
to him and spoke to him just now, thinking he was just lying there, and
he didn't answer, and then I saw he was asleep. But I never knew him
to sleep so Sunday night. He usually reads up in the study."
"Perhaps he is sick; I will go and see."
Mrs. Hardy rose and went into the other room; and just then the younger
boy, Will, came downstairs. He said something to his mother as he
passed through the room, carrying one of his books in his hand and then
came in where the girls were.
"Say, Alice, translate this passage for me, will you? Confound the old
Romans anyway! What do I care about the way they fought their old
battles and built their old one-horse bridges! What makes me angry is
the way Caesar has of telling a thing. Why can't he drive right
straight ahead instead of beating about the bush so? If I couldn't get
up a better language than those old duffers used to write their books
in, I'd lie down and die. I can't find the old verb to that sentence
anyway. Maybe it's around on the other page somewhere, or maybe Caesar
left it out just on purpose to plague us boys."
And Will shied the book over to Alice, who good-naturedly began to
read, while that much suffering youth sat down by Bess and began to
tease her and Clara.
"What are you and Clara doing at this time of day? Time you youngsters
were going up stairs. Play us a little tune, Bessie, will you? What
you been crying for, Clara Vere de Vere?"
"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, Will, studying on
Sundays," said Bess reprovingly and with dignity.
"No worse than sparking Sunday nights," retorted the incorrigible Will.
"I haven't been," replied Bess, indignantly. "I've been with Clara."
"She doesn't need any help, does she?" inquired Will, innocently. And
going over where Clara lay with her face hid in the pillow of a large
couch, Will tried to pull the pillow out from under her head.
"Let me alone, Will. I don't feel well," said a muffled voice from the
pillow.
"Pshaw! you're fooling."
"No, I'm not. Let me alone."
"Come here, or I won't read your sentence for you," called Alice. And
Will reluctantly withdrew, for he knew from experience that Alice would
keep her word.
"All right. Now go ahead; not too fast. Here! Wait a minute! Let me
write her down. I don't intend to miss to-morrow if I can help it.
And old Romulus will call me up on this very passage, I know. Be just
like him, though, to strike me on the review."
At that minute the door opened and in came George, the elder boy, and
the oldest of the group of children. He hung up hat and coat, and
strolled into the room.
"Where's mother?"
"She's in the other room," answered Bess. "Father's been asleep, and
mother was afraid he was going to have a fever."
"That's one of your stories," said George, who seemed in a good-natured
mood. He sat down and drew his little sister towards him and whispered
to her:
"Say, Bess, I want some money again."
"Awfully?" whispered Bess.
"Yes, for a special reason. Do you think you could let me have a
little?"
"Why, of course! you can have all my month's allowance. But why don't
you ask father?"
"No; I've asked him too much lately. He refused point blank last time.
I didn't like the way he spoke."
"Well, you can have all mine," said Bess, whispering.
George and she were great friends, and there was not a thing that
Bessie would not have done for her big brother, who was her hero. What
he wanted with so much money she never asked.
They were still whispering together, and Clara had just risen to go
upstairs, and Alice and Will had finished the translation, and Will was
just on the point of seeing how near he could come to throwing the
Commentaries of Caesar into an ornamental Japanese jar across the room,
when Mrs. Hardy parted the curtains at the arch and beckoned her
children to come into the next room. Her face was exceedingly pale,
and she was trembling as if with some great terror.
The children all cried out in surprise and hurried into the next room.
But before relating what happened there, we will follow Mr. Hardy into
the experience he had, just after falling asleep upon the lounge by the
open fire.
It seemed to him that he stepped at once from the room where he lay
into a place such as he had never seen before, where the one great idea
that filled his entire thought was that of the Present Moment. Spread
out before him as if reproduced by a phonograph and a magic lantern
combined was the moving panorama of the entire world. He thought he
saw into every home, every public place of business, every saloon and
place of amusement, every shop and every farm, every place of industry,
pleasure, and vice upon the face of the globe. And he thought he could
hear the world's conversation, catch its sobs of suffering--nay, even
catch the meaning of unspoken thoughts of the heart. With that absurd
rapidity peculiar to certain dreams, he fancied that over every city on
the globe was placed a glass cover through which he could look, and
through which the sounds of the city's industry came to him. But he
thought that he ascertained that by lifting off one of these covers he
could hear with greater distinctness the thoughts of the inhabitants,
and see all they were doing and suffering, with the most minute
exactness. He looked for the place of his own town--Barton. There it
lay in its geographical spot on the globe, and he thought that, moved
by an impulse he could not resist, he lifted off the cover and bent
down to see and hear.
The first thing he saw was his minister's home. It was just after the
Sunday evening service, the one which Mr. Hardy had thought so dull.
Mr. Jones was talking over the evening with his wife.
"My dear," he said, "I feel about discouraged. Of what use is all our
praying and longing for the Holy Spirit, when our own church members
are so cold and unspiritual that all His influence is destroyed? You
know I made a special plea to all the members to come out to-night, yet
only a handful were there. I feel like giving up the struggle. You
know I could make a better living in literary work, and the children
could be better cared for then."
"But, John, it was a bad night to get out: you must remember that."
"But only fifty out of a church membership of four hundred, most of
them living near by! It doesn't seem just right to me."
"Mr. Hardy was there. Did you see him?"
"Yes; after service I went and spoke to him, and he treated me very
coldly. And yet he is the most wealthy, and in some ways the most
gifted, church member we have. He could do great things for the good
of this community, if"--
Suddenly Mr. Hardy thought the minister changed into the Sunday-school
superintendent, and he was walking down the street thinking about his
classes in the school, and Mr. Hardy thought he could hear the
superintendent's thoughts, as if his ear were at a phonograph.
"It's too bad! That class of boys I wanted Mr. Hardy to take left the
school because no one could be found to teach them. And now Bob Wilson
has got into trouble and been arrested for petty thieving. It will be
a terrible blow to his poor mother. Oh, why is it that men like Mr.
Hardy cannot be made to see the importance of work in the Sunday
School? With his knowledge of chemistry and geology, he could have
reached that class of boys and invited them to his home, up into his
laboratory, and exercised an influence over them they would never
outgrow. Oh! it's a strange thing to me that men of such possibilities
do not realize their power!"
The superintendent passed along shaking his head sorrowfully, and Mr.
Hardy, who seemed guided by some power he could not resist, and
compelled to listen whether he liked it or not, next found himself
looking into one of the railroad-shop tenements; where the man Scoville
was lying, awaiting amputation of both feet after the terrible
accident. Scoville's wife lay upon a ragged lounge, while Mrs. Hardy's
cook kneeled by her side and in her native Swedish tongue tried to
comfort the poor woman. So it was true that these two were sisters.
The man was still conscious, and suffering unspeakably. The railroad
surgeon had been sent for, but had not arrived. Three or four men and
their wives had come in to do what they could. Mr. Burns, the foreman,
was among them. One of the men spoke in a whisper to him:
"Have you been to see Mr. Hardy?"
"Yes; but he was at church. I left word about the accident."
"At church! So even the devil sometimes goes to church. What for, I
wonder? Will he be here, think?"
"Don't know!" replied Mr. Burns curtly.
"Do you mind when he [pointing to Scoville] saved Mr. Hardy's life?"
"Remember it well enough; was standing close by."
"What'll be done with the children when Scoville goes, eh?"
"Don't know."
Just then the surgeon came in and preparations were rapidly made for
the operation. The last that Mr. Hardy heard was the shriek of the
poor wife as she struggled to her feet and fell in a fit across the
floor where two of the youngest children clung terrified to her dress,
and the father cried out, tears of agony and despair running down his
face. "My God, what a hell this world is!"
The next scene was a room where everything appeared confused at first,
but finally grew more distinct and terrible in its significance. The
first person Mr. Hardy recognised was his own oldest boy, George, in
company with a group of young men engaged in--what! He rubbed his eyes
and stared, painfully. Yes: they were gambling. So here was where
George spent all his money, and Bessie's too! Nothing that the
miserable father had seen so far cut him to the quick quite so sharply
as this. He had prided himself on his own freedom from vices, and had
an honest horror of them: for Mr. Hardy was not a monster of iniquity,
only an intensely selfish man. Gambling, drinking, impurity--all the
physical vices--were to Mr. Hardy the lowest degradation.
The thought that his own son had fallen into this pit was terrible to
him. But he was compelled to look and listen. All the young men were
smoking, and beer and wine, which stood on a buffet at one side of the
room, were plentifully partaken of.
"I say, George," said a very flashily-dressed youth, who was smoking
that invention of the devil, a cigarette, "your old man would rub his
eyes to see you here, eh?"
"Well, I should remark he would," replied George, as he shuffled the
cards and then helped himself to a drink.
"I say, George," said the first speaker, "your sister Bess is getting
to be a beauty. Introduce me, will you?"
"No, I won't," said George shortly. He had been losing all the
evening, and he felt nervous and irritable.
"Ah! We are too bad, eh?"
George made some fierce reply, and the other fellow struck him.
Instantly George sprang to his feet and a fight took place. Mr. Hardy
could not bear it any longer. He thought he broke away from the scene
by the exercise of a great determination.
Next he found himself looking into his own home. It seemed to him it
was an evening when he and all the children had gone out and Mrs. Hardy
sat alone, looking into the fire as she had been looking before he fell
asleep. She was thinking, and her thoughts were like burning coals as
they fell into Mr. Hardy's heart and scorched him, as no other scene,
not even the last, had done.
"My husband!" Mrs. Hardy was saying to herself, "how long it is since
he gave me a caress, kissed me when he went to his work, or laid his
hand lovingly on my cheek as he used to do! How brave, and handsome,
and good I used to think him in the old Vermont days when we were
struggling for our little home, and his best thought was of the home
and of the wife! But the years have changed him; oh, yes! they have
changed him bitterly. I wonder if he realises my hunger for his
affection? Of what value to me are all these baubles wealth brings
compared with a loving look, a tender smile, an affectionate caress! O
Robert! Robert! come back to me! for I am so lonely, so lonely! Would
to God all our riches might be taken from us and our position in
Society be lost to us! for I am fast losing my love for him who is my
husband. Great and long-suffering and forgiving God, help me! I feel
wicked sometimes. I cannot bear this kind of a life. It is killing
me! It is robbing me of all that life contains that is sweet and true.
O Father of mercies, for Jesus' sake do not let me grow insane or
without belief! O Robert, Robert! my lover, my husband; I will, I will
love you!" And Mrs. Hardy fell on her knees by the side of the couch
and buried her face in its cushions and sobbed and prayed.
Suddenly the whole scene changed, and Mr. Hardy, who had stretched out
his arms to comfort his wife as in the old days when love was young,
felt himself carried by an irresistible power up away from the earth,
past the stars and planets and suns and satellites that blazed like
gems in space; on, on for what seemed to him like ages of time, until
even the thought of time grew indistinct; on and up and into the
presence of the most mighty Face he had ever looked into. It was the
Face of Eternity. On its brow was written in words of blazing light
the one word "Now." And as he looked into that calm, awful Face and
read that word, Mr. Hardy felt his soul crumble within him. When the
Face spoke it was the speech of a thousand oceans heaved by a million
tempests, yet through the terror of it ran a thread of music--a still,
sweet sound like everlasting love--as if angels sang somewhere a divine
accompaniment. And the Face said:
"Child of humanity, you have neglected and despised me for fifty years.
You have lived for yourself. You have been careless and thoughtless
of the world's great needs. The time of your redemption is short. It
has been appointed you by Him who rules the world that you should have
but seven more days to live upon the earth--seven days to help redeem
your soul from everlasting shame and death. Mortal, see to it that
thou use the precious time like those who toil for jewels in the mine
beneath the sea. I who speak unto thee am Eternity."
Then Robert Hardy thought he fell prostrate before that awful face and
begged in bitterest terror for a longer lease of life.
"Seven days! Why it will be but seven swift seconds to redeem my past!
Seven days! It will be a nothing in the marking of time! O mighty
Power, grant me longer! Seven weeks! Seven years! And I will live
for Thee as never mortal yet lived!"
And Robert Hardy sobbed and held his arms beseechingly up toward that
most resplendent Face. And as he thus stretched out his arms, the Face
bent down, toward his, and he thought a smile of pity gleamed upon it
and he hoped that more time would be granted him; and then, as it came
nearer, he suddenly awoke, and there was his own wife bending over him,
and a tear from her face fell upon his own, as she said:
"Robert! Robert!"
Mr. Hardy sat up confused and trembling. Then he clasped his wife to
him and kissed her as he used to do. And then, to her great amazement,
he related to her in a low tone the dream he had just had. Mrs. Hardy
listened in the most undisguised astonishment. But what followed
filled her heart with fear.
"Mary," said her husband, with the utmost solemnity, "I cannot regard
this as a dream alone. I have awakened with the firm conviction that I
have only seven days left to live. I feel that God has spoken to me;
and I have only seven days more to do my work in this world."
"O Robert! it was only a dream."
"No; it was more, Mary. You know I am not imaginative or superstitious
in the least. You know I never dream. And this was something else. I
shall die out of this world a week from to-night. Are the children
here? Call them in."
Mr. Hardy spoke in a tone of such calm conviction, that Mrs. Hardy was
filled with wonder and fear. She went to the curtain, and, as we have
already recorded, she called the children into the other room.
Mr. Hardy gazed upon his children with a look they had not seen upon
his face for years. Briefly but calmly he related his experience,
omitting the details of the vision and all mention of the scene where
George had appeared, and then declared with a solemnity and
impressiveness that could not be resisted:
"My dear children, I have not lived as I should. I have not been to
you the father I ought to have been. I have lived a very selfish,
useless life. I have only seven more days to live. God has spoken to
me. I am--"
He broke off suddenly, and, sobbing as only a strong man can, he drew
his wife toward him and caressed her, while Bess crept up and put her
arms about her father's neck.
The terrible suspicion shot into Mrs. Hardy's mind that her husband was
insane. The children were terrified; only Alice seemed to catch the
reflection of her mother's thought. At the same time, Mr. Hardy seemed
to feel the suspicion held by them.
"No," he said, as if in answer to a spoken charge, "I am not insane. I
never was more calm. I am in possession of all my faculties. But I
have looked into the Face of Eternity this night and I know, I know
that in seven days God will require my soul. Mary," he turned to his
wife with the most beseeching cry, "Mary, do you believe me?"
She looked into her husband's face and saw there the old look. Reason,
the noblest of all gifts, shone out of that noble face now lighted up
with the old love, and standing on the brink of the other world. And
Mrs. Hardy, looking her husband in the face, replied:
"Yes, Robert, I believe you. You may be mistaken in this impression
about the time left you to live, but you are not insane."
"O God, I thank Thee for that!" cried Mr. Hardy.
Often during the most remarkable week he ever lived Mr. Hardy reposed
in that implicit belief of his wife in his sanity.
There was a pause. Then Mr. Hardy asked George to bring the Bible. He
read from John's Gospel that matchless prayer of Christ in the
seventeenth chapter; then kneeling down, he prayed as he had never
prayed before, that in the week allotted him to live he might know how
to bless the world and serve his Master best. And when he arose and
looked about upon his wife and children, it was with the look of one
who has been into the very presence chamber of the only living God. At
the same moment, so fast had the time gone in the excitement, the clock
upon the mantel struck the hour of midnight--and the first of Robert
Hardy's seven days had begun!
MONDAY--THE FIRST DAY.
When Mr. Hardy woke on the morning of the first of the seven days left
him to live, he was on the point of getting ready for his day's
business, as usual, when the memory of his dream flashed upon him, and
he was appalled to decide what he should do first. Breakfast was
generally a hurried and silent meal with him. The children usually
came straggling down at irregular intervals, and it was very seldom
that the family all sat down together. This morning Mr. Hardy waited
until all had appeared, and while they were eating he held a family
council.
His wife was evidently in great excitement and anxiety, and yet the
love and tenderness she felt coming back to her from her husband gave
her face a look of beauty that had been a stranger to it for years.
The children were affected in various ways by their father's remarkable
change. George was sullen and silent. Will looked thoughtful and
troubled. Alice, a girl of very strong and decided opinions and
character, greeted her father with a kiss and seemed to understand the
new relations he now sustained to them all. Clara appeared terrified,
as if death had already come into the house, and several times she
broke down crying at the table, and finally went away into the sitting
room. Bess sat next to her father, as she always did, and was the most
cheerful of all, taking a very calm and philosophical view of the
situation, so that Mr. Hardy smiled once or twice as she gave her
advice.
Mr. Hardy was pale but calm. The impression of the night before was
evidently deepening with him. It would have been absurd to call him
insane. His wife was obliged to confess to herself that he had never
appeared more sound in judgment and calm in speech. He was naturally a
man of very strong will. His passions, as we have already seen, were
under control. Never in all his life had he felt so self-contained, so
free from nervousness, so capable of sustained effort. But the one
great thought that filled his mind was that of the shortness of the
time.
"Almighty God," was his prayer, "show me how to use these seven days in
the wisest and best manner."
"Robert, what will you do to-day?" asked Mrs. Hardy.
"I have been thinking, dear, and I believe my first duty is to God. We
have not had morning worship together for a long time. After we have
knelt as a family in prayer to Him, I believe He will give me wisdom to
know what I ought to do."
"I think father ought to stay at home with us all the time," said Bess.
"Robert," said Mrs. Hardy, who could not comprehend the full meaning of
the situation much better than little Bess, "will you give up your
business? How can you attend to it? Will you have the strength and
the patience while labouring under this impression?"
"I have already thought over that. Yes; I believe I ought to go right
on. I don't see what would be gained by severing my connection with
the company."
"Will you tell the company you have only"--Mrs. Hardy could not say the
words. They choked her.
"What would you do, Alice?" asked her father, turning to his oldest
daughter, who, although a cripple, had more than once revealed to the
family great powers of judgment and decision.
"I would not say anything to the company about it," replied Alice
finally.
"That is the way I feel," said Mr. Hardy with a nod of approval. "They
would not understand it. My successor in the office will be young
Wellman, in all probability, and he is perfectly competent to carry on
the work. I feel as if this matter were one that belonged to the
family. I shall of course arrange my business affairs with reference
to the situation, and George can give me half a day for the details.
But you know, Mary, I have always kept my business in such shape that
in any case of accident or sudden death matters could easily be
arranged. Thank God! I shall not have to take time for those matters
that I ought to give to more serious and important duties."
It was true that Mr. Hardy, who was a man of very methodical habits in
a business way, had always arranged his affairs with reference to
accidental removal. His business as manager necessitated his being on
the road a great deal, and he realized, as many railroad men do
realize, the liability of sudden death.
But such a thought had not had any influence on his actions to make him
less selfish. He had thought, as all men do, that he should probably
live right along after all; that death might take the engineer or
conductor or fireman, but would pass him by.
Suddenly Will spoke up: "Father, do you want George and me to leave
college?"
"Certainly not, my boy. What would be gained by that? I want you to
keep right on just as if I were going to live fifty years more."
George did not say anything. He looked at his father as if he doubted
his sanity.
His father noticed the look, and a terrible wave of anguish swept over
him as he recalled the part of his vision in which he had seen his
oldest son in the gambling room.
Again the prayer he had been silently praying all the morning went up
out of his heart: "Almighty God, show me how to use the seven days most
wisely."
"Father," said Bess suddenly, "what will you do about Jim and Clara?
Did you know they were engaged?"
"Bess!" said Clara passionately. Then she stopped suddenly, and,
seeing her father's brow grow dark, she cowered, afraid of what was
coming.
But Mr. Hardy looked at the world differently this morning.
Twenty-four hours before he would have treated Bessie's remark as he
usually treated her surprising revelations of the secrets of the
family. He would have laughed at it a little, and sternly commanded
Clara to break the engagement, if there was one, at once: for James
Caxton was not at all the sort of man Mr. Hardy wanted to have come
into the family. He was poor, to begin with. More than all, his
father had been the means of defeating Mr. Hardy in a municipal
election where a place of influence and honour was in dispute. Mr.
Hardy had never forgotten or forgiven it. When he began to see his
children intimate with the Caxtons, he forbade their going to the
house, with the result already described.
Mr. Hardy looked at Clara and said very tenderly: "Clara, we must have
a good talk about this. You know your father loves you and wants you
to be happy and----" Mr. Hardy stopped in his emotion, and Clara burst
into tears and left the table.
"Come," cried Mr. Hardy after a moment, during which no one seemed
inclined to speak; "let us ask God to give us all wisdom at this time."
George made a motion as if to go out.
"My son," called Mr. Hardy after him gently, "won't you stay with the
rest of us?"
George sat down with a shamefaced look, Alice and Clara came back, and
Mr. Hardy read that famous sixth chapter of Ephesians, beginning,
"Children, obey your parents in the Lord." Then in a brief but earnest
prayer he asked God's help and blessing on all the day, and rose to
face it, the great burden of his responsibility beginning to rest upon
him for the first time. He sat down for a moment by his wife and
kissed her, putting his arm about her, while Bess climbed up on the
side of the couch and the boys stood irresolute and wondering. Any
outward mark of affection was so unusual on the part of their father
that they felt awkward in the presence of it. Mrs. Hardy was almost
overcome.
"O Robert, I cannot bear it! Surely it was nothing more than a dream!
It couldn't have been anything more. You are not going to be called
away from us so soon."
"Mary, I would God that I had seven years to atone for my neglect and
selfishness towards you alone. But I am certain that God has granted
me but seven days. I must act. God help me! Boys, you will be late.
We will all be at home this evening. Alice, care for your mother and
cheer her up. You are a good girl, and----"
Again Mr. Hardy broke down as he thought of the many years he had
practically ignored this brave, strong, uncomplaining nature in his own
house, and remorse tore him fiercely as he recalled how he had
persistently discouraged all the poor girl's ambitious efforts to make
her way as an artist, not on account of the expense--for Mr. Hardy was
not a niggard in that respect--but because he had a false idea
concerning the profession. He looked at the girl now as she limped
across the floor to her mother, her pale, intellectual face brightened
by her love, and her eyes shining with tears at her father's unusual
praise. "O God," was the inner cry of Mr. Hardy's heart, "what have I
not neglected when I had it in my power to create so much happiness!"
The thought almost unnerved him; and for a moment he felt like sitting
down to do nothing. But only for a moment. He rose briskly, went out
into the hall and put on his overcoat, and, coming back a moment, said,
"I am going down to see poor Scoville the first thing. I shall be so
busy you must not look for me at lunch. But I will be back to six
o'clock dinner. Good-bye!" He kissed his wife tenderly, and she clung
to him sobbing. Then he kissed his daughters, a thing he had not done
since they were babies, and shook hands with the boys, and marched out
like one going to execution, something bright glistening in his own
eyes.
Ah! ye fathers and husbands, you who are toiling for the dear ones at
home, how many of you have grown so unaccustomed to the tender
affections of home that your own wife would almost faint and think
something was going to happen to you if you kissed her good-bye when
you went away to your work in the morning! How do you know that she
who has been your faithful friend and lover all these years, and nursed
you through peevish sickness and done a thousand things every day for
you without so much as a word of thanks or praise on your part--how do
you know she does not care for these demonstrations of affection? And
if she does not, how does it happen except through neglect? Call it
not a little thing. It is of such little things that heaven is made,
and it is of the home where such little things are found that it can
truly be said, "Love is master, and the Evil One cannot find an
entrance to blot with his foul tread the sweetest thing on earth."
Mr. Hardy hurried down towards the tenement where Ward Scoville lived,
revolving in his mind as he went along plans for his future happiness
and comfort.