seemed to him the most necessary part of it all with conscientious
fidelity. But his mind, a good part of the time, was with the men in
the shops. He could not escape the conviction that if a railroad
company had the willingness to do so, it could make the surroundings of
their men safer and happier without getting poorer work, or even losing
any money by it.
When noon sounded he went home, resolved to do whatever lay in his
power to make the men feel that they were regarded as something more
than machines.
George was downstairs when his father came in, and looked at him with
curiosity rather than with any feeling of shame for the scene of the
night before. After lunch was over, Mr. Hardy called his son into the
study for a little talk with him before going down to the funeral.
"I do not need to tell you, George," began his father quietly but with
feeling, "that I felt the disgrace of your drunkenness last night very
bitterly. You cannot know the feelings of your father and mother in
that respect. But I did not call you in here to reproach you for your
vices. I want to know what you intend to do in the face of the present
conditions."
Mr. Hardy paused, then went on again: "I am perfectly aware, George,
that you regard my dream as a fancy, and think I am probably out of my
mind. Isn't that true?" Mr. Hardy looked George full in the face, and
the young man stammered:
"Well--I--ah--yes--I--don't just understand----"
"At the same time," went on his father, "I realise that nothing but a
conviction of reality could produce the change in me which you and all
the rest of the family must acknowledge has taken place. And you must
confess that I am acting far more rationally than I did before my dream
occurred. It is not natural for a father to neglect his own children,
and I have done it. It is not rational that he should spend his time
and money and strength on himself so as to grow intensely selfish, and
I have done that. My son, you may doubt me, but I am firmly convinced
that I shall not be alive here after next Sunday. I am trying to live
as I ought to live under those conditions. My son," Mr. Hardy spoke
with a dignity and a certain impressiveness which George could not but
feel, "I want you to do as you know you ought to do under the
circumstances. When I am gone, your mother and the girls will look to
you for advice and direction. You will probably have to leave college
for a little while. We will talk that over this evening. But I want
you to promise me that you will not touch another glass of liquor or
handle another card as long as you live."
George laughed a little uneasily, and then lied outright: "I don't see
the harm of a game once in a while just for fun. I don't play for
stakes as some fellows do."
"George," said his father, looking at him steadily, "you have not told
the truth. You were gambling only a few nights ago. It is useless for
you to deny it. That is where the very liberal allowance I have given
you has been squandered."
George turned deathly pale and sat with bowed head while his father
went on almost sternly: "Consider your mother, George, whose heart
almost broke when you came in last night. I don't ask you to consider
me. I have not been to you what a father ought to be. But if you love
your mother and sisters, and have any self-respect left, you will let
drink and cards alone after this. In the sight of God, my dear boy,
remember what He made you for. You are young. You have all of life
before you. You can make a splendid record if God spares your life. I
would gladly give all I possess to stand where you do to-day, and live
my life over again. I can't do it. The past is irrevocable. But one
can always repent. George, believe me, your mother would rather see
you in your coffin than see you come home again as you did last night.
We love you."
Mr. Hardy, proud man as he was, could say no more. He laid his hand on
the boy's head as if he were a young lad again, and said simply, "Don't
disappoint God, my boy," and went out, leaving his son sitting there
almost overcome by his father's powerful appeal, but not yet ready to
yield himself to the still small voice that spoke within even, more
powerfully, and whispered to him, "My son, give Me thine heart. Cease
to do evil; learn to do well. Cleanse thy ways and follow after
righteousness."
It was one o'clock when Mr. Hardy came downstairs, and as he came into
the room where Mrs. Hardy and the girls were sitting, he happened to
think of some business matters between himself and his only brother,
who lived in the next town, twenty miles down the road.
He spoke of the matter to Mrs. Hardy, and she suggested that Will go
down on the three o'clock train with the papers Mr. Hardy wanted to
have his brother look over, and come back on the six o'clock in time
for dinner.
Clara asked if she couldn't go too, and Bessie added her request, as
she had not seen her aunt for some time. Mr. Hardy saw no objection to
their going, only he reminded them that he wanted them all back at six.
Alice volunteered to amuse George at home while all the rest were gone,
and Mr. and Mrs. Hardy departed for the funeral, Mr. Hardy's thoughts
still absorbed for the most part with his older boy. Clara had asked
no questions concerning the interview with James, and her father simply
stated that they could have a good talk about it in the evening.
The tenement at No. 760 was crowded, and in spite of the wintry weather
large numbers of men and women stood outside in the snow. Mr. Hardy
had ordered his sleigh, and he and his wife had gone down to the house
in that, ready to take someone to the cemetery.
The simple service as it began was exceedingly impressive to Mr. Hardy.
Most of the neighbours present looked at him and his well-dressed wife
in sullen surprise. She noticed the looks with a heightening colour;
but Mr. Hardy was too much absorbed in his thought of what he had done
and left undone in this family to be influenced by the behaviour of
those about him.
Mr. Jones offered a prayer for the comfort of God to rest on the
stricken family. He then read a short passage from John's Gospel
appropriate to the occasion, and said a few simple words, mostly
addressed to the neighbours present. The poor widow had been removed
to a small room upstairs, and lay there, cared for by the faithful
sister. The minister had nearly concluded his remarks when a voice was
heard in the room above, followed by alarmed expostulations. Then
there was a rapid movement in the narrow hall, and, with a scream of
frenzy, Mrs. Scoville rushed down the stairs and burst into the room
where the dead body of her husband lay. She had suddenly awakened out
of the fainting stupor in which she had been lying since her husband's
death, and realised what was going on in the house with a quick
gathering of passion and strength, such as even the dying sometimes are
known to possess. She had escaped from her sister and the neighbour
who were watching with her, and, crazy with grief, flung herself over
the coffin, moaning and crying out in such heart-breaking accents that
all present were for a moment flung into a state of inaction and awe.
Mrs. Hardy was first to move toward the stricken woman. Where did the
wife of the once haughty and proud man learn the touch of sympathy that
drew that other poor sister nearer to her, and finally soothed her into
quietness? Certain it is that suffering in her own home had
marvellously taught the richly dressed woman, the refined, cultured
lady, to hold this other one to be of the same household of God with
her. So it was that she finally succeeded in drawing her away into the
other room, and there held her gasping for breath, now that the brief
strength was spent, and crying feebly, "O God, O God, help me! Don't
keep me here in this world any longer!"
If this brief scene filled the neighbours with pity, what shall be said
of its effect on Robert Hardy? For a moment it seemed to him more than
he could bear. He started to his feet and put his hands before his
face. Then calming himself by a great effort, he sat down and his face
became almost like a stone in its rigidity. When his wife finally
succeeded in getting the woman into the rear room, his face relaxed and
he breathed more easily; but as soon as possible he arose and went out
and stood silent there until the body was brought out and placed in the
hearse. Then he went in and spoke a few words to his wife, and told
Mr. Jones that he could take four or five to the cemetery if they
wished to go. Mrs. Hardy would stay with the suffering widow until he
came back. Mr. Hardy also whispered something to his minister, and
gave him a large roll of bills to be used for the family. Then he went
out again.
That ride in the cold gray of the declining winter afternoon was a
bitter experience to Robert. He roused himself at the grave as he
heard the words, "Raise us from the death of sin unto the resurrection
of righteousness," and something like a gleam of hope shot through his
heart at the words. Surely there was mercy with Him who had conquered
death for the sake of the human race. He drove back with more peace of
soul than he had thought possible. By the time he had reached the shop
tenements it was growing dark. He went home with his wife and thought
with something of a feeling of pleasure of the evening before him with
his family. The second day had been more agitating in some ways than
his first.
He had been unnerved at the funeral, and had felt remorse more keenly
than he had once thought possible. As he reviewed the events of the
day with his wife, he felt dissatisfied. And yet he had truly tried to
do his duty in the light of eternity. What more could he do?
He felt anxious about George, and told his wife of the conversation he
had had with him. Mrs. Hardy felt the same anxiety as her husband.
After the horses were put up and the father and mother had gone into
the house, they continued the conversation. Alice was upstairs with
George, and the other children had not come back. It was dark, but
husband and wife sat by the light of the open fire and talked together
until nearly six o'clock. Mr. Hardy had just said something about
Clara, and Mrs. Hardy replied, "Isn't it about time they were here?"
when the telephone bell rang in the little office adjoining the
hallway, connected by wire with the shops, where Mr. Hardy attended to
some of the business of the company. He went in and answered the call,
and a series of sharp exclamations and questions was soon followed by
his coming back into the room where his wife sat. By the light of the
open fire she could see that he was very pale. His overcoat was lying
on the couch where he had thrown it as he came in. He hastily put it
on, and then said to his wife:
"Mary, there has been an accident to the six o'clock way-train between
Baldwin and here, and Burns has telephoned me to come down. Don't be
alarmed. We will hope for the best."
Mrs. Hardy started up.
"Why, Will and Bess and Clara were coming home on that train!"
"Mary, let us hope for the best." Mr. Hardy's voice trembled, but he
tried to speak calmly and in comfort.
"What did Mr. Burns telephone? Tell me all, Robert. I can bear it
with you."
"He telephoned that the train was derailed and a dozen people killed
and as many injured. I must go down the road at once! O my God, spare
our dear ones!"
Mr. Hardy was almost overwhelmed by this last stroke, yet he asked
himself how many accidents had occurred this last year on the road
without his giving much thought to the suffering of those families
afflicted! Now perhaps it had come to him. Bidding his wife pray and
hope, he rushed out of the house and down to the station with the
energy and rapidity of the youth who in college days had taken prizes
for athletic superiority.
At the yard he found a special train just ready to go to the scene of
the accident. It consisted of a wrecking car, a caboose, and one coach
with tender and engine. He mounted the engine with a feeling that it
was a little nearer the fatal spot and would reach there first. At the
last minute no more definite news concerning the particular persons
killed and injured had been received.
Mr. Hardy felt almost glad of the uncertainty as the engine pulled out
and started on its run of fifteen miles, soon attaining a speed of
fifty-five miles an hour. The snow was falling in large moist flakes.
It was growing warmer, and would rain before morning. He gazed at the
narrow band of light on the track ahead, and leaned forward as if to
help the engine go faster. He did not speak, while the train rushed
through the night.
So the second of Robert Hardy's seven days drew to a close.
WEDNESDAY--THE THIRD DAY.
As the engine drew near the scene of the wreck a great crowd could be
seen standing about the track. Before the train came to a stop Robert
Hardy leaped down from the cab and struggled forward, uttering cries of
which he himself probably was not conscious. The accident had occurred
upon a bridge which spanned a small river in the vicinity of Baldwin,
near which town Mr. Hardy's brother lived.
The engine, mail car, two day-coaches, and two sleepers had crashed
through, and falling a distance of fifty feet, had partly broken
through the ice of the frozen stream. To add to the horror of the
disaster, the two sleepers had caught fire, and there was absolutely no
means to fight the flames. Mr. Hardy caught confused glimpses of men
down on the ice throwing handfuls of snow upon the blazing timbers in a
frantic attempt to drive back or put out the flames. He fell, rather
than scrambled, down the steep, slippery bank of the stream, and then
the full horror of the situation burst upon him.
The baggage car and tender had fallen in such a way that the trucks
rested upright on the ice, and the position of the timbers was
relatively that of the train before it had left the track. One
day-coach lay upon its side, but had broken completely in two, as if
some giant hand had pulled it apart, leaving the ragged ends of timbers
projecting toward one another in such curious fashion that if the two
ends of the car had been pushed together the splintered beams would
have fitted into place almost as if made on a pattern. The other
day-coach had fallen upon one end, and one-third of it was under water.
The other end resting partly against the broken car, stuck up in the
air like some curious, fantastic pillar or leaning tower.
Mr. Hardy was conscious of all this and more as he heard the groans of
the injured and the cries of those begging to be released from the
timbers under which they had been caught. But his own children! Never
had he loved them as now.
The crowd of people had increased to a mob. The confusion was that of
terror. Mr. Hardy rushed about the wreck searching for his children, a
great throbbing at his heart as he thought of their probable fate, when
the sweetest of all sounds, Bessie's dear voice, came to him, and the
next minute he had caught up the child as she ran to him and strained
her to his breast as in the old days when he had carried her about the
house and yard.
"Where are Will and Clara?"
"O father, they're here! and Will wasn't hurt much more than I was; but
Clara has fainted, and she is lying down over here."
Bess dragged her father out across the ice to the edge of the bank,
where a number of the victims had been laid on the cushions of the
seats, some dead, some dying. There lay Clara, very white and still,
with Will bending over her, himself bleeding from several wounds about
the head and hands, but still conscious and trying to restore his
sister.
Mr. Hardy kneeled down in the snow by his son's side. Will was not
surprised at seeing him there; but he sobbed excitedly: "Oh, she is
dead!"
"No," replied her father; "she is not."
Clara stirred, and her lips moved; but she did not open her eyes, and
then her father noticed that a strange mark lay over her face.
How Mr. Hardy succeeded in carrying the girl to the top of the bank,
and how he left her there in the care of brave-hearted women while he
went down into that hell's pit to rescue victims imprisoned and
groaning for help; how Bess related the accident of the night and tried
to explain how she was not hurt except a scratch or two, because she
fell between two car-seat cushions that were jammed around her and
protected her from injury; how the excitement grew as it was discovered
that the dead and dying would number more than seventy-five, instead of
ten or twelve, as Burns had said; how finally Robert Hardy and Will and
Bess and Clara, with other victims, were taken back to Barton, where a
great crowd of anxious, pale-faced people was surging through the
station and over the track; how James Caxton was first to board the
train down by the shops, at the risk of his neck, as in the rainy
darkness he swung himself on the dead run up to the platform of the
coach; how Mrs. Hardy met her children and husband; how there was
sorrow in many a home in Barton that night and for many days to come;
how Mr. Hardy, a little after midnight, entirely exhausted by the
events of the day and night, finally fell asleep and dreamed the scene
all over again,--all this and a great deal more might be of interest
concerning one of the most remarkable railroad accidents that ever
occurred in this country, but it would be out of place in this
narrative, for it is all true, exactly and literally, only the detailed
horrors of it no pen can describe, no words can tell.
Mr. Hardy woke about eight o'clock, rested, but feeling very lame and
sore from his exertions of the night. His first thought was of Clara.
When he went to sleep the girl seemed to be resting without pain, but
that strange mark across her face made them all anxious. It was not a
bruise, but it lay like a brand across the eyes, which had not opened
since her father found her lying by the frozen stream.
James had insisted on staying in the house to be of service, and Mrs.
Hardy had felt grateful for his presence as she watched for returning
consciousness from Clara, who still gave no more sign of animation,
although she breathed easily and seemed to be free from pain. Every
doctor and surgeon in town had been summoned to the scene of the
accident. But Mr. Hardy felt so anxious for Clara as he came in and
looked at her that he went downstairs and asked James if he wouldn't
run out and see if any of the doctors had returned.
"Yes, sir; I'll go at once. How is she now, Mr. Hardy?" James looked
him in the face with the look that love wears when it is true and brave.
"My boy," replied Mr. Hardy, laying his hand on James' shoulder, "I
don't know. There is something strange about it. Get a doctor if you
can. But I know there must be many other sad homes today in Barton.
Oh, it was horrible!"
He sat down and covered his face, while James, with a brief "God help
us, sir!" went out in search of a doctor.
Mr. Hardy went upstairs again, and with his wife kneeled down and
offered a prayer of thanksgiving and of appeal. "O Lord," said Robert,
"grant that this dear one of ours may be restored to us again. Spare
us this anguish, not in return for our goodness, but out of Thy great
compassion for our sins repented of!"
Will and Bess lay in the next room, and now that the reaction had set
in they were sleeping, Will, feverish and restless, Bess quite
peaceful, as if nothing had happened out of the usual order of things.
"Where is George?" asked Mr. Hardy as he rose from his prayer.
"I don't know, Robert. He started down to the train a little while
after you did. Haven't you seen him?"
"No, Mary. God grant that he may not"--Mr. Hardy did not dare finish
his thought aloud.
His wife guessed it, and together the two sat hand in hand, drawn very
near by their mutual trouble and by all the strange events of that
strange week; and together they talked of the accident and of Clara and
James and their oldest son; and then Mrs. Hardy said, as she drew her
husband's face near to her:
"Robert, do you still have that impression concerning the time left you
here to live? Do you still think this week is to be the end?"
Mrs. Hardy had a vague hope that the shock of the accident might have
destroyed the impression of the dream; but her hope was disappointed.
"My dear wife," replied Robert, "there is not the least doubt in my
mind that my dream was a vision of what will happen. There is no
question but that after Sunday I shall not be with you. This is
Wednesday. How lightning-like the days have flown! How precious the
moments are! How many of them I have wasted in foolish selfishness!
Mary, I should go mad with the thought if I did not feel the necessity
of making this week the best week of all my life; only, I do not know
what is most important to do. If it had been seven months, or even
seven weeks, I might have planned more wisely. Oh, it is cruelly
brief, the time! But I must make the wisest possible use of it. This
accident, so unexpected, has complicated the matter. I had not
reckoned on it."
How many of us do reckon on accidents? They always come into our lives
with a shock. Yet it seems possible that a man who lives very close to
God every day might be so ready for everything that not even the most
terrible catastrophe could make much difference to his plans for daily
life, least of all deprive him of his reason, as it has so often done.
Robert Hardy was just beginning to realise dimly that life is not one
thing, but many things, and that its importance is the importance which
belongs to the character of God Himself.
He began to talk calmly with his wife concerning what he would do that
day, and was still talking about it when James came in with a doctor,
who at once went upstairs. He was just from the scene of the accident,
and bore marks of a hard night's work. His first glance at Clara was
hard and professional. But as he looked he grew very grave, and an
expression of serious surprise came over his weary face. He laid his
hands on the girl's eyes and examined them; raised her hand and dropped
it upon the bed again. Then turning to the father and mother he said
gently:
"You must prepare yourselves for a terrible fact resulting from the
accident to your daughter. She has suffered a shock that will probably
render her blind as long as she lives."
Mr. and Mrs. Hardy listened, pale-faced and troubled. It was hard to
think of the girl, so strong-willed, so passionate, and yet so capable
of noble impulses and loving desires, as all her life shut up within
the darkness thus. It was bitter to think of this for her. What would
it be to _her_ when, she awoke to the whole consciousness of it?
The doctor spoke again slowly: "There is another thing you ought to be
prepared for. In rare cases like this, it happens sometimes that a
loss of hearing accompanies the loss of sight." Then, after a pause,
"And with the loss of sight and hearing it is possible the peculiar
shock has deprived your daughter of the power of speech. I do not know
yet whether this has happened, but I prepare you for the worst."
"Blind, and deaf, and dumb," murmured Mr. Hardy, while his wife sat
down and buried her face in the bedclothes and sobbed. It seemed
terrible to them.
The doctor, after a little further examination, said nothing more could
be done at present. He gave directions for certain necessary
treatment, and departed, after giving a look at Will and Bess, and
prescribing for them.
Mr. Hardy went downstairs and quietly told James all that the doctor
had said. To a man living on the verge of eternity, as Mr. Hardy was,
there was no time for evasions or the postponing of bad news or the
utterance of soft speeches.
James took the news more calmly than Mr. Hardy thought he would. It
was evident he did not realise all that was meant by it.
"Can you love Clara under these conditions?" asked Mr. Hardy, looking
at James with a sympathy that the young man could not help feeling.
"Yes, sir, more than ever. Why, is she not more in need of it than
ever?"
"True; but what can you do with a helpless creature like that?"
"God help us, sir! If she were my wife now, and were dependent on me,
don't you think I could care for her more tenderly than anyone else in
the world?"