"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.
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 toherwhen, 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?"
Mr. Hardy shook his head. "This is a hard blow to me, James. I don't 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.
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:
"Well, we must be moving on. It's warmer in the lockup than out here; so come along, young fellow, and do your talking to-morrow morning with the rest of the drunks and disorderlies."
"Stop!" cried Robert Hardy. "This is my son! Do you understand? What are you going to do?"
"Well, governor, that's a pretty question at this time o' day. Do! I'm going to jug him for assault with intent to commit highway robbery. It's an affair for the 'pen,' I can tell you."
"But you heard him say it was all a joke."
"A pretty joke to try to hold a man up on the highway and demand his money! Oh, no! That's carrying a joke too far. I'm bound to obey orders. We've been after this gang of young chaps for a month now."
"But, officer, you don't understand; this is my son!"
"Well, what of that? Don't we jug sons every day for some deviltry or other? Do you suppose you are the only father whose son is going to the devil?"
"O God, no!" cried Mr. Hardy with sudden passion. "But this is my older boy. It would kill his mother to have him arrested and put in jail for trying to rob his own father. Yet he was once innocent— What am I saying? He might be now if I had done my duty."
Mr. Hardy confronted the officer with a certain sorrowful dignity which even that hardened defender of the law understood.
"Officer, let the boy go. I will answer for it if any blame falls on you. He was not at fault in this matter. He was not the one who assaulted me. He did not touch me. You could not get a particle of testimony against him. And besides that, it is necessary that he return with me. This is a case for the law of God; it belongs to a higher than human court."
The officer hesitated; Mr. Hardy stepped nearer his son.
"George," he said, as if forgetting for a moment that the officer was present, "did you know that Clara and Bess and Will were in the accident last night?"
George turned pale, and tremblingly replied, "No, father. Were they hurt? Was Bess—" The boy seemed moved as his father had not yet seen him.
"No; they were not; that is, Bess was not hurt at all. But Will was severely bruised, and Clara still lies in a state of stupor or unconsciousness, and we do not know what the end will be. I was on my way just now to get some needed articles from the doctor's house. You must come back with me; the law has no hold on you."
"Maybe, the law hasn't any hold on him, but Michael Finnerty has. I don't just like the idea, mister, of letting the boy go," replied the stubborn and unusually dutiful officer.
Mr. Hardy began to appeal to the man's love of his own children. It did not seem to move him in the least, until he mentioned the fact that it was cruelty to keep the suffering girl at home waiting for her father's return.
Mr. Finnerty finally loosened his hold on George and said slowly and painfully, "An' if I lose me job I'll be knowin' who was to blame for it. I always told Michael Finnerty that he was too soft-hearted to go on the force!"
"You won't suffer, officer. Many thanks! Come, George."
Father and son moved off together, while the defender of the law stood irresolute, watching them disappear through the storm, and muttering to himself, "I'm a soft-hearted fool. I ought to 'a' been born a female hospital nurse, I had."
During that walk home, after Mr. Hardy had gone around by the doctor's with George, not a word was exchanged. The storm was increasing. The two walked along in silence; but when George walked into the hall at home he turned and saw a look on his father's face that smote him to the heart, for he was not yet a hardened soul. Mr. Hardy had lived years in that experience. No one could tell how he had been tortured by what he had endured that night; but the mark of it was stamped indelibly on his face, and he knew that he would bear it to his grave.
Mrs. Hardy came running downstairs as the two came in. When George turned and faced her she held out her arms crying, "My boy! my boy! We have been so anxious about you!"
What! not one word of reproach, of rebuke, of question as to what he had been doing all this time that the family had been suffering! No; not one word. Ah, mother love! It is the most wonderful thing on earth, next to the love of God for the sinner. It is even that, for it is the love of God expressing itself through the mother, who is the temple of the loving God.
George dashed away a tear; then going up to his mother he laid his cheek against hers, while she folded her arms about him and cried a little and asked no questions. After a moment's silence he stammered out a few words of sorrow at having caused her pain. She joyfully accepted his broken explanation of how he had not known of the accident to Clara and the others. It was true that he had gone out the evening before, fully intending to go down to the scene of the accident; but coming across some of his old companions he had gone off with them, and spent the night in a disgraceful carouse. Throughout the day he had been more or less under the influence of liquor, dimly conscious that a great disaster had happened, but not sober enough to realise its details or its possible connection with those of his own home.
The sudden meeting with his father had startled him out of the drowsy intoxication he had fallen into as the day progressed. Now, as he felt his mother's arms around him, and realised a little what the family had been enduring, he felt the disgrace of his own conduct.
Mr. Hardy went upstairs and consulted with the doctor, who wondered at his protracted absence. There was no change in Clara yet. She lay in a condition which could not be called a trance or a sleep. She did not seem to be in any great pain; but she was unconscious of all outside conditions.
After a little talk with his mother, George came up and inquired after Bess and Will. They were both sleeping, and after the doctor had gone out the father and mother and son sat down together in the room where Clara lay.
Mr. Hardy did not say a word to George about the incident of the evening. The shame of it was too great yet. When men of Mr. Hardy's self-contained, repressed, proud nature are pained, it is with an intense, inward fire of passion that cannot hear to break out into words.
George had sense enough to offer to relieve his parents of the burden of watching through the night, and during the exchange of watchers along toward morning, as Mrs. Hardy slipped into the room to relieve the boy, she found him kneeling down at a couch with his face buried in the cushions. She raised her face in thanksgiving to God and went softly out.
The morning dawned gray with snow which still whirled in wreaths about the sorrowing homes of Barton; but Robert Hardy thought of the merciful covering it would make for the ghastly piles of ruin down under the bridge and along the banks of the river. He said to himself, "This is my fourth day; how can I best spend it? What shall I do?" He kneeled and prayed, and rose somewhat refreshed.
The forenoon went rapidly by, and before he knew it noon was near. The time had passed in watching Clara, visiting with Bess and Will; and doing some necessary work for the company in his little office downstairs. He did not feel like saying anything to George yet. James Caxton had been in, and the first thing he had mentioned had been his own act in the meeting the night before. Mr. Hardy thanked God for it, and a prayer went out of his heart for his own son, that the Spirit might touch him in his sin, and bring him into the light of Christ.
A little after noon the storm cleared up, and Robert prepared to go down to the shops. Clara had not yet come out of her stupor. The doctor had called and done what he could. There was nothing in particular that Mr. Hardy could do in the case, so he went out about one o'clock and entered his office, hoping as he went in that he would have no trouble with the men.
Mr. Burns reported everything quiet, and the manager, with a sigh of relief, proceeded with the routine duties of the business. Nothing of any special interest occurred through the afternoon. The storm had ceased entirely, and the sun had come out clear and warm. People were clearing off the walks, and the ringing of sleigh bells was distinct in the office, even over the incessant hum of the big engine.
Toward three o'clock one of Mr. Hardy's old friends, an officer of the road, came in and said there was a general movement on foot throughout Barton to hold a monster mass meeting in the Town Hall for the benefit of the sufferers, both in the railroad accident and in the explosion of the Sunday before in the shops. It was true the company would settle for damages, but in many cases the adjustment of claims would not be made until much suffering and hardship had been endured. There was a feeling on the part of the townspeople that a meeting for public conference would result in much good, and there was also, as has been the case in other large horrors, a craving to relieve the strain of feeling by public gathering and consultation.
"Can you come out to the meeting, Hardy?" asked his friend.
Mr. Hardy thought a minute and replied, "Yes; I think I can." Already an idea had taken shape in his mind which he could not help feeling was inspired by God.
"It might be a good thing if you could come prepared to make some remarks. I find there is a disposition on the part of the public to charge the road with carelessness and mismanagement."
"I'll say a word or two," replied Mr. Hardy; and after a brief talk on business matters his friend went out.
Robert immediately sat down to his desk, and for an hour, interrupted only by an occasional item of business brought to him by his secretary, he jotted down copious notes. The thought which had come to him when his friend suggested the meeting was this: he would go and utter a message that burned within him, a message which the events of the past few days made imperative should be uttered. He went home absorbed in the great idea. He had once in his younger days been famous for his skill in debate, so he had no fear of his power to deliver a message of life at the present crisis in his own. He at once spoke of the meeting to his wife.
"Mary, what do you say? I know every minute is precious. I owe to you and these dear ones at home a very sacred duty; but no less, it seems to me, is my duty to the society where I have lived all these years, doing literally nothing for its uplift toward God who gave us all life and power. I feel that He will put a message into my mouth that may prove a blessing to this community. It seems to me this special opportunity is providential."
"Robert," replied his wife, smiling at him through happy tears, "it is the will of God. Do your duty as He makes it clear to you."
It had been an agitating week to the wife. She anticipated its close with a feeling akin to terror. What would the end be? She was compelled to say to herself that her husband was not insane; but the thought that he was really to be called out of the world in some mysterious manner at the end of the rapidly approaching Sunday, had several times come over her with a power that threatened her own reason. Nevertheless the week, so far, in spite of its terror and agitation, had a sweet joy for her. Her husband had come back to her, the lover as he once had been, only with the added tenderness of all the years of their companionship. She thanked the Father for it, and when the hour came for Robert to go down to the meeting, she blessed him and prayed heaven to make his words to the people like the words of God.
"Father, what do you want me to do? Shall I stay here?" asked George, who had not stirred out of the house all day. He had watched by Clara faithfully. She was still in that mysterious condition of unconsciousness which made her case so puzzling to the doctor.
Mr. Hardy hesitated a moment, then said: "No, George; I would like to have you go with me. Alice can do all that is necessary. But let us all pray together now before we go out. The Lord is leading us mysteriously, but we shall some time know the reason why."
So in the room where Clara lay they all kneeled down, except Will, who lay upon a lounge near his unconscious sister. Mr. Hardy, as he clasped his wife's hand in his own, poured out his soul in this petition:
"Dear Lord, we know Thou dost love us, even though we cannot always know why Thou dost allow suffering and trouble; and we would thank Thee for the things that cannot be destroyed, for the loves that cannot suffer death, for the wonderful promises of the life to come. Only we have been so careless of the things that belong to Thy kingdom! We have been so selfish and forgetful of the great needs and sufferings and sins of earth. Pardon us, gracious Redeemer! Pardon me, for I am the chief offender! Yea, Lord, even as the robber on the cross was welcomed into Paradise, welcome Thou me. But we pray for our dear ones. May they recover! Make this beloved one who now lies unknowing among us to come back into the universe of sense and sound, to know us and smile upon us again. We say, 'Thy will be done.' Grant wisdom, for Thou knowest best; only our hearts will cry out for help, and Thou knowest our hearts better than anyone else. Bless me this night as I stand before the people. This is no selfish prayer, dear Lord. I desire only Thy glory; I pray only for Thy kingdom. But Thou hast appointed my days to live. Thou hast sent me the message, and I cannot help feeling the solemn burden and joy of it. I will say to the people that Thou art most important of all in this habitation of the flesh. And now bless us all. Give us new hearts. Make us to feel the true meaning of existence here. Reveal to us Thy splendour. Forgive all the past, and make impossible in the children the mistakes of the parent. Deliver us from evil, and Thine shall be the glory for ever. Amen."
When Mr. Hardy and George reached the town hall they found a large crowd gathering, and they had some difficulty in gaining entrance. Mr. Hardy at once passed up to the platform, where the chairman of the meeting greeted him and said he would expect him to make some remarks during the evening. Robert sat down at one end of the platform and watched the hall fill with people, nearly all well known to him. There was an unusually large crowd of boys and young men, many of his own employés from the shops, and a great number of citizens and business men—a representative audience for the place, brought together under the influence of the disaster and feeling somewhat the breaking down of artificial social distinctions in the presence of the grim leveller Death, who had come so near to them the last few days.
There were the usual opening exercises common to such public gatherings. Several well-known business men and two or three of the ministers, including Mr. Jones, made appropriate addresses. The attention of the great audience was not laboured for, the occasion itself being enough to throw over the people the spell of subdued quiet. When the chairman announced that "Mr. Robert Hardy, our well-known railroad manager, will now address us," there was a movement of curiosity and some surprise, and many a man leaned forward and wondered in his heart what the wealthy railroad man would have to say on such an occasion. He had never appeared as a speaker in public, and he passed generally in Barton for the cold, selfish, haughty man he had always been.
Mr. Hardy began in a low, clear tone:
"Men and women of Barton: To-night I am not the man you have known these twenty-five years that I have been among you. I am, by the grace of God, a new creature. As I stand here I have no greater desire in my heart than to say what may prove to be a blessing to all my old townspeople and to my employés and to these strong young men and boys. Within a few short days God has shown me the selfishness of a human being's heart. That heart was my own; and it is with feelings none of you can ever know that I look into your faces and say these words."
Robert paused a moment as if gathering himself up for the effort that followed, and the audience, startled with an unexpected emotion by the strange beginning, thrilled with excitement, as, lifting his arm and raising his voice, the once cold and proud man, his face and form glowing with the transfiguration of a new manhood, exclaimed:
"There is but one supreme law in this world, and it is this: Love God and your neighbour with heart, mind, soul, strength. There are but two things worth living for: the glory of God and the salvation of man. To-night I, who look into eternity in a sense which I will not stop to explain, feel the bitterness which comes from the knowledge that I have broken that law and have not lived for those things which alone are worth living for. But God has sent me here to-night with a message to the people which my heart must deliver. It is a duty even more sacred in some ways than what I owe to my own kindred. I am aware that the hearts of the people are shocked into numbness by the recent horror. I know that more than one bleeding heart is in this house, and the shadow of the last enemy, has fallen over many thresholds in our town. What! did I not enter into the valley of the shadow of death myself as I stumbled over the ghastly ruins of that wreck, my soul torn in twain for the love of three of my own dear children? Do I not sympathise in full with all those who bitterly weep and lament and sit in blackness of horror this night? Yea; but, men of Barton, why is it that we are so moved, so stirred, so shocked by the event of death, when the far more awful event of life does not disturb us in the least? We shudder with terror, we lose our accustomed pride or indifference, we speak in whispers, and we tread softly in the presence of the visitor who smites but once and then smites the body only: but in the awful presence of the living image of God we go our ways careless, indifferent, cold, passionless, selfish.
"I know whereof I speak, for I have walked through the world like that myself. But death cannot be compared for one moment with life for majesty, for solemnity, for meaning, for power. There were seventy-five persons killed in the accident. But in the papers this morning I read in the column next to that in which the accident was paraded, in small type and in the briefest of paragraphs, the statement that a certain young man in this very town of ours had been arrested for forging his father's name on a cheque, and was a fugitive from the law. Every day in this town and in every town all over the world events like that, and worse than that, occur. Nay, in this very town of ours more than seventy-five souls are, at this very moment, going down into a far blacker hell of destruction than the one under that fated bridge, and the community is not horrified over it. How many mass meetings have been held in this town within the last twenty-five years over the losses of character, the death of purity, the destruction of honesty? Yet they have outnumbered the victims of this late physical disaster a thousandfold. And what does mere death do? It releases the spirit from its house of earth. Aside from that, death does nothing to the person. But what does life do? Life does everything. It prepares for heaven or for hell. It starts impulses, moulds character, fixes character. Death has no kingdom without end. Death is only the last enemy of the many enemies that life knows. Death is a second; life is an eternity. O men, brothers, if, as I solemnly and truly believe, this is the last opportunity I shall have to speak to you in such large numbers, I desire you to remember, when I have vanished from your sight, that I spent nearly my last breath in an appeal to you to make the most of daily life, to glorify God and save men!
"The greatest enemy of man is not death; it is selfishness. It sits on the throne of the entire world. This very disaster which has filled the town with sorrow was due to selfishness. Let us see if that is not so. It has been proved by investigation already made that the drunkenness of a track inspector was the cause of the accident. What was the cause of that drunkenness? The drinking habits of that inspector. How did he acquire them? In a saloon which we taxpayers allow to run on payment of a certain sum of money into our town treasury. So, then, it was the greed or selfishness of the men of this town which lies at the bottom of this dreadful disaster. Who was to blame for the disaster? The track inspector? No. The saloon keeper who sold him the liquor? No. Who, then? We ourselves, my brothers; we who licensed the selling of the stuff which turned a man's brain into liquid fire, and smote his judgment and reason with a brand from out the burning pit. If I had stumbled upon the three corpses of my own children night before last, I could have exclaimed in justice before the face of God: 'I have murdered my own children,' for I was one of the men of Barton to vote for the license which made possible the drunkenness of the man in whose care were placed hundreds of lives.
"For what is the history of this case? Who was this wretched track inspector? A man who, to my own knowledge, trembled before temptation; who, on the testimony of the foreman at the shops, was, and always had been, a sober man up to the time when we as a municipality voted to replace the system of no license with the saloon, for the sake of what we thought was a necessary revenue. This man had no great temptation to drink while the saloon was out of the way. Its very absence was his salvation. But its public open return confronted his appetite once more, and he yielded and fell. Who says he was to blame? Who are the real criminals in the case? We ourselves, citizens; we who, for the greed of gain, for the saving of that which has destroyed more souls in hell than any other one thing, made possible the causes, which led to the grief and trouble of this hour. Would we not shrink in terror from the thought of lying in wait to kill a man? Would we not repel with holy horror the idea of murdering and maiming seventy-five people? We would say 'Impossible!' Yet, when I am ushered at last into the majestic presence of Almighty God, I feel convinced I shall see in His righteous countenance the sentence of our condemnation just as certainly as if we had gone out in a body and by wicked craft had torn out the supporting timbers of that bridge just before the train thundered upon it. For did we not sanction by law a business which we know tempts men to break all the laws; which fills our jails and poorhouses, our reformatories and asylums; which breaks women's hearts and beggars blessed homes and sends innocent children to tread the paths of shame and vagrancy; which brings pallor into the face of the wife and tosses with the devil's own glee a thousand victims into perdition with every revolution of this great planet!
"Men of Barton, say what we will, we are the authors of this dreadful disaster. If we sorrow as a community, we sorrow in reality for our own selfish act. And oh, the selfishness of it! That clamouring greed for money! That burning thirst for more, and more, and more, at the expense of every godlike quality, at the ruin of all that our mothers once prayed might belong to us as men and women! What is it, ye merchants, ye business men, here to-night, that ye struggle most over? The one great aim of your lives is to buy for as little as possible and sell for as much as possible. What care have ye for the poor who work at worse than starvation wages, so long as ye can buy cheap and sell at large profits? What is the highest aim of us railroad men in the great whirl of commercial competition which seethes and boils and surges about this earth like another atmosphere, plainly visible to the devils of other worlds? What is our aim, but to make money our god and power our throne? How much care or love is there for flesh and blood when there is danger of losing dollars? But oh, mighty Saviour! it was not for this that we were made! We know it was not.
"To whom am I speaking? To myself. God forbid that I should stand here to condemn you, being myself the chief of sinners for these twenty-five years. What have I done to bless this community? How much have I cared for the men in my employ? What difference did it make to me that my example drove men away from the Church of Christ, and caused anguish to those few souls who were trying to redeem humanity? To my just shame I make answer that no one thing has driven the engine of my existence over the track of its destiny except self. And oh, for that Church of Christ that I professed to believe in! How much have I done for that? How much, O fellow members—and I see many of you here to-night—how much have we done in the best cause ever known and the greatest organisation ever founded? We go to church after reading the Sunday morning paper, saturated through and through with the same things we have had poured into us every day of the week, as if we begrudged the whole of one day out of seven. We criticise prayer and hymn and sermon, drop into the contribution box half the amount we paid during the week for a theatre or concert ticket, and think we have done our duty as Christians. Then when anything goes wrong in the community, or our children fall into vice, we score the church for weakness and the preacher for lack of ability. Shame on us, men of Barton, members of the Church of Christ, that we have so neglected our own church prayer meeting, that but of a resident membership of more than four hundred, living in easy distance of the church, only sixty have attended regularly and over two hundred have been to that service only occasionally. Yet we call ourselves disciples of Christ! We say we believe in His blessed teachings; we say we believe in prayer; but in the face of all these professions we turn our backs with indifference on the very means of spiritual growth and power which the Church places within our reach. If Christ were to come to the earth to-day, He would say unto us: 'Woe unto you, church members, hypocrites!' He would say unto us: 'Woe unto you, young disciples in name, who have promised to love and serve Me, and then, ashamed of testifying before men, have broken promise and prayer, and ridiculed those who have kept their vows sacredly!' He would say to us men who have made money and kept it to ourselves: 'Woe unto you, ye rich men, who dress softly and dine luxuriously and live in palaces, while the poor cry aloud for judgment and the labourer sweats for the luxury of the idle! Woe unto you who speculate in flesh and blood, and call no man brother unless he lives in as fine a house and has as much money in the bank! Therefore ye shall receive the greater condemnation!'
"O Self! god of the earth yet! With two thousand years of the Son of God written into the world's history, still goes up the cry of those who perish with hunger, who break into the sanctuary of their souls, because they cannot get work to do, and are weary of the struggle of existence. Self! thou art king; not Jesus Christ! But oh, the shame of it! the shame of it! Were it not for my belief in the mighty forgiveness of sins, I would stand here to-night with no hope of ever seeing the paradise of God. But resting in that hope I wish to say to you who have beheld the example of my selfish life, I repudiate it all. In the world I have passed as a moral citizen and a good business man; in society there has been no objection to my presence, on account of my wealth and position; in the church I have been tolerated because I gave it financial support; but in the sight of that perfect Crucified Lamb of God I have broken the two greatest laws which He ever announced. I have been a sinner of the deepest dye; I have been everything except a disciple of Jesus Christ. I have prayed for mercy. I believe my prayer has been answered.
"I am conscious that some here present may think that what I have said has been in poor taste; that it has been an affront to the object of the meeting or an insult to the feelings of those who have called the audience together. In order that the people may know that I am sincere in all I have said, I will say that I have placed in the bank the sum of 10,000 dollars, to be used as the committee may deem wisest and best for the education of children in bereaved homes, or for any other help to those who need it. This money is God's. I have robbed Him and my brother man all these years. Whatever restitution I can make in the next few days I desire to make.
"But the great question with us all, my friends, is not this particular disaster. That will in time take its place as one event out of thousands in the daily life of this world. The great event of existence is not death, it is life. The great question of the world is not the tariff or the silver question, or the labour question, or temperance, or this or that or the other. The great question of the whole world is selfishness in the heart of man. The great command is, 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God.' If we had done that in this town, I believe such a physical disaster as the one we lament would never have happened. That is our great need.
"If we go home from this meeting resolved to rebuke our selfishness in whatever form it is displeasing to God, and if we begin to-morrow to act out that resolution in word and deed, we shall revolutionise this town in its business, its politics, its church, its schools, its homes. If we simply allow our emotions to be stirred, our sympathies to be excited to the giving of a little money on this occasion, it will do us and the community little permanent good. God wants a complete transformation in the people of this nation. Nothing less than a complete regeneration can save us from destruction. Unconsecrated, selfish money and selfish education, selfish political power and selfish genius in art, letters, and diplomacy will sink us as a people into a gulf of annihilation. There is no salvation for us except in Jesus Christ. Let us believe in Him and live in Him.
"I have said my message. I trust you have understood it. I would not say otherwise if I knew that I should step off this platform now and stand before the judgment seat of Christ. God help us all to do our duty! Time is short, eternity is long. Death is nothing; life is everything."
Five years after this speech of Robert Hardy to the people of Barton in the town hall, one who was present in the audience described the sensation that passed through it when the speaker sat down to be like a distinct electric shock which passed from seat to seat, and held the people fixed and breathless as if they had been smitten into images of stone. The effect on the chairman of the meeting was the same. He sat motionless. Then a wave of emotion gradually stirred the audience, and without a word of dismission they poured out of the building and scattered to their homes.
Robert found George waiting for him. The father was almost faint with the re-action from his address. George gave his arm, and the two walked home in silence.
Thus ended Robert Hardy's fourth day.