But now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the dread almost
amounting to horror, was rising into being. But before the armour of
his pity really broke, he would die, as an insect when its shell is
cracked. This was his final resource. Others would live on, and know
the living death, the ensuing process of hopeless chaos. He would not.
He denied death its victory.
He had been so constant to his lights, so constant to charity, and to
his love for his neighbour. Perhaps he had loved his neighbour even
better than himself--which is going one further than the commandment.
Always, this flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him through
everything, the welfare of the people. He was a large employer of
labour, he was a great mine-owner. And he had never lost this from his
heart, that in Christ he was one with his workmen. Nay, he had felt
inferior to them, as if they through poverty and labour were nearer to
God than he. He had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was his
workmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of salvation.
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