{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_38312/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_38312","id":"gutenberg_38312","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38312","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Short Stories","Christian fiction","Christian life -- Fiction","Christmas stories","Conduct of life -- Fiction","Future life -- Fiction","Immortality -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Jen Haines, Suzanne Shell and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    The Mansion\n\n    [Illustration: [See page 57 \"BUT HOW HAVE I FAILED SO WRETCHEDLY?\"]\n\n\n\n\n    THE MANSION\n\n    BY\n    HENRY VAN DYKE\n\n    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY\n    ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN\n\n    [Illustration]\n\n    HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS\n    NEW YORK AND LONDON . M . C . M . X . I\n\n\n    COPYRIGHT 1910, 1911, BY HARPER & BROTHERS\n\n\n    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n    PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1911\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe Mansion\n\n\nThere was an air of calm and reserved opulence about the Weightman\nmansion that spoke not of money squandered, but of wealth prudently\napplied. Standing on a corner of the Avenue no longer fashionable for\nresidence, it looked upon the swelling tide of business with an\nexpression of complacency and half-disdain.\n\nThe house was not beautiful. There was nothing in its straight front\nof chocolate-colored stone, its heavy cornices, its broad, staring\nwindows of plate glass, its carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany doors\nat the top of the wide stoop, to charm the eye or fascinate the\nimagination. But it was eminently respectable, and in its way\nimposing. It seemed to say that the glittering shops of the jewelers,\nthe milliners, the confectioners, the florists, the picture-dealers,\nthe furriers, the makers of rare and costly antiquities, retail\ntraders in luxuries of life, were beneath the notice of a house that\nhad its foundations in the high finance, and was built literally and\nfiguratively in the shadow of St. Petronius' Church.\n\nAt the same time there was something self-pleased and congratulatory\nin the way in which the mansion held its own amid the changing\nneighborhood. It almost seemed to be lifted up a little, among the\ntall buildings near at hand, as if it felt the rising value of the\nland on which it stood.\n\nJohn Weightman was like the house into which he had built himself\nthirty years ago, and in which his ideals and ambitions were\nincrusted. He was a self-made man. But in making himself he had chosen\na highly esteemed pattern and worked according to the approved rules.\nThere was nothing irregular, questionable, flamboyant about him. He\nwas solid, correct, and justly successful.\n\nHis minor tastes, of course, had been carefully kept up to date. At\nthe proper time, pictures by the Barbizon masters, old English plate\nand portraits, bronzes by Barye and marbles by Rodin, Persian carpets\nand Chinese porcelains, had been introduced to the mansion. It\ncontained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Empire drawing-room, a\nJacobean dining-room, and various apartments dimly reminiscent of the\nstyles of furniture affected by deceased monarchs. That the hallways\nwere too short for the historic perspective did not make much\ndifference. American decorative art is _capable de tout_, it absorbs\nall periods. Of each period Mr. Weightman wished to have something of\nthe best. He understood its value, present as a certificate, and\nprospective as an investment.\n\nIt was only in the architecture of his town house that he remained\nconservative, immovable, one might almost say Early-Victorian-Christian.\nHis country house at Dulwich-on-the-Sound was a palace of the Italian\nRenaissance. But in town he adhered to an architecture which had moral\nassociations, the Nineteenth-Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a symbol\nof his social position, his religious doctrine, and even, in a way,\nof his business creed.\n\n\"A man of fixed principles,\" he would say, \"should express them in the\nlooks of his house. New York changes its domestic architecture too\nrapidly. It is like divorce. It is not dignified. I don't like it.\nExtravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these new\nhouses. I wish to be known for different qualities. Dignity and\nprudence are the things that people trust. Every one knows that I can\nafford to live in the house that suits me. It is a guarantee to the\npublic. It inspires confidence. It helps my influence. There is a text\nin the Bible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the proper\nkind of a mansion for a solid man.\"\n\nHarold Weightman had often listened to his father discoursing in this\nfashion on the fundamental principles of life, and always with a\ndivided mind. He admired immensely his father's talents and the\nsingle-minded energy with which he improved them. But in the paternal\nphilosophy there was something that disquieted and oppressed the young\nman, and made him gasp inwardly for fresh air and free action.\n\nAt times, during his college course and his years at the law school,\nhe had yielded to this impulse and broken away--now toward\nextravagance and dissipation, and then, when the reaction came, toward\na romantic devotion to work among the poor. He had felt his father's\ndisapproval for both of these forms of imprudence; but it was never\nexpressed in a harsh or violent way, always with a certain tolerant\npatience, such as one might show for the mistakes and vagaries of the\nvery young. John Weightman was not hasty, impulsive, inconsiderate,\neven toward his own children. With them, as with the rest of the\nworld, he felt that he had a reputation to maintain, a theory to\nvindicate. He could afford to give them time to see that he was\nabsolutely right.\n\nOne of his favorite Scripture quotations was, \"Wait on the Lord.\" He\nhad applied it to real estate and to people, with profitable results.\n\nBut to human persons the sensation of being waited for is not always\nagreeable. Sometimes, especially with the young, it produces a vague\nrestlessness, a dumb resentment, which is increased by the fact that\none can hardly explain or justify it. Of this John Weightman was not\nconscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He did not take it into account\nin the plan of life which he made for himself and for his family as\nthe sharers and inheritors of his success.\n\n\"Father plays us,\" said Harold, in a moment of irritation, to his\nmother, \"like pieces in a game of chess.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said that lady, whose faith in her husband was religious,\n\"you ought not to speak so impatiently. At least he wins the game. He\nis one of the most respected men in New York. And he is very generous,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"I wish he would be more generous in letting us be ourselves,\" said\nthe young man. \"He always has something in view for us and expects to\nmove us up to it.\"\n\n\"But isn't it always for our benefit?\" replied his mother. \"Look what\na position we have. No one can say there is any taint on our money.\nThere are no rumors about your father. He has kept the laws of God and\nof man. He has never made any mistakes.\"\n\nHarold got up from his chair and poked the fire. Then he came back to\nthe ample, well-gowned, firm-looking lady, and sat beside her on the\nsofa. He took her hand gently and looked at the two rings--a thin\nband of yellow gold, and a small solitaire diamond--which kept their\nplace on her third finger in modest dignity, as if not shamed, but\nrather justified, by the splendor of the emerald which glittered\nbeside them.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"you have a wonderful hand. And father made no\nmistake when he won you. But are you sure he has always been so\ninerrant?\"\n\n\"Harold,\" she exclaimed, a little stiffly, \"what do you mean? His life\nis an open book.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he answered, \"I don't mean anything bad, mother dear. I know the\ngovernor's life is an open book--a ledger, if you like, kept in the\nbest bookkeeping hand, and always ready for inspection--every page\ncorrect, and showing a handsome balance. But isn't it a mistake not to\nallow us to make our own mistakes, to learn for ourselves, to live\nour own lives? Must we be always working for 'the balance,' in one\nthing or another? I want to be myself--to get outside of this\neverlasting, profitable 'plan'--to let myself go, and lose myself for\na while at least--to do the things that I want to do, just because I\nwant to do them.\"\n\n\"My boy,\" said his mother, anxiously, \"you are not going to do\nanything wrong or foolish? You know the falsehood of that old proverb\nabout wild oats.\"\n\nHe threw back his head and laughed. \"Yes, mother,\" he answered, \"I\nknow it well enough. But in California, you know, the wild oats are\none of the most valuable crops. They grow all over the hillsides and\nkeep the cattle and the horses alive. But that wasn't what I meant--to\nsow wild oats. Say to pick wild flowers, if you like, or even to chase\nwild geese--to do something that seems good to me just for its own\nsake, not for the sake of wages of one kind or another. I feel like a\nhired man, in the service of this magnificent mansion--say in training\nfor father's place as majordomo. I'd like to get out some way, to feel\nfree--perhaps to do something for others.\"\n\nThe young man's voice hesitated a little. \"Yes, it sounds like cant, I\nknow, but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do some good in the\nworld, if father only wouldn't insist upon God's putting it into the\nledger.\"\n\nHis mother moved uneasily, and a slight look of bewilderment came into\nher face.\n\n\"Isn't that almost irreverent?\" she asked. \"Surely the righteous must\nhave their reward. And your father is good. See how much he gives to\nall the established charities, how many things he has founded. He's\nalways thinking of others, and planning for them. And surely, for\nus, he does everything. How well he has planned this trip to Europe\nfor me and the girls--the court-presentation at Berlin, the season\non the Riviera, the visits in England with the Plumptons and the\nHalverstones. He says Lord Halverstone has the finest old house\nin Sussex, pure Elizabethan, and all the old customs are kept up,\ntoo--family prayers every morning for all the domestics. By-the-way,\nyou know his son Bertie, I believe.\"\n\nHarold smiled a little to himself as he answered: \"Yes, I fished at\nCatalina Island last June with the Honorable Ethelbert; he's rather a\ndecent chap, in spite of his ingrowing mind. But you?--mother, you are\nsimply magnificent! You are father's masterpiece.\" The young man\nleaned over to kiss her, and went up to the Riding Club for his\nafternoon canter in the Park.\n\nSo it came to pass, early in December, that Mrs. Weightman and her two\ndaughters sailed for Europe, on their serious pleasure trip, even as\nit had been written in the book of Providence; and John Weightman, who\nhad made the entry, was left to pass the rest of the winter with his\nson and heir in the brownstone mansion.\n\nThey were comfortable enough. The machinery of the massive establishment\nran as smoothly as a great electric dynamo. They were busy enough, too.\nJohn Weightman's plans and enterprises were complicated, though his\nprinciple of action was always simple--to get good value for every\nexpenditure and effort. The banking-house of which he was the chief,\nthe brain, the will, the absolutely controlling hand, was so admirably\norganized that the details of its direction took but little time. But\nthe scores of other interests that radiated from it and were dependent\nupon it--or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, that contributed\nto its solidity and success--the many investments, industrial,\npolitical, benevolent, reformatory, ecclesiastical, that had made\nthe name of Weightman well known and potent in city, church, and\nstate, demanded much attention and careful steering, in order that\neach might produce the desired result. There were board meetings of\ncorporations and hospitals, conferences in Wall Street and at Albany,\nconsultations and committee meetings in the brownstone mansion.\n\nFor a share in all this business and its adjuncts John Weightman had\nhis son in training in one of the famous law firms of the city; for he\nheld that banking itself is a simple affair, the only real difficulties\nof finance are on its legal side. Meantime he wished the young man to\nmeet and know the men with whom he would have to deal when he became a\npartner in the house. So a couple of dinners were given in the mansion\nduring December, after which the father called the son's attention to\nthe fact that over a hundred million dollars had sat around the board.\n\nBut on Christmas Eve father and son were dining together without\nguests, and their talk across the broad table, glittering with silver\nand cut glass, and softly lit by shaded candles, was intimate, though\na little slow at times. The elder man was in rather a rare mood, more\nexpansive and confidential than usual; and, when the coffee was brought\nin and they were left alone, he talked more freely of his personal\nplans and hopes than he had ever done before.\n\n\"I feel very grateful to-night,\" said he, at last; \"it must be\nsomething in the air of Christmas that gives me this feeling of\nthankfulness for the many divine mercies that have been bestowed upon\nme. All the principles by which I have tried to guide my life have\nbeen justified. I have never made the value of this salted almond by\nanything that the courts would not uphold, at least in the long run,\nand yet--or wouldn't it be truer to say and therefore?--my affairs\nhave been wonderfully prospered. There's a great deal in that text\n'Honesty is the best'--but no, that's not from the Bible, after all,\nis it? Wait a moment; there is something of that kind, I know.\"\n\n\"May I light a cigar, father,\" said Harold, turning away to hide a\nsmile, \"while you are remembering the text?\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" answered the elder man, rather shortly; \"you know I\ndon't dislike the smell. But it is a wasteful, useless habit, and\ntherefore I have never practised it. Nothing useless is worth while,\nthat's my motto--nothing that does not bring the reward. Oh, now I\nrecall the text, 'Verily I say unto you they have their reward.' I\nshall ask Doctor Snodgrass to preach a sermon on that verse some day.\"\n\n\"Using you as an illustration?\"\n\n\"Well, not exactly that; but I could give him some good material from\nmy own experience to prove the truth of Scripture. I can honestly say\nthat there is not one of my charities that has not brought me in a\ngood return, either in the increase of influence, the building up of\ncredit, or the association with substantial people. Of course you have\nto be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results--no\nindiscriminate giving--no pennies in beggars' hats! It has been one of\nmy principles always to use the same kind of judgment in charities\nthat I use in my other affairs, and they have not disappointed me.\"\n\n\"Even the check that you put in the plate when you take the offertory\nup the aisle on Sunday morning?\"\n\n\"Certainly; though there the influence is less direct; and I must\nconfess that I have my doubts in regard to the collection for Foreign\nMissions. That always seems to me romantic and wasteful. You never\nhear from it in any definite way. They say the missionaries have done\na good deal to open the way for trade; perhaps--but they have also\ngotten us into commercial and political difficulties. Yet I give to\nthem--a little--it is a matter of conscience with me to identify\nmyself with all the enterprises of the Church; it is the mainstay of\nsocial order and a prosperous civilization. But the best forms of\nbenevolence are the well-established, organized ones here at home,\nwhere people can see them and know what they are doing.\"\n\n\"You mean the ones that have a local habitation and a name.\"\n\n\"Yes; they offer by far the safest return, though of course there is\nsomething gained by contributing to general funds. A public man can't\nafford to be without public spirit. But on the whole I prefer a\nbuilding, or an endowment. There is a mutual advantage to a good name\nand a good institution in their connection in the public mind. It\nhelps them both. Remember that, my boy. Of course at the beginning you\nwill have to practise it in a small way; later, you will have larger\nopportunities. But try to put your gifts where they can be identified\nand do good all around. You'll see the wisdom of it in the long run.\"\n\n\"I can see it already, sir, and the way you describe it looks\namazingly wise and prudent. In other words, we must cast our bread on\nthe waters in large loaves, carried by sound ships marked with the\nowner's name, so that the return freight will be sure to come back to\nus.\"\n\nThe father laughed, but his eyes were frowning a little as if he\nsuspected something irreverent under the respectful reply.\n\n\"You put it humorously, but there's sense in what you say. Why not?\nGod rules the sea; but He expects us to follow the laws of navigation\nand commerce. Why not take good care of your bread, even when you give\nit away?\"\n\n\"It's not for me to say why not--and yet I can think of cases--\" The\nyoung man hesitated for a moment. His half-finished cigar had gone\nout. He rose and tossed it into the fire, in front of which he\nremained standing--a slender, eager, restless young figure, with a\ntouch of hunger in the fine face, strangely like and unlike the\nfather, at whom he looked with half-wistful curiosity.\n\n\"The fact is, sir,\" he continued, \"there is such a case in my mind\nnow, and it is a good deal on my heart, too. So I thought of speaking\nto you about it to-night. You remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who was\nso good to me when I entered college?\"\n\nThe father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoying\nincidents of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by\nhim and helped to avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship\nhad grown between the two boys, so different in their fortunes.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I remember him. He was a promising young man. Has he\nsucceeded?\"\n\n\"Not exactly--that is, not yet. His business has been going rather\nbadly. He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has broken\ndown,--something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chance\nis a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help him.\"\n\n\"How much would it cost?\"\n\n\"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan.\"\n\n\"Does the doctor say he will get well?\"\n\n\"A fighting chance--the doctor says.\"\n\nThe face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was altered, but\nit seemed to have a different substance, as if it were carved out of\nsome firm, imperishable stuff.\n\n\"A fighting chance,\" he said, \"may do for a speculation, but it is not\na good investment. You owe something to young Rollins. Your grateful\nfeeling does you credit. But don't overwork it. Send him three or four\nhundred, if you like. You'll never hear from it again, except in the\nletter of thanks. But for Heaven's sake don't be sentimental.\nReligion is not a matter of sentiment; it's a matter of principle.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"It is not a good investment\"]\n\nThe face of the younger man changed now. But instead of becoming fixed\nand graven, it seemed to melt into life by the heat of an inward fire.\nHis nostrils quivered with quick breath, his lips were curled.\n\n\"Principle!\" he said. \"You mean principal--and interest too. Well,\nsir, you know best whether that is religion or not. But if it is,\ncount me out, please. Tom saved me from going to the devil, six years\nago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best of my ability\nnow.\"\n\nJohn Weightman looked at his son steadily. \"Harold,\" he said at last,\n\"you know I dislike violent language, and it never has any influence\nwith me. If I could honestly approve of this proposition of yours, I'd\nlet you have the money; but I can't; it's extravagant and useless. But\nyou have your Christmas check for a thousand dollars coming to you\nto-morrow. You can use it as you please. I never interfere with your\nprivate affairs.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Harold. \"Thank you very much! But there's another\nprivate affair. I want to get away from this life, this town, this\nhouse. It stifles me. You refused last summer when I asked you to let\nme go up to Grenfell's Mission on the Labrador. I could go now, at\nleast as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you changed your mind?\"\n\n\"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise. It would\ninterrupt the career that I have marked out for you.\"\n\n\"Well, then, here's a cheaper proposition. Algy Vanderhoof wants me to\njoin him on his yacht with--well, with a little party--to cruise in\nthe West Indies. Would you prefer that?\"\n\n\"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is wild and godless--I do not wish\nto see you keeping company with fools who walk in the broad and easy\nway that leads to perdition.\"\n\n\"It is rather a hard choice,\" said the young man, with a short laugh,\nturning toward the door. \"According to you there's very little\ndifference--a fool's paradise or a fool's hell! Well, it's one or the\nother for me, and I'll toss up for it to-night: heads, I lose; tails,\nthe devil wins. Anyway, I'm sick of this, and I'm out of it.\"\n\n\"Harold,\" said the older man (and there was a slight tremor in his\nvoice), \"don't let us quarrel on Christmas Eve. All I want is to\npersuade you to think seriously of the duties and responsibilities\nto which God has called you--don't speak lightly of heaven and\nhell--remember, there is another life.\"\n\nThe young man came back and laid his hand upon his father's shoulder.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"I want to remember it. I try to believe in it. But\nsomehow or other, in this house, it all seems unreal to me. No doubt\nall you say is perfectly right and wise. I don't venture to argue\nagainst it, but I can't feel it--that's all. If I'm to have a soul,\neither to lose or to save, I must really live. Just now neither the\npresent nor the future means anything to me. But surely we won't\nquarrel. I'm very grateful to you, and we'll part friends. Good-night,\nsir.\"\n\nThe father held out his hand in silence. The heavy portiere dropped\nnoiselessly behind the son, and he went up the wide, curving stairway\nto his own room.\n\nMeantime John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobean\ndining-room. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits of\nbeautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had often\nseemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting. He\nfancied something cold and almost unfriendly in their expression, as\nif they were staring through him or beyond him. They cared nothing for\nhis principles, his hopes, his disappointments, his successes; they\nbelonged to another world, in which he had no place. At this he felt\na vague resentment, a sense of discomfort that he could not have\ndefined or explained. He was used to being considered, respected,\nappreciated at his full value in every region, even in that of his own\ndreams.\n\nPresently he rang for the butler, telling him to close the house and\nnot to sit up, and walked with lagging steps into the long library,\nwhere the shaded lamps were burning. His eye fell upon the low shelves\nfull of costly books, but he had no desire to open them. Even the\ncarefully chosen pictures that hung above them seemed to have lost\ntheir attraction. He paused for a moment before an idyll of Corot--a\ndance of nymphs around some forgotten altar in a vaporous glade--and\nlooked at it curiously. There was something rapturous and serene about\nthe picture, a breath of spring-time in the misty trees, a harmony\nof joy in the dancing figures, that wakened in him a feeling of\nhalf-pleasure and half-envy. It represented something that he had\nnever known in his calculated, orderly life. He was dimly mistrustful\nof it.\n\n\"It is certainly very beautiful,\" he thought, \"but it is distinctly\npagan; that altar is built to some heathen god. It does not fit into\nthe scheme of a Christian life. I doubt whether it is consistent with\nthe tone of my house. I will sell it this winter. It will bring three\nor four times what I paid for it. That was a good purchase, a very\ngood bargain.\"\n\nHe dropped into the revolving chair before his big library table.\nIt was covered with pamphlets and reports of the various enterprises\nin which he was interested. There was a pile of newspaper clippings\nin which his name was mentioned with praise for his sustaining power\nas a pillar of finance, for his judicious benevolence, for his\nsupport of wise and prudent reform movements, for his discretion\nin making permanent public gifts--\"the Weightman Charities,\" one very\ncomplaisant editor called them, as if they deserved classification as\na distinct species.\n\nHe turned the papers over listlessly. There was a description and a\npicture of the \"Weightman Wing of the Hospital for Cripples,\" of\nwhich he was president; and an article on the new professor in the\n\"Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence\" in Jackson University,\nof which he was a trustee; and an illustrated account of the opening\nof the \"Weightman Grammar-School\" at Dulwich-on-the-Sound, where he\nhad his legal residence for purposes of taxation.\n\nThis last was perhaps the most carefully planned of all the Weightman\nCharities. He desired to win the confidence and support of his rural\nneighbors. It had pleased him much when the local newspaper had spoken\nof him as an ideal citizen and the logical candidate for the\nGovernorship of the State; but upon the whole it seemed to him wiser\nto keep out of active politics. It would be easier and better to put\nHarold into the running, to have him sent to the Legislature from the\nDulwich district, then to the national House, then to the Senate. Why\nnot? The Weightman interests were large enough to need a direct\nrepresentative and guardian at Washington.\n\nBut to-night all these plans came back to him with dust upon them.\nThey were dry and crumbling like forsaken habitations. The son upon\nwhom his complacent ambition had rested had turned his back upon the\nmansion of his father's hopes. The break might not be final; and in\nany event there would be much to live for; the fortunes of the family\nwould be secure. But the zest of it all would be gone if John\nWeightman had to give up the assurance of perpetuating his name and\nhis principles in his son. It was a bitter disappointment, and he felt\nthat he had not deserved it.\n\nHe rose from the chair and paced the room with leaden feet. For the\nfirst time in his life his age was visibly upon him. His head was\nheavy and hot, and the thoughts that rolled in it were confused and\ndepressing. Could it be that he had made a mistake in the principles\nof his existence? There was no argument in what Harold had said--it\nwas almost childish--and yet it had shaken the elder man more deeply\nthan he cared to show. It held a silent attack which touched him more\nthan open criticism.\n\nSuppose the end of his life were nearer than he thought--the end\nmust come some time--what if it were now? Had he not founded his\nhouse upon a rock? Had he not kept the Commandments? Was he not,\n\"touching the law, blameless\"? And beyond this, even if there were\nsome faults in his character--and all men are sinners--yet he surely\nbelieved in the saving doctrines of religion--the forgiveness of\nsins, the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting. Yes, that\nwas the true source of comfort, after all. He would read a bit in the\nBible, as he did every night, and go to bed and to sleep.\n\nHe went back to his chair at the library table. A strange weight of\nweariness rested upon him, but he opened the book at a familiar place,\nand his eyes fell upon the verse at the bottom of the page.\n\n\"_Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth._\"\n\nThat had been the text of the sermon a few weeks before. Sleepily,\nheavily, he tried to fix his mind upon it and recall it. What was it\nthat Doctor Snodgrass had said? Ah, yes--that it was a mistake to\npause here in reading the verse. We must read on without a pause--_Lay\nnot up treasures upon earth where moth and rust do corrupt and where\nthieves break through and steal_--that was the true doctrine. We may\nhave treasures upon earth, but they must not be put into unsafe\nplaces, but into safe places. A most comforting doctrine! He had\nalways followed it. Moths and rust and thieves had done no harm to his\ninvestments.\n\nJohn Weightman's drooping eyes turned to the next verse, at the top of\nthe second column.\n\n\"_But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven._\"\n\nNow what had the Doctor said about that? How was it to be\nunderstood--in what sense--treasures--in heaven?\n\nThe book seemed to float away from him. The light vanished. He\nwondered dimly if this could be Death, coming so suddenly, so quietly,\nso irresistibly. He struggled for a moment to hold himself up, and\nthen sank slowly forward upon the table. His head rested upon his\nfolded hands. He slipped into the unknown.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow long afterward conscious life returned to him he did not know. The\nblank might have been an hour or a century. He knew only that\nsomething had happened in the interval. What it was he could not tell.\nHe found great difficulty in catching the thread of his identity\nagain. He felt that he was himself; but the trouble was to make his\nconnections, to verify and place himself, to know who and where he\nwas.\n\nAt last it grew clear. John Weightman was sitting on a stone, not far\nfrom a road in a strange land.\n\nThe road was not a formal highway, fenced and graded. It was more like\na great travel-trace, worn by thousands of feet passing across the\nopen country in the same direction. Down in the valley, into which he\ncould look, the road seemed to form itself gradually out of many minor\npaths; little footways coming across the meadows, winding tracks\nfollowing along beside the streams, faintly marked trails emerging\nfrom the woodlands. But on the hillside the threads were more firmly\nwoven into one clear band of travel, though there were still a few dim\npaths joining it here and there, as if persons had been climbing up\nthe hill by other ways and had turned at last to seek the road.\n\nFrom the edge of the hill, where John Weightman sat, he could see the\ntravelers, in little groups or larger companies, gathering from time\nto time by the different paths, and making the ascent. They were all\nclothed in white, and the form of their garments was strange to him;\nit was like some old picture. They passed him, group after group,\ntalking quietly together or singing; not moving in haste, but with a\ncertain air of eagerness and joy as if they were glad to be on their\nway to an appointed place. They did not stay to speak to him, but they\nlooked at him often and spoke to one another as they looked; and now\nand then one of them would smile and beckon him a friendly greeting,\nso that he felt they would like him to be with them.\n\nThere was quite an interval between the groups; and he followed each\nof them with his eyes after it had passed, blanching the long ribbon\nof the road for a little transient space, rising and receding across\nthe wide, billowy upland, among the rounded hillocks of aerial green\nand gold and lilac, until it came to the high horizon, and stood\noutlined for a moment, a tiny cloud of whiteness against the tender\nblue, before it vanished over the hill.\n\nFor a long time he sat there watching and wondering. It was a very\ndifferent world from that in which his mansion on the Avenue was\nbuilt; and it looked strange to him, but most real--as real as\nanything he had ever seen. Presently he felt a strong desire to know\nwhat country it was and where the people were going. He had a faint\npremonition of what it must be, but he wished to be sure. So he rose\nfrom the stone where he was sitting, and came down through the short\ngrass and the lavender flowers, toward a passing group of people. One\nof them turned to meet him, and held out his hand. It was an old man,\nunder whose white beard and brows John Weightman thought he saw a\nsuggestion of the face of the village doctor who had cared for him\nyears ago, when he was a boy in the country.\n\n[Illustration: \"Welcome! Will you come with us?\"]\n\n\"Welcome,\" said the old man. \"Will you come with us?\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"To the heavenly city, to see our mansions there.\"\n\n\"And who are these with you?\"\n\n\"Strangers to me, until a little while ago; I know them better now.\nBut you I have known for a long time, John Weightman. Don't you\nremember your old doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he cried--\"yes; your voice has not changed at all. I'm glad\nindeed to see you, Doctor McLean, especially now. All this seems very\nstrange to me, almost oppressive. I wonder if--but may I go with you,\ndo you suppose?\"\n\n\"Surely,\" answered the doctor, with his familiar smile; \"it will do\nyou good. And you also must have a mansion in the city waiting for\nyou--a fine one, too--are you not looking forward to it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the other, hesitating a moment; \"yes--I believe it must\nbe so, although I had not expected to see it so soon. But I will go\nwith you, and we can talk by the way.\"\n\nThe two men quickly caught up with the other people, and all went\nforward together along the road. The doctor had little to tell of his\nexperience, for it had been a plain, hard life, uneventfully spent for\nothers, and the story of the village was very simple. John Weightman's\nadventures and triumphs would have made a far richer, more imposing\nhistory, full of contacts with the great events and personages of the\ntime. But somehow or other he did not care to speak much about it,\nwalking on that wide heavenly moorland, under that tranquil, sunless\narch of blue, in that free air of perfect peace, where the light was\ndiffused without a shadow, as if the spirit of life in all things were\nluminous.\n\nThere was only one person besides the doctor in that little company\nwhom John Weightman had known before--an old bookkeeper who had spent\nhis life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts--a rusty, dull little\nman, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum for\ntwenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whose\ncomfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself without\nstint. It was a surprise to find him here, as care-free and joyful as\nthe rest.\n\n[Illustration: That free air of Perfect Peace]\n\nThe lives of others in the company were revealed in brief glimpses as\nthey talked together--a mother, early widowed, who had kept her little\nflock of children together and labored through hard and heavy years to\nbring them up in purity and knowledge--a Sister of Charity who had\ndevoted herself to the nursing of poor folk who were being eaten to\ndeath by cancer--a schoolmaster whose heart and life had been poured\ninto his quiet work of training boys for a clean and thoughtful\nmanhood--a medical missionary who had given up a brilliant career in\nscience to take the charge of a hospital in darkest Africa--a\nbeautiful woman with silver hair who had resigned her dreams of love\nand marriage to care for an invalid father, and after his death had\nmade her life a long, steady search for ways of doing kindnesses to\nothers--a poet who had walked among the crowded tenements of the great\ncity, bringing cheer and comfort not only by his songs, but by his\nwise and patient works of practical aid--a paralyzed woman who had\nlain for thirty years upon her bed, helpless but not hopeless,\nsucceeding by a miracle of courage in her single aim, never to\ncomplain, but always to impart a bit of her joy and peace to every one\nwho came near her. All these, and other persons like them, people of\nlittle consideration in the world, but now seemingly all full of great\ncontentment and an inward gladness that made their steps light, were\nin the company that passed along the road, talking together of things\npast and things to come, and singing now and then with clear voices\nfrom which the veil of age and sorrow was lifted.\n\nJohn Weightman joined in some of the songs--which were familiar to him\nfrom their use in the church--at first with a touch of hesitation, and\nthen more confidently. For as they went on his sense of strangeness\nand fear at his new experience diminished, and his thoughts began to\ntake on their habitual assurance and complacency. Were not these\npeople going to the Celestial City? And was not he in his right place\namong them? He had always looked forward to this journey. If they were\nsure, each one, of finding a mansion there, could not he be far more\nsure? His life had been more fruitful than theirs. He had been a\nleader, a founder of new enterprises, a pillar of Church and State, a\nprince of the House of Israel. Ten talents had been given him, and he\nhad made them twenty. His reward would be proportionate. He was glad\nthat his companions were going to find fit dwellings prepared for\nthem; but he thought also with a certain pleasure of the surprise that\nsome of them would feel when they saw his appointed mansion.\n\nSo they came to the summit of the moorland and looked over into the\nworld beyond. It was a vast, green plain, softly rounded like a\nshallow vase, and circled with hills of amethyst. A broad, shining\nriver flowed through it, and many silver threads of water were woven\nacross the green; and there were borders of tall trees on the banks of\nthe river, and orchards full of roses abloom along the little streams,\nand in the midst of all stood the city, white and wonderful and\nradiant.\n\nWhen the travelers saw it they were filled with awe and joy. They\npassed over the little streams and among the orchards quickly and\nsilently, as if they feared to speak lest the city should vanish.\n\nThe wall of the city was very low, a child could see over it, for it\nwas made only of precious stones, which are never large. The gate of\nthe city was not like a gate at all, for it was not barred with iron\nor wood, but only a single pearl, softly gleaming, marked the place\nwhere the wall ended and the entrance lay open.\n\nA person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose robe\nwas like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a living\ntexture. \"Come in,\" he said to the company of travelers; \"you are at\nyour journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you.\"\n\nJohn Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt. Suppose that\nhe was not really, like his companions, at his journey's end, but only\ntransported for a little while out of the regular course of his life\ninto this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after all, he had not\nreally passed through the door of death, like these others, but only\nthrough the door of dreams, and was walking in a vision, a living man\namong the blessed dead. Would it be right for him to go with them\ninto the heavenly city? Would it not be a deception, a desecration, a\ndeep and unforgivable offense? The strange, confusing question had no\nreason in it, as he very well knew; for if he was dreaming, then it\nwas all a dream; but if his companions were real, then he also was\nwith them in reality, and if they had died then he must have died too.\nYet he could not rid his mind of the sense that there was a difference\nbetween them and him, and it made him afraid to go on. But, as he\npaused and turned, the Keeper of the Gate looked straight and deep\ninto his eyes, and beckoned to him. Then he knew that it was not only\nright but necessary that he should enter.\n\nThey passed from street to street among fair and spacious dwellings,\nset in amaranthine gardens, and adorned with an infinitely varied\nbeauty of divine simplicity. The mansions differed in size, in shape,\nin charm: each one seemed to have its own personal look of loveliness;\nyet all were alike in fitness to their place, in harmony with one\nanother, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquil\nsplendor of the city.\n\nAs the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which were\nprepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant to\nenter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, half\nwonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling were\ncrowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all the\ndreams of it had been; and yet also as if it were touched with the\nbeauty of the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One after\nanother the travelers were led to their own mansions, and went in\ngladly; and from within, through the open doorways, came sweet voices\nof welcome, and low laughter, and song.\n\nAt last there was no one left with the Guide but the two old friends,\nDoctor McLean and John Weightman. They were standing in front of one\nof the largest and fairest of the houses, whose garden glowed softly\nwith radiant flowers. The Guide laid his hand upon the doctor's\nshoulder.\n\n\"This is for you,\" he said. \"Go in; there is no more pain here, no\nmore death, nor sorrow, nor tears; for your old enemies are all\nconquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the\nhelp that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all\nthe strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, are\nhere; for we have built them all into this mansion for you.\"\n\nThe good man's face was lighted with a still joy. He clasped his old\nfriend's hand closely, and whispered: \"How wonderful it is! Go on,\nyou will come to your mansion next, it is not far away, and we shall\nsee each other again soon, very soon.\"\n\nSo he went through the garden, and into the music within. The Keeper\nof the Gate turned to John Weightman with level, quiet, searching\neyes. Then he asked, gravely:\n\n\"Where do you wish me to lead you now?\"\n\n\"To see my own mansion,\" answered the man, with half-concealed\nexcitement. \"Is there not one here for me? You may not let me enter it\nyet, perhaps, for I must confess to you that I am only--\"\n\n\"I know,\" said the Keeper of the Gate--\"I know it all. You are John\nWeightman.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the man, more firmly than he had spoken at first, for it\ngratified him that his name was known. \"Yes, I am John Weightman,\nSenior Warden of St. Petronius' Church. I wish very much to see my\nmansion here, if only for a moment. I believe that you have one for\nme. Will you take me to it?\"\n\nThe Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robe\nand turned over the pages.\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said, with a curious look at the man, \"your name is\nhere; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me.\"\n\nIt seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles, through the\nvast city, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller,\nof gardens richer and poorer, but all full of beauty and delight. They\ncame into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages, with\nplots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant. Finally they\nreached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two or\nthree little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse\nand thin. In the center of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough\nfor a shepherd's shelter. It looked as if it had been built of\ndiscarded things, scraps and fragments of other buildings, put\ntogether with care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the\nmost of cast-off material. There was something pitiful and shamefaced\nabout the hut. It shrank and drooped and faded in its barren field,\nand seemed to cling only by sufferance to the edge of the splendid\ncity.\n\n\"This,\" said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with\na low, distinct voice--\"this is your mansion, John Weightman.\"\n\nAn almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation choked\nthe man for a moment so that he could not say a word. Then he turned\nhis face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate\neagerly with his companion.\n\n\"Surely, sir,\" he stammered, \"you must be in error about this. There\nis something wrong--some other John Weightman--a confusion of\nnames--the book must be mistaken.\"\n\n\"There is no mistake,\" said the Keeper of the Gate, very calmly; \"here\nis your name, the record of your title and your possessions in this\nplace.\"\n\n\"But how could such a house be prepared for me,\" cried the man, with a\nresentful tremor in his voice--\"for me, after my long and faithful\nservice? Is this a suitable mansion for one so well known and devoted?\nWhy is it so pitifully small and mean? Why have you not built it large\nand fair, like the others?\"\n\n\"That is all the material you sent us.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"We have used all the material that you sent us,\" repeated the Keeper\nof the Gate.\n\n\"Now I know that you are mistaken,\" cried the man, with growing\nearnestness, \"for all my life long I have been doing things that must\nhave supplied you with material. Have you not heard that I have built\na school-house; the wing of a hospital; two--yes, three--small\nchurches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St.\nPetro--\"\n\nThe Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand.\n\n\"Wait,\" he said; \"we know all these things. They were not ill done.\nBut they were all marked and used as foundation for the name and\nmansion of John Weightman in the world. Did you not plan them for\nthat?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the man, confused and taken aback, \"I confess that\nI thought often of them in that way. Perhaps my heart was set upon\nthat too much. But there are other things--my endowment for the\ncollege--my steady and liberal contributions to all the established\ncharities--my support of every respectable--\"\n\n\"Wait,\" said the Keeper of the Gate again. \"Were not all these\ncarefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit? They\nwere not foolishly done. Verily, you have had your reward for them.\nWould you be paid twice?\"\n\n\"No,\" cried the man, with deepening dismay, \"I dare not claim that. I\nacknowledge that I considered my own interest too much. But surely not\naltogether. You have said that these things were not foolishly done.\nThey accomplished some good in the world. Does not that count for\nsomething?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the Keeper of the Gate, \"it counts in the world--where\nyou counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved and\nused everything that you sent us. This is the mansion prepared for\nyou.\"\n\nAs he spoke, his look grew deeper and more searching, like a flame of\nfire. John Weightman could not endure it. It seemed to strip him naked\nand wither him. He sank to the ground under a crushing weight of\nshame, covering his eyes with his hands and cowering face downward\nupon the stones. Dimly through the trouble of his mind he felt their\nhardness and coldness.\n\n\"Tell me, then,\" he cried, brokenly, \"since my life has been so little\nworth, how came I here at all?\"\n\n\"Through the mercy of the King\"--the answer was like the soft tolling\nof a bell.\n\n\"And how have I earned it?\" he murmured.\n\n\"It is never earned; it is only given,\" came the clear, low reply.\n\n\"But how have I failed so wretchedly,\" he asked, \"in all the purpose\nof my life? What could I have done better? What is it that counts\nhere?\"\n\n\"Only that which is truly given,\" answered the bell-like voice. \"Only\nthat good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in\nwhich the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labors\nin which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts in\nwhich the giver forgets himself.\"\n\nThe man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency and\nhumiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was\ninfinitely tender as he bent over him.\n\n\"Think again, John Weightman. Has there been nothing like that in your\nlife?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he sighed. \"If there ever were such things, it must have\nbeen long ago--they were all crowded out--I have forgotten them.\"\n\nThere was an ineffable smile on the face of the Keeper of the Gate,\nand his hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he\nspoke gently:\n\n\"These are the things that the King never forgets; and because there\nwere a few of them in your life, you have a little place here.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands grew\nsharper and more distinct. The feeling of bodily weariness and\nlassitude weighed upon him, but there was a calm, almost a lightness,\nin his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the silvery\nbell-tones. The chimney clock on the mantel had just ended the last\nstroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table. Thin, pale\nstrips of the city morning were falling into the room through the\nnarrow partings of the heavy curtains.\n\nWhat was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he died\nand come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gone\nvisiting in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, but\nfinding himself in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the table\ndrawer, wrote a check, and tore it out.\n\nHe went slowly up the stairs, knocked very softly at his son's door,\nand, hearing no answer, entered without noise. Harold was asleep, his\nbare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in peace.\nHis father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes, and\nthen tiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and a sheet\nof paper, and wrote rapidly:\n\n\"My dear boy, here is what you asked me for; do what you like with it,\nand ask for more if you need it. If you are still thinking of that\nwork with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church. I want to\nknow your heart better; and if I have made mistakes--\"\n\n[Illustration: \"God give us a good Christmas together\"]\n\nA slight noise made him turn his head. Harold was sitting up in bed\nwith wide-open eyes.\n\n\"Father!\" he cried, \"is that you?\"\n\n\"Yes, my son,\" answered John Weightman; \"I've come back--I mean I've\ncome up--no, I mean come in--well, here I am, and God give us a good\nChristmas together.\"\n\n\nTHE END","title":"The Mansion","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":8849}