Illness and death are great softeners of human hearts. It was wonderful how tender the people who knew Mr. Knight became towards him when they heard that he was dying. All thought the best and none the worst of him then. And when they looked through the eyes of love and pity, instead of those of censure, they were not long in finding his good traits. Even his workpeople altered their tones. “After all,” they said, “he had been no worse a master than other men. Of course, he had tried to get all he could out of them; it was only natural—other people did the same. And it was not altogether his fault, perhaps, that he had not used better materials; people would have nasty cheap things nowadays, and they could not expect them to be cheap and good too.” So they talked, the people whose hearts are mostly kind at the bottom, not because they quite believed what they said, nor because they did not understand the meaning of justice, truth, and honesty, but because in the presence of death even the hardest becomes pitiful.
It was a great comfort to Arthur Knight to know that many kind inquiries were being made and much sympathy shown for his father, and these things helped him through the time of waiting.
It was not a very long time either.
“He has not the strength to rally,” said the doctors. “He may have a gleam of consciousness towards the last, but it is scarcely likely, and the end may come at any time.”
The end came suddenly. Mr. Knight opened his eyes and fixed them upon his son. “Arthur,” he said.
“Yes, father; I am here. I love you. What can I do for you?”
The eyes closed wearily again for some minutes. Then they were once more lifted to the sorrowful and sympathetic face bending over him, and the dying man made an effort to speak. “Arthur—undo it all—if you can—and pray for me. God be merciful—to me—a sinner.”
Then, after a few minutes of struggle, his eyes closed, and his face grew calm.
CHAPTER VI.
ARTHUR KNIGHT’S INHERITANCE.
The stateliness of death was upon the still face of his father when the son gazed upon it for the last time. A wonderful peace and beauty, which had never been seen before, was there; and as Arthur looked through his tears he saw that all the wrinkles which care had made were smoothed away, and something of the youthfulness which he remembered had returned. Did it mean anything or nothing, he wondered, this calm which is always so comforting to those who look upon their dead? Love made him tender; but neither it nor sorrow could make him unmindful of facts. His father had not really been an irreligious man. He had known his Lord’s will; but in many things he had not done it. He had gone home to God with the cry of mercy on his lips and in his heart; and his son believed in nothing so entirely as in the compassion of the Father, as Christ represented Him. Arthur was not afraid; but he wondered where the dead man was now, and how it fared with him. His father had appeared to be entirely engrossed with the world of money-making and business; and what sort of preparation was that for the hereafter which was before him? Had the habit of worldliness so hardened his heart that it had kept the weary wanderer from going back to the Father? Arthur was thankful that he had heard the dying lips pray, “God be merciful to me, a sinner.” What issues might have hung upon the prayer for the man who was passing away he could not tell, but there was infinite comfort in it for the one who remained. Yet he mourned for what might have been. He knew enough of his own heart, with its weaknesses and sins, to understand how a man’s prayer has at the last to take the deprecating tones of humility and confession. In the silent hours of his life he had dared to pray with Moses, “Show me Thy glory,” and he to whom that is an answered prayer must needs abhor himself in dust and ashes. He understood how natural it was that a good and great man should have asked that the only epitaph upon his tomb should be—