The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mansion, by Henry Van Dyke

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The bulk water blastersMansion

By

Henry van Dyke

There was an air of calm and reserved opulence about the Weightmanmansion that spoke not of money squandered, but of wealth prudentlyapplied. Standing on a corner of the Avenue no longer fashionable forresidence, it looked upon the swelling tide of business with anexpression of complacency and half-disdain.

The house was not beautiful. There was nothing in its straight frontof chocolate-colored stone, its heavy cornices, its broad, staringwindows of plate glass, its carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany doorsat the top of the wide stoop, to charm the eye or fascinate theimagination. But it was eminently respectable, and in its wayimposing. It seemed to say that the glittering shops of the jewelers,the milliners, the confectioners, the florists, the picture-dealers,the furriers, the makers of rare and costly antiquities, retail tradersin luxuries of life, were beneath the notice of a house that had itsfoundations in the high finance, and was built literally andfiguratively in the shadow of St. Petronius' Church.

At the same time there was something self-pleased and congratulatory inthe way in which the mansion held its own amid the changingneighborhood. It almost seemed to be lifted up a little, among thetall buildings near at hand, as if it felt the rising value of the landon which it stood.

John Weightman was like the house into which he had built himselfthirty years ago, and in which his ideals and ambitions were incrusted.He was a self-made man. But in making himself he had chosen a highlyesteemed pattern and worked according to the approved rules. There wasnothing irregular, questionable, flamboyant about him.

He was solid, correct, and justly successful.

His minor tastes, of course, had been carefully kept up to date.

At the proper time, pictures of the Barbizon masters, old English plateand portraits, bronzes by Barye and marbles by Rodin, Persian carpetsand Chinese porcelains, had been introduced to the mansion. Itcontained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Empire drawing-room, aJacobean dining-room, and various apartments dimly reminiscent of thestyles of furniture affected by deceased monarchs. That the hallwayswere too short for the historic perspective did not make muchdifference. American decorative art is capable de tout, it absorbs allperiods. Of each period Mr. Weightman wished to have something of thebest. He understood its value, present as a certificate, andprospective as an investment.

It was only in the architecture of his town house that he remainedconservative, immovable, one might almost sayEarly-Victorian-Christian. His country house at Dulwich-on-the-Soundwas a palace of the Italian Renaissance. But in town he adhered to anarchitecture which had moral associations, theNineteenth-Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a symbol of his socialposition, his religious doctrine, and even, in a way, of his businesscreed.

"A man of fixed principles," he would say, "should express them in thelooks of his house. New York changes its domestic architecture toorapidly. It is like divorce. It is not dignified. I don't like it.Extravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these new houses.I wish to be known for different qualities. Dignity and prudence arethe things that people trust. Every one knows that I can afford tolive in the house that suits me. It is a guarantee to the public. Itinspires confidence. It helps my influence. There is a text in theBible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the proper kind ofa mansion for a solid man."

Harold Weightman had often listened to his father discoursing in thisfashion on the fundamental principles of life, and always with adivided mind. He admired immensely his father's talents and thesingle-minded energy with which he improved them. But in the paternalphilosophy there was something that disquieted and oppressed the youngman, and made him gasp inwardly for fresh air and free action.

At times, during his college course and his years at the law school, hehad yielded to this impulse and broken away—now toward extravaganceand dissipation, and then, when the reaction came, toward a romanticdevotion to work among the poor. He had felt his father's disapprovalfor both of these forms of imprudence; but is was never expressed in aharsh or violent way, always with a certain tolerant patience, such asone might show for the mistakes and vagaries of the very young. JohnWeightman was not hasty, impulsive, inconsiderate, even toward his ownchildren. With them, as with the rest of the world, he felt that hehad a reputation to maintain, a theory to vindicate. He could affordto give them time to see that he was absolutely right.

One of his favorite Scripture quotations was, "Wait on the Lord."

He had applied it to real estate and to people, with profitable results.

But to human persons the sensation of being waited for is not alwaysagreeable. Sometimes, especially with the young, it produces a vaguerestlessness, a dumb resentment, which is increased by the fact thatone can hardly explain or justify it. Of this John Weightman was notconscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He did not take it into accountin the plan of life which he made for himself and for his family as thesharers and inheritors of his success.

"Father plays us," said Harold, in a moment of irritation, to hismother, "like pieces in a game of chess.

"My dear," said that lady, whose faith in her husband was religious,"you ought not to speak so impatiently. At least he wins the game. Heis one of the most respected men in New York. And he is very generous,too."

"I wish he would be more generous in letting us be ourselves," said theyoung man. "He always has something in view for us and expects to moveus up to it."

"But isn't it always for our benefit?" replied his mother. "Look whata position we have. No one can say there is any taint on our money.There are no rumors about your father. He has kept the laws of God andof man. He has never made any mistakes." Harold got up from his chairand poked the fire. Then he came back to the ample, well-gowned,firm-looking lady, and sat beside her on the sofa. He took her handgently and looked at the two rings—a thin band of yellow gold, and asmall solitaire diamond—which kept their place on her third finger inmodest dignity, as if not shamed, but rather justified, by the splendorof the emerald which glittered beside them.

"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand. And father made nomistake when he won you. But are you sure he has always been soinerrant?"

"Harold," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean? His lifeis an open book."

"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother dear. I know thegovernor's life is an open book—a ledger, if you like, kept in thebest bookkeeping hand, and always ready for inspection—every pagecorrect, and showing a handsome balance. But isn't it a mistake not toallow us to make our own mistakes, to learn for ourselves, to live ourown lives? Must we be always working for 'the balance,' in one thingor another? I want to be myself—to get outside of this everlasting,profitable 'plan'—to let myself go, and lose myself for a while atleast—to do the things that I want to do, just because I want to dothem."

"My boy," said his mother, anxiously, "you are not going to do anythingwrong or foolish? You know the falsehood of that old proverb aboutwild oats."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes, mother," he answered, "Iknow it well enough. But in California, you know, the wild oats areone of the most valuable crops. They grow all over the hillsides andkeep the cattle and the horses alive. But that wasn't what I meant—tosow wild oats. Say to pick wild flowers, if you like, or even to chasewild geese—to do something that seems good to me just for its ownsake, not for the sake of wages of one kind or another. I feel like ahired man, in the service of this magnificent mansion—say in trainingfor father's place as majordomo. I'd like to get out some way, to feelfree—perhaps to do something for others."

The young man's voice hesitated a little. "Yes, it sounds like cant, Iknow, but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do some good in the world,if father only wouldn't insist upon God's putting it into the ledger."

His mother moved uneasily, and a slight look of bewilderment came intoher face.

"Isn't that almost irreverent?" she asked. "Surely the righteous musthave their reward. And your father is good. See how much he gives toall the established charities, how many things he has founded. He'salways thinking of others, and planning for them. And surely, for us,he does everything. How well he has planned this trip to Europe for meand the girls—the court-presentation at Berlin, the season on theRiviera, the visits in England with the Plumptons and the Halverstones.He says Lord Halverstone has the finest old house in Sussex, pureElizabethan, and all the old customs are kept up, too—family prayersevery morning for all the domestics. By-the-way, you know his sonBertie, I believe."

Harold smiled a little to himself as he answered: "Yes, I fished atCatalina Island last June with the Honorable Ethelbert; he's rather adecent chap, in spite of his ingrowing mind. But you?—mother, you aresimply magnificent! You are father's masterpiece." The young manleaned over to kiss her, and went up to the Riding Club for hisafternoon canter in the Park.

So it came to pass, early in December, that Mrs. Weightman and her twodaughters sailed for Europe, on their serious pleasure trip, even as ithad been written in the book of Providence; and John Weightman, who hadmade the entry, was left to pass the rest of the winter with his sonand heir in the brownstone mansion.

They were comfortable enough. The machinery of the massiveestablishment ran as smoothly as a great electric dynamo. They werebusy enough, too. John Weightman's plans and enterprises werecomplicated, though his principle of action was always simple—to getgood value for every expenditure and effort. The banking-house ofwhich he was the chief, the brain, the will, the absolutely controllinghand, was so admirably organized that the details of its direction tookbut little time.

But the scores of other interests that radiated from it and weredependent upon it—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, thatcontributed to its solidity and success—the many investments,industrial, political, benevolent, reformatory, ecclesiastical, thathad made the name of Weightman well known and potent in city, church,and state, demanded much attention and careful steering, in order thateach might produce the desired result. There were board meetings ofcorporations and hospitals, conferences in Wall Street and at Albany,consultations and committee meetings in the brownstone mansion.

For a share in all this business and its adjuncts John Weightman hadhis son in training in one of the famous law firms of the city; for heheld that banking itself is a simple affair, the only real difficultiesof finance are on its legal side. Meantime he wished the young man tomeet and know the men with whom he would have to deal when he became apartner in the house. So a couple of dinners were given in the mansionduring December, after which the father called the son's attention tothe fact that over a hundred million dollars had sat around the board.

But on Christmas Eve father and son were dining together withoutguests, and their talk across the broad table, glittering with silverand cut glass, and softly lit by shaded candles, was intimate, though alittle slow at times. The elder man was in rather a rare mood, moreexpansive and confidential than usual; and, when the coffee was broughtin and they were left alone, he talked more freely of his personalplans and hopes than he had ever done before.

"I feel very grateful to-night," said he, at last; "it must besomething in the air of Christmas that gives me this feeling ofthankfulness for the many divine mercies that have been bestowed uponme. All the principles by which I have tried to guide my life havebeen justified. I have never made the value of this salted almond byanything that the courts would not uphold, at least in the long run,and yet—or wouldn't it be truer to say and therefore?—my affairs havebeen wonderfully prospered. There's a great deal in that text 'Honestyis the best'—but no, that's not from the Bible, after all, is it?Wait a moment; there is something of that kind, I know."

"May I light a cigar, father," said Harold, turning away to hide asmile, "while you are remembering the text?"

"Yes, certainly," answered the elder man, rather shortly; "you know Idon't dislike the smell. But it is a wasteful, useless habit, andtherefore I have never practised it. Nothing useless is worth while,that's my motto—nothing that does not bring the reward. Oh, now Irecall the text, 'Verily I say unto you they have their reward.' Ishall ask Doctor Snodgrass to preach a sermon on that verse some day."

"Using you as an illustration?"

"Well, not exactly that; but I could give him some good materials frommy own experience to prove the truth of Scripture. I can honestly saythat there is not one of my charities that has not brought me in a goodreturn, either in the increase of influence, the building up of credit,or the association with substantial people. Of course you have to becareful how you give, in order to secure the best results—noindiscriminate giving—no pennies in beggars' hats! It has been one ofmy principles always to use the same kind of judgment in charities thatI use in my other affairs, and they have not disappointed me."

"Even the check that you put in the plate when you take the offertoryup the aisle on Sunday morning?"

"Certainly; though there the influence is less direct; and I mustconfess that I have my doubts in regard to the collection for ForeignMissions. That always seems to me romantic and wasteful. You neverhear from it in any definite way. They say the missionaries have donea good deal to open the way for trade; perhaps—but they have alsogotten us into commercial and political difficulties. Yet I give tothem—a little—it is a matter of conscience with me to identify myselfwith all the enterprises of the Church; it is the mainstay of socialorder and a prosperous civilization. But the best forms of benevolenceare the well-established, organized ones here at home, where people cansee them and know what they are doing."

"You mean the ones that have a local habitation and a name."

"Yes; they offer by far the safest return, though of course there issomething gained by contributing to general funds. A public man can'tafford to be without public spirit. But on the whole I prefer abuilding, or an endowment. There is a mutual advantage to a good nameand a good institution in their connection in the public mind. Ithelps them both. Remember that, my boy. Of course at the beginningyou will have to practise it in a small way; later, you will havelarger opportunities. But try to put your gifts where they can beidentified and do good all around. You'll see the wisdom of it in thelong run."

"I can see it already, sir, and the way you describe it looks amazinglywise and prudent. In other words, we must cast our bread on the watersin large loaves, carried by sound ships marked with the owner's name,so that the return freight will be sure to come back to us."

The father laughed, but his eyes were frowning a little as if hesuspected something irreverent under the respectful reply. "You put ithumorously, but there's sense in what you say. Why not? God rules thesea; but He expects us to follow the laws of navigation and commerce.Why not take good care of your bread, even when you give it away?"

"It's not for me to say why not—and yet I can think of cases—"

The young man hesitated for a moment. His half-finished cigar had goneout. He rose and tossed it into the fire, in front of which heremained standing—a slender, eager, restless young figure, with atouch of hunger in the fine face, strangely like and unlike the father,at whom he looked with half-wistful curiosity.

"The fact is, sir," he continued, "there is such a case in my mind now,and it is a good deal on my heart, too. So I thought of speaking toyou about it to-night. You remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who was sogood to me when I entered college?"

The father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoyingincidents of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by himand helped to avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship hadgrown between the two boys, so different in their fortunes.

"Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a promising young man. Has hesucceeded?"

"Not exactly—that is not yet. His business has been going ratherbadly. He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has brokendown,—something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chanceis a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help him."

"How much would it cost?"

"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan."

"Does the doctor say he will get well?"

"A fighting chance—the doctor says."

The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was altered, butit seemed to have a different substance, as if it were carved out ofsome firm, imperishable stuff.

"A fighting chance," he said, "may do for a speculation, but it is nota good investment. You owe something to young Rollins. Your gratefulfeeling does you credit. But don't overwork it. Send him three orfour hundred, if you like. You'll never hear from it again, except inthe letter of thanks. But for Heaven's sake don't be sentimental.Religion is not a matter of sentiment; it's a matter of principle."

The face of the younger man changed now. But instead of becoming fixedand graven, it seemed to melt into life by the heat of an inward fire.His nostrils quivered with quick breath, his lips were curled."Principle!" he said. "You mean principal—and interest too. Well,sir, you know best whether that is religion or not. But if it is,count me out, please. Tom saved me from going to the devil, six yearsago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best of my abilitynow."

John Weightman looked at his son steadily. "Harold," he said at last,"you know I dislike violent language, and it never has any influencewith me. If I could honestly approve of this proposition of yours, I'dlet you have the money; but I can't; it's extravagant and useless. Butyou have your Christmas check for a thousand dollars coming to youto-morrow. You can use it as you please. I never interfere with yourprivate affairs."

"Thank you," said Harold. "Thank you very much! But there's anotherprivate affair. I want to get away from this life, this town, thishouse. It stifles me. You refused last summer when I asked you to letme go up to Grenfell's Mission on the Labrador. I could go now, atleast as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you changed your mind?"

"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise. Itwould interrupt the career that I have marked out for you."

"Well, then, here's a cheaper proposition. Algy Vanderhoof wants me tojoin him on his yacht with—well, with a little party—to cruise in theWest Indies. Would you prefer that?"

"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is wild and godless—I do not wishto see you keeping company with fools who walk in the broad and easyway that leads to perdition."

"It is rather a hard choice," said the young man, with a short laugh,turning toward the door. "According to you there's very littledifference—a fool's paradise or a fool's hell! Well, it's one or theother for me, and I'll toss up for it to-night: heads, I lose; tails,the devil wins. Anyway, I'm sick of this, and I'm out of it."

"Harold," said the older man (and there was a slight tremor in hisvoice), "don't let us quarrel on Christmas Eve. All I want is topersuade you to think seriously of the duties and responsibilities towhich God has called you—don't speak lightly of heaven andhell—remember, there is another life."

The young man came back and laid his hand upon his father's shoulder.

"Father," he said, "I want to remember it. I try to believe in it.But somehow or other, in this house, it all seems unreal to me. Nodoubt all you say is perfectly right and wise. I don't venture toargue against it, but I can't feel it—that's all. If I'm to have asoul, either to lose or to save, I must really live. Just now neitherthe present nor the future means anything to me. But surely we won'tquarrel. I'm very grateful to you, and we'll part friends.Good-night, sir."

The father held out his hand in silence. The heavy portiere droppednoiselessly behind the son, and he went up the wide, curving stairwayto his own room.

Meantime John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobeandining-room. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits ofbeautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had oftenseemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting.

He fancied something cold and almost unfriendly in their expression, asif they were staring through him or beyond him. They cared nothing forhis principles, his hopes, his disappointments, his successes; theybelonged to another world, in which he had no place. At this he felt avague resentment, a sense of discomfort that he could not have definedor explained. He was used to being considered, respected, appreciatedat his full value in every region, even in that of his own dreams.

Presently he rang for the butler, telling him to close the house andnot to sit up, and walked with lagging steps into the long library,where the shaded lamps were burning. His eye fell upon the low shelvesfull of costly books, but he had no desire to open them. Even thecarefully chosen pictures that hung above them seemed to have losttheir attraction. He paused for a moment before an idyll of Corot—adance of nymphs around some forgotten altar in a vaporous glade—andlooked at it curiously. There was something rapturous and serene aboutthe picture, a breath of spring-time in the misty trees, a harmony ofjoy in the dancing figures, that wakened in him a feeling ofhalf-pleasure and half-envy. It represented something that he hadnever known in his calculated, orderly life. He was dimly mistrustfulof it.

"It is certainly very beautiful," he thought, "but it is distinctlypagan; that altar is built to some heathen god. It does not fit intothe scheme of a Christian life. I doubt whether it is consistent withthe tone of my house. I will sell it this winter. It will bring threeor four times what I paid for it. That was a good purchase, a verygood bargain."

He dropped into the revolving chair before his big library table.

It was covered with pamphlets and reports of the various enterprises inwhich he was interested. There was a pile of newspaper clippings inwhich his name was mentioned with praise for his sustaining power as apillar of finance, for his judicious benevolence, for his support ofwise and prudent reform movements, for his discretion in makingpermanent public gifts—"the Weightman Charities," one very complaisanteditor called them, as if they deserved classification as a distinctspecies. He turned the papers over listlessly. There was a descriptionand a picture of the "Weightman Wing of the Hospital for Cripples," ofwhich he was president; and an article on the new professor in the"Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence" in Jackson University, ofwhich he was a trustee; and an illustrated account of the opening ofthe "Weightman Grammar-School" at Dulwich-on-the-Sound, where he hadhis legal residence for purposes of taxation.

This last was perhaps the most carefully planned of all the WeightmanCharities. He desired to win the confidence and support of his ruralneighbors. It had pleased him much when the local newspaper had spokenof him as an ideal citizen and the logical candidate for theGovernorship of the State; but upon the whole it seemed to him wiser tokeep out of active politics. It would be easier and better to putHarold into the running, to have him sent to the Legislature from theDulwich district, then to the national House, then to the Senate. Whynot? The Weightman interests were large enough to need a directrepresentative and guardian at Washington.

But to-night all these plans came back to him with dust upon them.They were dry and crumbling like forsaken habitations. The son uponwhom his complacent ambition had rested had turned his back upon themansion of his father's hopes. The break might not be final; and inany event there would be much to live for; the fortunes of the familywould be secure. But the zest of it all would be gone if JohnWeightman had to give up the assurance of perpetuating his name and hisprinciples in his son. It was a bitter disappointment, and he feltthat he had not deserved it.

He rose from the chair and paced the room with leaden feet. For thefirst time in his life his age was visibly upon him. His head washeavy and hot, and the thoughts that rolled in it were confused anddepressing. Could it be that he had made a mistake in the principlesof his existence? There was no argument in what Harold had said—itwas almost childish—and yet it had shaken the elder man more deeplythan he cared to show. It held a silent attack which touched him morethan open criticism.

Suppose the end of his life were nearer than he thought—the end mustcome some time—what if it were now? Had he not founded his house upona rock? Had he not kept the Commandments? Was he not, "touching thelaw, blameless"? And beyond this, even if there were some faults inhis character—and all men are sinners—yet he surely believed in thesaving doctrines of religion—the forgiveness of sins, the resurrectionof the body, the life everlasting. Yes, that was the true source ofcomfort, after all. He would read a bit in the Bible, as he did everynight, and go to bed and to sleep.

He went back to his chair at the library table. A strange weight ofweariness rested upon him, but he opened the book at a familiar place,and his eyes fell upon the verse at the bottom of the page.

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth."

That had been the text of the sermon a few weeks before. Sleepily,heavily, he tried to fix his mind upon it and recall it. What was itthat Doctor Snodgrass had said? Ah, yes—that it was a mistake topause here in reading the verse. We must read on without a pause—Laynot up treasures upon earth where moth and rust do corrupt and wherethieves break through and steal—that was the true doctrine. We mayhave treasures upon earth, but they must not be put into unsafe places,but into safe places. A most comforting doctrine! He had alwaysfollowed it. Moths and rust and thieves had done no harm to hisinvestments.

John Weightman's drooping eyes turned to the next verse, at the top ofthe second column.

"But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven."

Now what had the Doctor said about that? How was it to beunderstood—in what sense—treasures—in heaven?

The book seemed to float away from him. The light vanished. Hewondered dimly if this could be Death, coming so suddenly, so quietly,so irresistibly. He struggled for a moment to hold himself up, andthen sank slowly forward upon the table. His head rested upon hisfolded hands. He slipped into the unknown.

How long afterward conscious life returned to him he did not know. Theblank might have been an hour or a century. He knew only thatsomething had happened in the interval. What is was he could not tell.He found great difficulty in catching the thread of his identity again.He felt that he was himself; but the trouble was to make hisconnections, to verify and place himself, to know who and where he was.

At last it grew clear. John Weightman was sitting on a stone, not farfrom a road in a strange land.

The road was not a formal highway, fenced and graded. It was more likea great travel-trace, worn by thousands of feet passing across the opencountry in the same direction. Down in the valley, into which he couldlook, the road seemed to form itself gradually out of many minor paths;little footways coming across the meadows, winding tracks followingalong beside the streams, faintly marked trails emerging from thewoodlands. But on the hillside the threads were more firmly woven intoone clear band of travel, though there were still a few dim pathsjoining it here and there, as if persons had been climbing up the hillby other ways and had turned at last to seek the road.

From the edge of the hill, where John Weightman sat, he could see thetravelers, in little groups or larger companies, gathering from time totime by the different paths, and making the ascent. They were allclothed in white, and the form of their garments was strange to him; itwas like some old picture. They passed him, group after group, talkingquietly together or singing; not moving in haste, but with a certainair of eagerness and joy as if they were glad to be on their way to anappointed place. They did not stay to speak to him, but they looked athim often and spoke to one another as they looked; and now and then oneof them would smile and beckon him a friendly greeting, so that he feltthey would like him to be with them.

There was quite an interval between the groups; and he followed each ofthem with his eyes after it had passed, blanching the long ribbon ofthe road for a little transient space, rising and receding across thewide, billowy upland, among the rounded hillocks of aerial green andgold and lilac, until it came to the high horizon, and stood outlinedfor a moment, a tiny cloud of whiteness against the tender blue, beforeit vanished over the hill.

For a long time he sat there watching and wondering. It was a verydifferent world from that in which his mansion on the Avenue was built;and it looked strange to him, but most real—as real as anything he hadever seen. Presently he felt a strong desire to know what country itwas and where the people were going. He had a faint premonition ofwhat it must be, but he wished to be sure. So he rose from the stonewhere he was sitting, and came down through the short grass and thelavender flowers, toward a passing group of people. One of them turnedto meet him, and held out his hand. It was an old man, under whosewhite beard and brows John Weightman thought he saw a suggestion of theface of the village doctor who had cared for him years ago, when he wasa boy in the country.

"Welcome," said the old man. "Will you come with us?"

"Where are you going?"

"To the heavenly city, to see our mansions there."

"And who are these with you?"

"Strangers to me, until a little while ago; I know them better now.But you I have known for a long time, John Weightman. Don't youremember your old doctor?"

"Yes," he cried—"yes; your voice has not changed at all. I'm gladindeed to see you, Doctor McLean, especially now. All this seems verystrange to me, almost oppressive. I wonder if—but may I go with you,do you suppose?"

"Surely," answered the doctor, with his familiar smile; "it will do yougood. And you also must have a mansion in the city waiting for you—afine one, too—are you not looking forward to it?"

"Yes," replied the other, hesitating a moment; "yes—I believe it mustbe so, although I had not expected to see it so soon. But I will gowith you, and we can talk by the way."

The two men quickly caught up with the other people, and all wentforward together along the road. The doctor had little to tell of hisexperience, for it had been a plain, hard life, uneventfully spent forothers, and the story of the village was very simple. John Weightman'sadventures and triumphs would have made a far richer, more imposinghistory, full of contacts with the great events and personages of thetime. But somehow or other he did not care to speak much about it,walking on that wide heavenly moorland, under that tranquil, sunlessarch of blue, in that free air of perfect peace, where the light wasdiffused without a shadow, as if the spirit of life in all things wereluminous.

There was only one person besides the doctor in that little companywhom John Weightman had known before—an old bookkeeper who had spenthis life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts—a rusty, dull littleman, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum fortwenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whosecomfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself withoutstint. It was a surprise to find him here, as care-free and joyful asthe rest.

The lives of others in the company were revealed in brief glimpses asthey talked together—a mother, early widowed, who had kept her littleflock of children together and labored through hard and heavy years tobring them up in purity and knowledge—a Sister of Charity who haddevoted herself to the nursing of poor folk who were being eaten todeath by cancer—a schoolmaster whose heart and life had been pouredinto his quiet work of training boys for a clean and thoughtfulmanhood—a medical missionary who had given up a brilliant career inscience to take the charge of a hospital in darkest Africa—a beautifulwoman with silver hair who had resigned her dreams of love and marriageto care for an invalid father, and after his death had made her life along, steady search for ways of doing kindnesses to others—a poet whohad walked among the crowded tenements of the great city, bringingcheer and comfort not only by his songs, but by his wise and patientworks of practical aid—a paralyzed woman who had lain for thirty yearsupon her bed, helpless but not hopeless, succeeding by a miracle ofcourage in her single aim, never to complain, but always to impart abit of joy and peace to every one who came near her. All these, andother persons like them, people of little consideration in the world,but now seemingly all full of great contentment and an inward gladnessthat made their steps light, were in the company that passed along theroad, talking together of things past and things to come, and singingnow and then with clear voices from which the veil of age and sorrowwas lifted.

John Weightman joined in some of the songs—which were familiar to himfrom their use in the church—at first with a touch of hesitation, andthen more confidently. For as they went on his sense of strangenessand fear at his new experience diminished, and his thoughts began totake on their habitual assurance and complacency. Were not thesepeople going to the Celestial City? And was not he in his right placeamong them? He had always looked forward to this journey. If theywere sure, each one, of finding a mansion there, could not he be farmore sure? His life had been more fruitful than theirs. He had been aleader, a founder of new enterprises, a pillar of Church and State, aprince of the House of Israel. Ten talents had been given him, and hehad made them twenty. His reward would be proportionate. He was gladthat his companions were going to find fit dwellings prepared for them;but he thought also with a certain pleasure of the surprise that someof them would feel when they saw his appointed mansion.

So they came to the summit of the moorland and looked over into theworld beyond. It was a vast, green plain, softly rounded like ashallow vase, and circled with hills of amethyst. A broad, shiningriver flowed through it, and many silver threads of water were wovenacross the green; and there were borders of tall trees on the banks ofthe river, and orchards full of roses abloom along the little streams,and in the midst of all stood the city, white and wonderful and radiant.

When the travelers saw it they were filled with awe and joy. Theypassed over the little streams and among the orchards quickly andsilently, as if they feared to speak lest the city should vanish.

The wall of the city was very low, a child could see over it, for itwas made only of precious stones, which are never large. The gate ofthe city was not like a gate a all, for it was not barred with iron orwood, but only a single pearl, softly gleaming, marked the place wherethe wall ended and the entrance lay open.

A person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose robewas like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a livingtexture. "Come in," he said to the company of travelers; "you are atyour journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you."

John Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt. Suppose thathe was not really, like his companions, at his journey's end, but onlytransported for a little while out of the regular course of his lifeinto this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after all, he had notreally passed through the door of death, like these others, but onlythrough the door of dreams, and was walking in a vision, a living manamong the blessed dead. Would it be right for him to go with them intothe heavenly city? Would it not be a deception, a desecration, a deepand unforgivable offense? The strange, confusing question had noreason in it, as he very well knew; for if he was dreaming, then it wasall a dream; but if his companions were real, then he also was withthem in reality, and if they had died then he must have died too. Yethe could not rid his mind of the sense that there was a differencebetween them and him, and it made him afraid to go on. But, as hepaused and turned, the Keeper of the Gate looked straight and deep intohis eyes, and beckoned to him. Then he knew that it was not only rightbut necessary that he should enter.

They passed from street to street among fair and spacious dwellings,set in amaranthine gardens, and adorned with an infinitely variedbeauty of divine simplicity. The mansions differed in size, in shape,in charm: each one seemed to have its own personal look of loveliness;yet all were alike in fitness to their place, in harmony with oneanother, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquilsplendor of the city.

As the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which wereprepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant toenter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, halfwonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling werecrowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all thedreams of it had been; and yet also as if it were touched with thebeauty of the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One afteranother the travelers were led to their own mansions, and went ingladly; and from within, through the open doorways came sweet voices ofwelcome, and low laughter, and song.

At last there was no one left with the Guide but the two old friends,Doctor McLean and John Weightman. They were standing in front of oneof the largest and fairest of the houses, whose garden glowed softlywith radiant flowers. The Guide laid his hand upon the doctor'sshoulder.

"This is for you," he said. "Go in; there is no more pain here, nomore death, nor sorrow, nor tears; for your old enemies are allconquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all thehelp that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, allthe strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, arehere; for we have built them all into this mansion for you."

The good man's face was lighted with a still joy. He clasped his oldfriend's hand closely, and whispered: "How wonderful it is! Go on, youwill come to your mansion next, it is not far away, and we shall seeeach other again soon, very soon."

So he went through the garden, and into the music within. The Keeperof the Gate turned to John Weightman with level, quiet, searching eyes.Then he asked, gravely:

"Where do you wish me to lead you now?"

"To see my own mansion," answered the man, with half-concealedexcitement. "Is there not one here for me? You may not let me enterit yet, perhaps, for I must confess to you that I am only—"

"I know," said the Keeper of the Gate—"I know it all. You are John
Weightman."

"Yes," said the man, more firmly than he had spoken at first, for itgratified him that his name was known. "Yes, I am John Weightman,Senior Warden of St. Petronius' Church. I wish very much to see mymansion here, if only for a moment. I believe that you have one forme. Will you take me to it?"

The Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robeand turned over the pages.

"Certainly," he said, with a curious look at the man, "your name ishere; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me."

It seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles, through the vastcity, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller, ofgardens richer and poorer, but all full of beauty and delight.

They came into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages,with plots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant. Finallythey reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two orthree little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparseand thin. In the center of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enoughfor a shepherd's shelter. It looked as if it had been built ofdiscarded things, scraps and fragments of other buildings, put togetherwith care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the most ofcast-off material.

There was something pitiful and shamefaced about the hut. It shrankand drooped and faded in its barren field, and seemed to cling only bysufferance to the edge of the splendid city.

"This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with alow, distinct voice—"this is your mansion, John Weightman."

An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation chokedthe man for a moment so that he could not say a word. Then he turnedhis face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate eagerlywith his companion.

"Surely, sir," he stammered, "you must be in error about this. Thereis something wrong—some other John Weightman—a confusion ofnames—the book must be mistaken."

"There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate, very calmly; "hereis your name, the record of your title and your possessions in thisplace."

"But how could such a house be prepared for me," cried the man, with aresentful tremor in his voice—"for me, after my long and faithfulservice? Is this a suitable mansion for one so well known and devoted?Why is it so pitifully small and mean? Why have you not built it largeand fair, like the others?"

"That is all the material you sent us."

"What!"

"We have used all the material that you sent us," repeated the Keeperof the Gate.

"Now I know that you are mistaken," cried the man, with growingearnestness, "for all my life long I have been doing things that musthave supplied you with material. Have you not heard that I have builta school-house; the wing of a hospital; two—yes, three—smallchurches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St. Petro—"

The Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand.

"Wait," he said; "we know all these things. They were not ill done.But they were all marked and used as foundation for the name andmansion of John Weightman in the world. Did you not plan them forthat?"

"Yes," answered the man, confused and taken aback, "I confess that Ithought often of them in that way. Perhaps my heart was set upon thattoo much. But there are other things—my endowment for the college—mysteady and liberal contributions to all the established charities—mysupport of every respectable—"

"Wait," said the Keeper of the Gate again. "Were not all thesecarefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit? Theywere not foolishly done. Verily, you have had your reward for them.Would you be paid twice?"

"No," cried the man, with deepening dismay, "I dare not claim that. Iacknowledge that I considered my own interest too much. But surely notaltogether. You have said that these things were not foolishly done.They accomplished some good in the world. Does not that count forsomething?"

"Yes," answered he Keeper of the Gate, "it counts in the world—whereyou counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved andused everything that you sent us. This is the mansion prepared foryou."

As he spoke, his look grew deeper and more searching, like a flame offire. John Weightman could not endure it. It seemed to strip himnaked and wither him. He sank to the ground under a crushing weight ofshame, covering his eyes with his hands and cowering face downward uponthe stones. Dimly through the trouble of his mind he felt theirhardness and coldness.

"Tell me, then," he cried, brokenly, "since my life has been so littleworth, how came I here at all?"

"Through the mercy of the King"—the answer was like the soft tollingof a bell.

"And how have I earned it?" he murmured.

"It is never earned; it is only given," came the clear, low reply.

"But how have I failed so wretchedly," he asked, "in all the purpose ofmy life? What could I have done better? What is it that counts here?"

"Only that which is truly given," answered the bell-like voice. "Onlythat good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans inwhich the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those laborsin which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts inwhich the giver forgets himself."

The man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency andhumiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the Gate wasinfinitely tender as he bent over him.

"Think again, John Weightman. Has there been nothing like that in yourlife?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "If there ever were such things, it must havebeen long ago—they were all crowded out—I have forgotten them."

There was an ineffable smile on the face of the Keeper of the Gate, andhis hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he spokegently:

"These are the things that the King never forgets; and because therewere a few of them in your life, you have a little place here."

The sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands grewsharper and more distinct. The feeling of bodily weariness andlassitude weighed upon him, but there was a calm, almost a lightness,in his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the silverybell-tones. The chimney clock on the mantel had just ended the laststroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table. Thin, palestrips of the city morning were falling into the room through thenarrow partings of the heavy curtains.

What was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he diedand come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gonevisiting in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, butfinding himself in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the tabledrawer, wrote a check, and tore it out.

He went slowly up the stairs, knocked very softly at his son's door,and, hearing no answer, entered without noise. Harold was asleep, hisbare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in peace.His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes, and thentiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and a sheet ofpaper, and wrote rapidly:

"My dear boy, here is what you asked me for; do what you like with it,and ask for more if you need it. If you are still thinking of thatwork with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church. I want toknow your heart better; and if I have made mistakes—"

A slight noise made him turn his head. Harold was sitting up in bedwith wide-open eyes.

"Father!" he cried, "is that you?"

"Yes, my son," answered John Weightman; "I've come back—I mean I'vecome up—no, I mean come in—well, here I am, and God give us a goodChristmas together."

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