Those words of Clara’s, “I shall go with you then,” filled the family with dismay. Mr. Hardy bowed his head and groaned. Mrs. Hardy, almost beside herself with grief and terror, flew to the side of the girl, and with beseeching cries and caresses tried to bring back to consciousness the mind that for a moment or two had gleamed with reason and then had gone back into the obscurity and oblivion of the mysterious condition in which it had been lying for three days. But all in vain. The eyes were closed. The form was rigid. The others, George and Will and Bess, grew pale, and Bess cried almost for the first time since the strange week began. Robert was first to break the grief with a quiet word. He raised his head, saying, “I do not believe Clara is going to die when I do.” “Why, father, what makes you think that?” cried Alice. “I don’t know; I can’t give any exact reason. I only know I don’t believe it will happen.”

“God grant that she may be spared to us!” said Mrs. Hardy. “O Robert, it is more than I can bear! Only today and to-morrow left. It can’t be real. I have battled against your dream all the week. It was a dream only. I will not believe it. You are not ill. There is no indication that you are going to die. I will not, I cannot, believe it! God is too good. And we need you now, Robert. Let us pray God for mercy.”

“No, Mary, I cannot resist an impression so strong that I cannot call it anything but a conviction of reality that somehow, in some way, I shall be called away from you Sunday night. I have struggled against it, but it grows upon me even more firmly. God is merciful. I do not question His goodness. How much did I deserve even this week of preparation after the life I have lived? And the time will not be long before we shall all meet there. God grant that it may be an unbroken company.” Mr. Hardy spoke as any one in his condition could. The children drew about him lovingly. Bess climbed into his lap. She laid her face against her father’s face, and the strong man sobbed as he thought of all the years of neglected affection in that family circle. The rest of the evening was spent in talking over the probable future. George, who seemed thoroughly humbled now, listened respectfully and even tearfully to his father’s counsel concerning the direction of business and family matters. The boy was going through a struggle with himself which was apparent to all in the house. Ever since his mother had seen him kneeling down in the night-watch, he had shown a different spirit. It remained to be seen whether he had really changed, or whether he had been for the time being frightened into a little goodness. Saturday morning found the Hardys weary with the agitation of the week, but bearing about a strange excitement which only the prospect of the father’s approaching death or removal could have produced. Robert could not realize that his week was almost at an end. Why, it seemed but yesterday that he had dreamed after the Sunday evening service! As on every other day, he asked himself the question, “What shall I do?” Only until he had prayed could he answer the question. Then the light came. Who says prayer is merely a form? It is going to God for wisdom and getting it. It is crying out for light, and lo! The darkness flees. It is spreading out our troubles and our joys and our perplexities and our needs, and finding God Himself the best possible answer to them all. Robert Hardy was finding this out lately, and it was the one thing that made possible to him the calmness of the last two days allotted him.

The day was spent in much the same way that the other days had been spent. He went down to his office about ten o’clock, and after coming home to lunch went down again, with the intention of getting through all the business and returning home to spend the rest of the time with the family. Along towards three o’clock, when the routine work of the shops was disposed of, the manager felt an irresistible desire to speak to the men in his employ. They numbered about eight hundred in his department, and he knew how impossible it would be for him to speak to them individually. He thought a minute and then called Burns in and gave an order that made the foreman stare in the most undisguised wonder.

“Shut down the works for a little while, and ask the men to get together in the big machine shop. I want to speak to them.”

Burns had been astonished so often this week that although he had opened his mouth to say something, he did not seem able to pronounce the word, and after staring blankly at his employer a minute he turned and went out to execute the order.

The great engine was stopped. The men from the casting-rooms and the carpenter shops and the store-rooms and the repairing departments came trooping into the big machine shop, and sat or leaned on the great grim pieces of machinery, and as the shop filled, the place began to take on a strange aspect never seen there before. Mr. Hardy crossed the yard from the office, followed by the clerks and assistant officers of the road, all curious to hear what was coming. Mr. Hardy mounted one of the planers and looked about him. The air was still full of gas and smoke and that mixture of fine iron filings and oil which are characteristic of such places. The men were quiet and respectful enough. Many of them had heard the manager’s speech of Thursday night at the Town Hall. Most of them were aware that some change had taken place in the man. It had been whispered about that he had arranged matters for the men injured in the Sunday accident so that they would not come to want in any way. And now, that grimy, hard-muscled hard-featured crowd of eight hundred men turned their eyes all upon the figure standing very erect and pale-faced on the great planer, and he in turn looked out through the blue murky atmosphere at them with an intensity of expression which none in that audience understood. As the man went on with his speech they began to understand what that look meant.

“My brothers,” began the manager with a slight tremble of the syllables so new to him, “as this may be the last time I shall ever speak to you, I want to say what is true to me and what I feel I owe to you. For twenty-five years I have carried on the work in this place without any thought of the eight hundred men at work in these shops, except as their names were on the pay roll of the company. It never made any difference to me when your wives and children grew sick and died. I never knew what sort of houses you lived in, except to know that in comparison with mine they must have been very crowded and uncomfortable. For all these twenty-five years I have been as indifferent to you as one man possibly could be to men who work for him. It has not occurred to me during this time that I could be anything else. I have been too selfish to see my relation to you and act upon it.

“Now I do not call you in here today to apologize for twenty-five years of selfishness. Not that alone. But I do want you to know that I had been touched by the hand of God in such a way that before it is too late I want to say to you all, ‘Brothers,’ and say to you that when you think of me hereafter, it may be as I am now today, not as I have been all the years past. It is not for me to say how far or in what manner I have trampled on the brotherhood of the race. I have called myself a Christian. I have been a member of a church. Yet I will confess here today that under the authority granted me by the company, I have more than once dismissed good, honest, faithful workmen in large bodies, and cut down wages unnecessarily to increase dividends, and in general, I have thought of the human flesh and blood in these shops as I have thought of the iron and steel here. I confess all that and more. Whatever has been un-Christian I hope will be forgiven. There are many things we do to our fellow-men in this world which abide. The sting of them I mean. The impress of my selfishness is stamped on this place. It will take years to remove it. I might have been far more to you. I might have raised my voice, as a Christian and an influential director of this road against the Sunday work and traffic. I never did. I might have relieved unnecessary discomfort in different departments. I refused to do it. I might have helped the cause of temperance in this town by trying to banish the saloon. Instead of that I voted to license a crime and poverty and disease establishment. I might have used my influence and my wealth to build healthy, comfortable homes for the men who work on this road. I never raised my finger in the matter. I might have helped to make life a happier, sweeter thing to the nearly one thousand souls in this establishment, and I went my selfish way, content with my own luxurious home and the ambition for self-culture and the pride of self-accomplishments. And yet there is not a man here today who isn’t happier than I am.

“I wish you all in the name of the good God who forgives our sins for Jesus’s sake, the wish of a man who looks into the other world and sees things as they really are. I do not wish you to think of my life as a Christian life. It has not been such. But as you hope to be forgiven at last, forgive all wrongs at my hands. You are living in the dawn of a happier day for labor. There are Christian men in this town, and some few connected with railroads, who are trying to apply the principles of Christianity to the business and traffic of earth. My probable successor in these shops is such a man in spirit. God is love. I have forgotten that myself. I have walked through life forgetful of Him. But I know today that He is drawing the nations together and the world together in true sympathy. The nations that stand defiant and disobedient to God shall perish. The rulers who haughtily take God’s place and oppress the people shall be destroyed. The men of power and intelligence and money who use these three great advantages to bless themselves and add to their own selfish pleasure and ease, shall very soon be dethroned I would give all I possess to be able to live and see a part of it come to pass. Men, brothers, some of you younger ones shall live to see that day. Love God and obey Him. Envy not the rich. They are more miserable than you sometimes dream. True happiness consists in a conscience at peace with God, and a heart free from selfish desires and habits. I thank you for your attention. You will know better why I have said all this to you when you come in here to work again next Monday. My brothers, God bless you. God bless us all!”

When Robert stepped down from the planer and started towards the door, more than one black hand was thrust out into his with the words, “God bless you, sir!” He felt a strange desire to weep. Never before had he felt that thrill shoot through him at the grasp of the hand of his brother man. His speech had make a profound impression on the men. Many of them did not understand the meaning of certain sentences. But the spirit of the man was unmistakable and the men responded in a manner that touched Mr. Hardy very strongly. He finally went into his office, the big engine started up again, and the whirr and dust and clangor of the shops went on. But men bent over their work there, in the gathering dusk of the winter day who felt a new heart-throb at the recollection of the pale face and sincere words of the man who had broken a selfish silence of a quarter century to call them brothers. O Robert Hardy, what glorious opportunities you missed to love and be loved! With all your wealth you have been a very poor man all your life until now on the next to the last day of it!

There is little need to describe the rest of this day. Robert went home. Every one greeted him tenderly. His first inquiry was about Clara. Still in that trance-like sleep. Would she never wake? The wife shuddered with fear. Mrs. Hardy had spent much of the time in prayer and tears. The evening sped by without special incident. James Caxton came and joined the family circle. His presence reminded Mr. Hardy of the old quarrel with the young man’s father. He spoke to James and said if anything should prevent him seeing his father the next day, James might tell his father how completely and sincerely he wished the foolish quarrel forgotten and his own share in it forgiven.

So that day came to a close in family conference, in tears, in fear and hope and anxiety and prayer. But Mrs. Hardy would not lose all hope. It did not seem to her possible that her husband could be called away the next night.

~ end of chapter 11 ~