know just what to say yet. But it is possible the poor girl may not
have to suffer all that. Let us hope the doctor is not justified in
his supposition. Indeed, he said he could not tell for certain that
loss of hearing and speech would follow. If they do I cannot see how
Clara can retain her reason when she recovers from the shock. James, I
believe you are a good fellow. I have not forgotten my own courtship.
I will not stand in the way between you and your love for Clara in
anything right and reasonable. I had hoped we might have a good talk
together over the matter. This accident has made it impossible for a
time, at least; but I confide in you as an honest, true man. We must
wait for events to take shape. Meanwhile, let us pray God to give us
wisdom, and lead us into the way we need to go."
James Caxton listened to Mr. Hardy with a feeling of astonishment.
This was not the Robert Hardy he had known all his life; this was a new
man. For a moment his own hopes and fears were almost lost sight of in
the thought of the great change in the elder man. In a tumult of
feeling he went home, after begging Mrs. Hardy to send him word if
Clara became worse or if there were any service he could render the
family.
Robert went back upstairs where his wife sat by the side of the injured
girl.
"Mary," he said, "I must go down to the shops. You know I left word
with Wellman to do what he could in the office until I could get down;
but this accident has made it imperative that I be there myself. There
are details the men cannot attend to. I cannot do any more here, and I
must do what I can for the sufferers. God has been merciful to us,
dear. Our dear ones are spared to us. Oh, when I heard Bessie's voice
in that hell's pit it seemed to me God was taking pity on me for the
burden I am carrying this week! If she had been killed, I do believe I
should have gone mad. Pray for me, sweetheart!"
With a kiss and embrace Robert left the house; and even in the sorrow
of all her trouble Mrs. Hardy felt a great wave of joy flow through her
at the thought of a love come back to her. As she went to the window
and watched the tall, strong figure swing down the street, she almost
felt a girl again, and wondered if he would turn around and see her
there and toss his hat to her as in the old days. Yes; just before he
reached the corner where he had to turn he looked back up at the
window, saw his wife standing there, and took off his hat with a smile,
and she waved her hand at him and coloured as when her Robert used to
do the same thing while he was courting her.
"Two fools!" somebody says. Yes; two children of God, who have seen
His face and learned what all this life means.
Mr. Hardy found much to do at the shops. The accident necessitated
special work. It looked to him as if he must be down there all day.
There was almost a panic in the planing rooms. The air was heavy with
the horror of the night before. Owing to the wreck, there was more
need of work in the shops than ever; but along toward noon Burns came
into the office, pulling a long face, and asking Mr. Hardy to step
across the yard and talk to the men, who had threatened, Burns said, to
do mischief if they were not given the afternoon to go down to the
scene of the disaster. Mr. Hardy rose with a sinking heart, and
followed Burns into the planing rooms. He told the foreman to get the
men together in the centre of the room. They stopped their machines
and gathered in the largest open space between the planers, and Mr.
Hardy addressed them:
"What do you want? Burns tells me there is dissatisfaction. Speak
out, so that we may know what the trouble is."
There was an awkward pause. Then one man spoke up:
"We think the company ought to give us the day off."
"What for?" asked Mr. Hardy mildly.
Under any other circumstances he would have told the men they might
leave for good if they didn't like the pay and the company. He had
done just that thing twice before; but things were different now. He
looked at the men in a new light. He was a new man himself. Besides,
it was imperative that the work in the shops go on. The company could
ill afford to lose the work just at this particular time. All these
considerations did not blind Robert to his obligations as an officer of
the company. He was only anxious that no injustice should be done, so
he said, "What for?" mildly and quietly, and waited for an answer.
The spokesman was not quite ready with an answer. The directness of
the question and the mildness of it also surprised him. Another man
spoke up:
"Our friends was in the accident. We want to go see them."
"Very well. How many men had relatives or friends in the accident who
are injured or killed? Let them step forward."
There was a moment of inaction. Then three men stepped out. Mr. Hardy
said: "You may go if you want to. Why didn't you ask for leave off if
you wanted it? What reason have you to suppose the company would
refuse such a request? Now, what is the trouble with the rest? The
company is not in a position to grant a holiday at this particular
time, and you know it. Come, be fair, men! I can't shut down the
shops all day to let you go and see a railroad wreck. Be reasonable!
What do you want?"
"We want more pay and freedom from Sunday work," said a big fellow, the
Norwegian who ran the biggest planer in the shop. He had more than
once proved troublesome to Burns, but he was a remarkably intelligent
and skilful workman, and the foreman had endured much irritation on
that account.
Mr. Hardy replied, still speaking pleasantly: "The matter of more pay
is one we cannot well discuss here now, but I will say to you and all
the rest, that as far as it is in my power there shall be no more
Sunday work demanded--while I live," Mr. Hardy was on the point of
saying; but he said instead, "of the men in the shops."
"Still, that is not the question," replied the man in an insolent tone.
Mr. Hardy looked at him more closely, and saw that he had been
drinking. Several of the workmen cried out:
"Shut up, Herman! Mr. Hardy be right; we be fools to make row now at
this time."
A dozen men started for their machines to go to work again, while Burns
went up and laid his hand, on the Norwegian's arm, and said to him
roughly:
"Quit off now. You've been dipping that beard of yours into a whiskey
barrel. Better mind your pegs, or you get your walking papers."
"Mind your own, Burns," replied the big man heavily. "You be
somethings of a beard drinker yourself, if you had the beard."
Burns was so enraged at the drunken retort that he drew back as if to
strike the man, when the Norwegian smote the foreman a blow that laid
him sprawling in the iron dust. Instantly Mr. Hardy stepped up between
the two men before Burns could rise. We have spoken of Robert's
intense horror of the coarse, physical vices. It seemed totally wrong
to him that a workman should degrade himself with drink. Besides, he
could not tolerate such actions in the shops. He looked the drunken
man in the face and said sternly:
"You are discharged! I cannot afford to employ drunken men in these
shops. You may go this instant!"
The man leered at Mr. Hardy, raised his arm as if to strike, while the
manager confronted him with a stern look; but before the Norwegian
could do any harm two or three of the men seized him and hustled him
back to the other end of the shops, while Burns rose, vowing vengeance.
The men went back to their machines, and Mr. Hardy, with an anxious
heart, went back into the office, satisfied that there would be no
trouble at the shops for the rest of the day at least. He was sorry
that he had been obliged to discharge Herman, but he felt that he had
done the right thing. The company could not afford to employ in any
way men who were drunkards, especially just at this time, when it began
to be more than plainly hinted that the result of the accident on the
road was due to the partial intoxication of a track inspector.
That accident was a complication in Robert Hardy's seven days. It was
demanding of him precious time that he longed to spend in his family.
At one time in the afternoon as he worked at the office he was tempted
to resign his position and go home, come what might. But, to his
credit be it said, that always, even in his most selfish moments, he
had been faithful to his duties at the office. At present no one could
fully take his place. He felt that his duty to the company and to the
public demanded his services at a critical time in railroad matters.
So he stayed and worked on, praying as he worked for his dear ones, and
hoping, as no bad news came from home, that Clara was better. He had
been to the telephone several times and had two or three short talks
with his wife; and now just as the lights were turned on in the office
the bell rang again, and Mrs. Hardy told him that the minister, Mr.
Jones, had called and wanted to see him about some of the families that
were injured in the accident at the foundry room.
"Tell Mr. Jones I will try to see him at the meeting to-night." (In
Barton the church meeting fell on Wednesday.) "And tell him I will
have something to give him for what he wants. How is Clara now?"
"No change yet. Will is suffering some from nervousness. He says he
had a horrible dream of the accident this afternoon. Bess is about the
same. Her escape was a miracle."
"Has George come home yet?"
"No; I am getting anxious about him. I wish you would inquire about
him at the Bramleys as you come up to dinner."
"I will. I must leave very soon. This has been a terrible day down
here. God keeps us. Good-by."
Robert finished most of the work, toiling as never in all his life
before, and started for home at six. On the way he made inquiries
concerning George, but nobody had seen him since the evening before.
When he reached the house he found that his wife, utterly worn out, had
lain down for a little sleep. Alice was caring for the patients with a
calm courage and quiet cheerfulness that revealed the girl's strong,
self-reliant character. Clara's condition had not changed. She still
lay as if sleeping. Alice reported that once in the afternoon she had
moved her lips and distinctly called for water. Mr. Hardy and Bess sat
down to the supper table by themselves, and Bess again told how she had
been saved from even a scratch in that terrible fall. It was indeed
remarkable that the child did not suffer even from the general shock
and reaction of the disaster.
After a brief meal Mr. Hardy went upstairs to Clara again. His chief
anxiety now was for her. He believed that if the doctor's fears were
realised, she would become insane. It was hardly possible that a
person of her temperament and passion could be otherwise, in case she
should come to consciousness of her condition.
As the evening wore on, Mr. Hardy felt that his duty lay in his own
home, for that night, and he would have to see his minister some other
time. He thought of the prayer meeting with regret, and sat by the bed
of the unconscious girl, wondering how it was possible that for all
these years gone by he had been so indifferent to one of the best and
most precious opportunities for growing in spiritual manhood. He heard
the bell ring for service, and when it stopped he sat with his face in
his hands, praying.
The prayer meeting in Mr. Jones' church was generally a very quiet
affair. A good many people in the church, especially those who came to
the meeting only occasionally, thought it was stupid. But it was a
noticeable fact that those who attended regularly were the ones who did
the most work in the church, and the ones who grew stronger and sweeter
in the Christian life. There was usually no regular subject given out.
There was very little talking done. From beginning to close it was
nearly all prayer. Mr. Jones did not feel afraid of the long pauses.
He believed modern American life to be so full of nervousness and hurry
that it would not hurt anyone to sit still and think a minute or two.
That was the reason so many people called Mr. Jones' prayer meetings
dull; because they were not rushing all the time with sensational or
exciting remarks and incidents. Mr. Jones didn't believe that
sensation was what a prayer meeting was for, and he planned
accordingly. But this particular evening was an exception. The great
railroad accident so near them had stirred the entire community to the
depths of its sympathy. Several families in Mr. Jones' church had been
sufferers. As if by tacit consent there was an unusually large
gathering at the church, and the subject was of necessity the recent
disaster. It was a spontaneous meeting. The minister briefly opened
with the express desire that God would bless the suffering, prepare the
dying, and comfort the living, and almost instantly a service of prayer
began which was like a flood in its continuous outpouring. The people
seemed urged by some irresistible feeling to relieve the pent-up strain
of the day in prayer; and such prayers had not been heard in that
church for many years.
A similar scene was witnessed in a church near the White River Junction
railroad disaster in 1887. The entire morning service was given up to
prayer, which seemed the only healthy relief to people suffering from
an overwhelming horror.
It was during the first pause that occurred that James Caxton opened
the door and gave a note to someone in the back seat, with a request
that it be sent up to Mr. Jones. He then turned as if to go out, but
hesitated, came back, and slipped into a vacant seat. Mr. Jones
received the note, glanced at its contents, and then rose. There was a
singular emotion in his voice as he spoke.
"I have just been handed a note from one of our members, Mr. Robert
Hardy, with the request that I read it aloud to the church to-night:
"'_To you, my dear pastor, and you, my brothers, and sisters in
Christ_:--I suppose it is known to most of you that three of my
children were on the train during the recent accident, and two of them
escaped with but slight injuries. But my daughter Clara was seriously
injured by the shock, and I am at this moment seated by her side,
praying that her reason may be spared and her possible injuries prove
to be within the region of cure. I had planned to be with you
to-night. I wanted to tell the church of the change that I have lately
experienced. I do not need to tell you that for the twenty-five years
that I have been a member of the church I have been a member only in
name. I have seldom appeared in any of the spiritual or devotional
services of the church. I have often sat in an attitude of criticism
to the best preaching. I have been a hard man with those in my employ.
I have been cold and even revengeful toward other members of this
church. I have been a very proud, un-Christian, selfish man. In the
sight of God I have been an altogether unworthy member of the Church of
Christ. I do not take any pride to myself in making this confession,
but I feel that it is due to you, and something tells me I shall have
more peace of mind if I speak to you as I have lately prayed to God.
"'It is not necessary, neither have I time nor strength, to tell you
how I have been brought to see my selfishness in all its enormity. It
is enough if I say to you that I most sincerely believe that I have
misunderstood very largely the right meaning of human existence. I
want to pray with you and for you. You will let me say this also,
bearing with me, as this may be my last opportunity to say to you what
lies in my heart: Serve the Church of Christ, all you who have taken
upon you its vows, with enthusiasm and loyalty. Stand by the
superintendent of the Sunday School; attend this week-night service
when you can, making it the most important service of the week; and,
more than all, live true, simple, loving Christian lives every day.
"'It may seem strange that I am preaching like this to you who have
probably done your duty far better than I ever did, but I wish to say
what lies deep in my heart to say to-night. If there are any young men
in the meeting tonight, I want to say to them, Become Christians at the
core--not in name simply, as I have been; and above all, kneel down
every morning, noon, and night, and pray to God to keep you from a
selfish life--such a life as I have lived--forgetful of church vows, of
the rights of the working poor, of the brother and sister in Christ.
Yes; I would be willing that any young man might say, "O Lord, keep me
from living as selfish and useless and proud a life as Robert Hardy
once lived." For that is the truth. No one but God knows how I have
suffered at the thought of the past; how I am suffering at the present
moment. I pray that any who are afflicted at this present time may
find peace in Him who bore the world's sorrows in His great heart of
love. If it were not for my faith in my Saviour at this time, I should
be in despair. As it is, I am suffering, but it is not the suffering
which follows an eclipse of hope. I believe in the eternal life and in
the forgiveness of sins, yea, even such sins as mine have been.
Forgive so much about myself; it is necessary under the circumstances.
I ask your prayers for me as your petitions go up for the afflicted and
repentant everywhere.
"'I am, Your brother in Christ,
"'ROBERT HARDY.'"
The impression made by the reading of this letter was profound. The
stillness that followed was deathlike. Then one of the oldest men in
the room rose, and in a prayer of great power prayed for the absent man
and thanked God for His guiding strength. The prayer was followed by
others, and then one and another of the members, who had not been on
really good terms with Mr. Hardy, arose and confessed and asked
forgiveness. The hearts of the people were greatly moved. Mr. Jones,
contrary to his usual habit, asked, as the meeting drew to a close, if
there were any present who wanted to begin that Christian life at the
core, of which Mr. Hardy spoke.
"I see a number here not professing Christians. Are there any who
would like to say that they want to become Christians, and will try to
live the Christ-life every day?"
In the pause that followed, James Caxton, who had been sitting in the
back seat, felt as if some power within and without him were forcing
him to his feet. He grasped his chair as if to hold himself down; but
the Holy Spirit whispered to him, "Son, this will be the beginning of a
new life to thee."
So James Caxton arose and said he wanted to be a Christian; and from
that moment he dated his strong, consecrated life--a life that bids
fair to become famous in the world some day. His action was the
beginning of a new life in that church and community; but we cannot
dwell on that in the course of this history. O Robert Hardy! the good
God is blessing thee in this thy week of trial! For was it not thy
word that first started this young, manly soul to consider what he owed
to Jesus the Christ?
To come back to Robert. He had written the note, beginning it just a
little after the bell ceased ringing, and as he finished, James had
come over to see if he could be of any service. The church was near
by, and Mr. Hardy asked him to take the note over. He went over to the
church, with the result described. He did not come back at once, and
Mr. Hardy watched on with Alice. Will slept irregularly, being
troubled with his dreams of the accident. Mrs. Hardy awoke and begged
her husband to lie down and get a little rest. He did so, but was
aroused about ten o'clock by the doctor coming in. He had just
finished a visit near by; he saw the light and was anxious, as the case
was an extraordinary one, to see Clara. He examined her face very
keenly, and then sat down by the bed for an instant. After giving
certain medicines he found that he was in need of another article,
which was at his house.
"I will go and get it, doctor. It's not far, and I think a little
fresh air will do me good and help me to remain awake better," said
Robert.
He went downstairs, and the doctor followed him as he went out into the
hall and flung on his overcoat. Mr. Hardy turned before he opened the
door:
"Doctor, tell me the truth about my girl. What is her condition?"
"It is serious; but more than that I cannot say. There is a
possibility that by means of a slight operation the disastrous
consequences of the shock to her eyes may be averted; and it is
possible that the other results of which I hinted may not be realised.
It is not in medical power to decide with certainty."
So Mr. Hardy went out into the night with a glimmer of hope in his
breast. It was snowing again, and a strong wind was blowing, so he
buttoned his big coat close up, drew his hat down over his brows, and
leaning forward, walked as rapidly as he could against the wind in the
direction of the doctor's house. The streets were almost deserted.
The lights at the corners flickered and showed pale through the lamps.
As he turned down a narrow street, intending to make a short cut across
a park that lay near the doctor's, he was suddenly seized by three or
four young men, and one of them said in a tone betraying a drunken
debauch:
"Hold up your hands and deliver! You've got plenty of chink and we
haven't! So no squalling, or we'll shoot you for it."
Mr. Hardy was taken completely by surprise. But he was a vigorous,
athletic man, and his first impulse was to shake himself loose, to
knock down two of his assailants next to him and make a run for it.
His next glance, however, showed him the nature of the group of young
men. They were not professional robbers, but young men about town who
had been drinking late and were evidently out on a lark, and were
holding him up just for fun. Mr. Hardy guessed exactly right. What
could he do? Two of the young men were known to him, the sons of the
Bramleys, who were well-to-do people in Barton. Mr. Hardy's next
impulse was to discover himself to them and beg them to quit such
dangerous fooling and go home. The three other young men were in
shadow, and he could not recognise them. All this passed through his
thought with a flash. But before he had time to do anything, a police
officer sprang out of a doorway near by, and the group of young men,
dropping their hold of Mr. Hardy, fled in different directions. The
officer made pursuit, and after a short run captured one of the young
men, whom, after vigorous resistance, he dragged back to where Mr.
Hardy stood, exclaiming:
"Here's one of the rascals, sir! I heard 'em when they held you up.
We've been looking for this gang some time now. Just identify this
one, if he is the one that just now grabbed ye, sir."
Under the light of the lamp the policeman dragged the form of his
victim, and roughly struck up his hat. At that instant Mr. Hardy
looked into his face and cried out:
"George! Is it you?"
And the son replied as he started back: "Father!"
The two looked at each other in silence, while the snow fell in
whirling flakes about them.
And this was the end of Robert Hardy's third day.
THURSDAY--THE FOURTH DAY.
Mr. Hardy looked at his son sternly, standing at the little distance to
which he had recoiled after his first recognition of the boy. It would
be difficult to describe his emotions. He had never been an
affectionate father to his boys. He had generally given them money
when they asked for it, but had not questioned them about its use. He
was not familiar with his older son's habits, and only within the last
few days had he known that he was what the age popularly designates as
"fast." He had never made a companion of his son; he had not grown up
with him; so that now as he faced him under the strange circumstances
that had brought them together he was actually at a loss to know what
to do or say. The thought that his son was guilty of a crime which
might put him behind prison bars did not yet occur to his mind. He was
only conscious of a great longing to get back home and have a thorough
talk with his boy, in the hope of winning him to better things. But he
must say something to George.
The police officer stared in wonder after the first startled cry of
"Father!" on the part of the young man, but he did not loosen his hold
on him. He took an extra twist in the coat collar of his captive, and
looked sharply at Mr. Hardy, as much as to say: "He may be your son,
but he's my victim, and I mean to keep a good clutch on him."
George was the first to speak: "Father, you know I wouldn't do such a
thing, really. We were only out for a little fun. We didn't know you,
of course. We didn't mean any real harm; we were only fooling."
"It was dangerous fooling," replied his father. He still stood apart
from the boy, and spoke quietly, but his face was pale, and his heart
was wrung with torture for his firstborn. Ah, how careless of him he
had been! How little companionship the two had had! How very little
help the boy had received from the man! Now, believing that only four
more days lay before him to use to the glory of God, Robert Hardy felt
the sting of that bitterest, of all bitter feelings, useless
regret--the regret that does not carry with it any hope of redeeming a
selfish past.
After his father had spoken, George sullenly remained silent. Mr.
Hardy bowed his head and seemed thinking. The officer, who had been
waiting for another move on the part of the older man, said: