the mansion-第3章

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it。　　

But　somehow　or　other；　in　this　house；　it　all　seems　unreal　to　me。　　

No　doubt　all　you　say　is　perfectly　right　and　wise。　　I　don't

venture　to　

argue　against　it；　but　I　can't　feel　itthat's　all。　　If　I'm　to

have　a　soul；

either　to　lose　or　to　save；　I　must　really　live。　　Just　now　neither

the

present　nor　the　future　means　anything　to　me。　　But　surely　we　won't

quarrel。　

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　

dropped　noiselessly　behind　the　son；　and　he　went　up　the　wide；　

curving　stairway　to　his　own　room。



Meantime　John　Weightman　sat　in　his　carved　chair　in　the　Jacobean　

dining…room。　　He　felt　strangely　old　and　dull。　　The　portraits　of　

beautiful　women　by　Lawrence　and　Reynolds　and　Raeburn；　which　had

often

seemed　like　real　company　to　him；　looked　remote　and　uninteresting。　



He　fancied　something　cold　and　almost　unfriendly　in　their

expression；　

as　if　they　were　staring　through　him　or　beyond　him。　　They　cared

nothing　for

his　principles；　his　hopes；　his　disappointments；　his　successes；　

they　belonged　to　another　world；　in　which　he　had　no　place。　　At

this　he　felt

a　vague　resentment；　a　sense　of　discomfort　that　he　could　not　have

defined　

or　explained。　　He　was　used　to　being　considered；　respected；　

appreciated　at　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

and　

not　to　sit　up；　and　walked　with　lagging　steps　into　the　long

library；　

where　the　shaded　lamps　were　burning。　　His　eye　fell　upon　the　low

shelves

full　of　costly　books；　but　he　had　no　desire　to　open　them。　　Even

the

carefully　chosen　pictures　that　hung　above　them　seemed　to　have

lost　

their　attraction。　　He　paused　for　a　moment　before　an　idyll　of

Corota　dance

of　nymphs　around　some　forgotten　altar　in　a　vaporous　gladeand

looked　at　

it　curiously。　　There　was　something　rapturous　and　serene　about　the

picture；　

a　breath　of　spring…time　in　the　misty　trees；　a　harmony　of　joy　in　

the　dancing　figures；　that　wakened　in　him　a　feeling　of

half…pleasure　

and　half…envy。　　It　represented　something　that　he　had　never　known

in　his

calculated；　orderly　life。　　He　was　dimly　mistrustful　of　it。



〃It　is　certainly　very　beautiful；〃　he　thought；　〃but　it　is

distinctly　pagan；

that　altar　is　built　to　some　heathen　god。　　It　does　not　fit　into　

the　scheme　of　a　Christian　life。　　I　doubt　whether　it　is　consistent

with　

the　tone　of　my　house。　　I　will　sell　it　this　winter。　　It　will　bring



three　or　four　times　what　I　paid　for　it。　　That　was　a　good

purchase；　

a　very　good　bargain。〃



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



It　was　covered　with　pamphlets　and　reports　of　the　various

enterprises　

in　which　he　was　interested。　　There　was　a　pile　of　newspaper

clippings　

in　which　his　name　was　mentioned　with　praise　for　his　sustaining

power　as　

a　pillar　of　finance；　for　his　judicious　benevolence；　for　his

support　of　

wise　and　prudent　reform　movements；　for　his　discretion　in　making

permanent

public　gifts〃the　Weightman　Charities；〃　one　very　complaisant

editor　

called　them；　as　if　they　deserved　classification　as　a　distinct

species。　　

He　turned　he　papers　over　listlessly。　　There　was　a　description　and



a　picture　of　the　〃Weightman　Wing　of　the　Hospital　for　Cripples；〃　

of　which　he　was　president；　and　an　article　on　the　new　professor　in



the　〃Weightman　Chair　of　Political　Jurisprudence〃　in　Jackson

University；　

of　which　he　was　a　trustee；　and　an　illustrated　account　of　the

opening　of　

the　〃Weightman　Grammar…School〃　at　Dulwich…on…the…Sound；　where　he

had　his

legal　residence　for　purposes　of　taxation。



This　last　was　perhaps　the　most　carefully　planned　of　all　the　

Weightman　Charities。　　He　desired　to　win　the　confidence　and

support　of　

his　rural　neighbors。　　It　had　pleased　him　much　when　the　local

newspaper　

had　spoken　of　him　as　an　ideal　citizen　and　the　logical　candidate

for　

the　Governorship　of　the　State；　but　upon　the　whole　it　seemed　to

him　

wiser　to　keep　out　of　active　politics。　　It　would　be　easier　and

better　to　

put　Harold　into　the　running；　to　have　him　sent　to　the　Legislature

from　

the　Dulwich　district；　then　to　the　national　House；　then　to　the

Senate。　　

Why　not？　　The　Weightman　interests　were　large　enough　to　need　a

direct

representative　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　

upon　whom　his　complacent　ambition　had　rested　had　turned　his　back

upon　

the　mansion　of　his　father's　hopes。　　The　break　might　not　be　final；



and　in　any　event　there　would　be　much　to　live　for；　the　fortunes　of



the　family　would　be　secure。　　But　the　zest　of　it　all　would　be　gone

if　

John　Weightman　had　to　give　up　the　assurance　of　perpetuating　his

name　

and　his　principles　in　his　son。　　It　was　a　bitter　disappointment；　

and　he　felt　that　he　had　not　deserved　it。



He　rose　from　the　chair　and　paced　the　room　with　leaden　feet。　　

For　the　first　time　in　his　life　his　age　was　visibly　upon　him。　　

His　head　was　heavy　and　hot；　and　the　thoughts　that　rolled　in　it　

were　confused　and　depressing。　　Could　it　be　that　he　had　made　a

mistake　

in　the　principles　of　his　existence？　　There　was　no　argument　in　

what　Harold　had　saidit　was　almost　childishand　yet　

it　had　shaken　the　elder　man　more　deeply　than　he　cared　to　show。　　

It　held　a　silent　attack　which　touched　him　more　than　open

criticism。



Suppose　the　end　of　his　life　were　nearer　than　he　thoughtthe　end　

must　come　some　timewhat　if　it　were　now？　　Had　he　not　

founded　his　house　upon　a　rock？　　Had　he　not　kept　the　Commandments？　



Was　he　not；　〃touching　the　law；　blameless〃？　　And　beyond　this；　

even　if　there　were　some　faults　in　his　characterand　all　men　are

sinners

yet　he　surely　believed　in　the　saving　doctrines　of　religionthe

forgiveness

of　sins；　the　resurrection　of　the　body；　the　life　everlasting。　　

Yes；　that　was　the　true　source　of　comfort；　after　all。　　He　would

read　a　bit

in　the　Bible；　as　he　did　every　night；　and　go　to　bed　and　to　sleep。



He　went　back　to　his　chair　at　the　library　table。　　A　strange　weight

of

weariness　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　it　that　Doctor　Snodgrass　had　said？　　Ah；　yesthat　it　was



a　mistake　to　pause　here　in　reading　the　verse。　　We　must　read　on

without　

a　pauseLay　not　up　treasures　upon　earth　where　moth　and　rust　do

corrupt　

and　where　thieves　break　through　and　stealthat　was　the　true

doctrine。　　

We　may　have　treasures　upon　earth；　but　they　must　not　be　put　into　

unsafe　places；　but　into　safe　places。　　A　most　comforting　doctrine！　



He　had　always　followed　it。　　Moths　and　rust　and　thieves　had　done

no　harm　

to　his　investments。



John　Weightman's　drooping　eyes　turned　to　the　next　verse；　

at　the　top　of　the　second　column。



〃But　lay　up　for　yourselves　treasures　in　heaven。〃



Now　what　had　the　Doctor　said　about　that？　　How　was　it　to　

be　understoodin　what　sensetreasuresin　heaven？



The　book　seemed　to　float　away　from　him。　　The　light　vanished。　　

He　wondered　dimly　if　this　could　be　Death；　coming　so　suddenly；　so

quietly；

so　irresistibly。　　He　struggled　for　a　moment　to　hold　himself　up；　

and　then　sank　slowly　forward　upon　the　table。　　His　head　rested

upon　

his　folded　hands。　　He　slipped　into　the　unknown。



How　long　afterward　conscious　life　returned　to　him　he　did　not

know。　　

The　blank　might　have　been　an　hour　or　a　century。　　He　knew　only

that　

omething　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　his

connections；　

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　far　from　a　road　in　a　strange　land。



The　road　was　not　a　formal　highway；　fenced　and　graded。　　It　was

more　like　

a　great　travel…trace；　worn　by　thousands　of　feet　passing　across　

the　open　country　in　the　same　direction。　　Down　in　the　valley；　

into　which　he　could　look；　the　road　seemed　to　form　itself

gradually　out　of　

many　minor　paths；　little　footways　coming　across　the　meadows；　

winding　tracks　following　along　beside　the　streams；　faintly　marked

trails

emerging　from　the　woodlands。　　But　on　the　hillside　the　threads

were　more

firmly　woven　into　one　clear　band　of　travel；　though　there　were

still　

a　few　dim　paths　joining　it　here　and　there；　as　if　persons　had　been



climbing　up　the　hill　by　other　ways　and　had　turned　at　last　to　seek

the　road。



From　the　edge　of　the　hill；　where　John　Weightman　sat；　he　could　see



the　travelers；　in　little　groups　or　larger　companies；　gathering

from　

time　to　time　by　the　different　paths；　and　making　the　ascent。　　

They　were　all　clothed　in　white；　and　the　form　of　their　garments

was　

strange　to　him；　it　was　like　some　old　picture。　　They　passed　him；　

group　after　group；　talking　quietly　together　or　singing；　not

moving　

in　haste；　but　with　a　certain　air　of　eagerness　and　joy　as　if　they

were　

glad　to　be　on　their　way　to　an　appointed　place。　　They　did　not　stay

to　

speak　to　him；　but　they　looked　at　him　often　and　spoke　to　one

another　

as　they　looked；　and　now　and　then　one　of　them　would　smile　and　

beckon　him　a　friendly　greeting；　so　that　he　felt　they　would　like

him　

to　be　with　them。



There　was　quite　an　interval　between　the　groups；　and　he　followed　

each　of　them　with　his　eyes　after　it　had　passed；　blanching　the　

long　ribbon　of　the　road　for　a　little　transient　space；　rising　and

receding

across　the　wide；　billowy　upland；　among　the　rounded　hillocks　of　

aerial　green　and　gold　and　lilac；　until　it　came　to　the　high

horizon；　

and　stood　outlined　for　a　moment；　a　tiny　cloud　of　whiteness

against　

the　tender　blue；　before　it　vanished　over　the　hill。



For　a　long　time　he　sat　there　watching　and　wondering。　　It　was　

a　very　different　world　from　that　in　which　his　mansion　on　the

Avenue　

was　built；　and　it　looked　strange　to　him；　but　most　realas　real

as　

anything　he　had　ever　seen。　　Presently　he　felt　a　strong　desire　

to　know　what　country　it　was　and　where　the　people　were　going。　　

He　had　a　faint　premonition　of　what　it　must　be；　but　he　wished　to

be　sure。　　

So　he　rose　from　the　stone　where　he　was　sitting；　and　came　down

through　

the　short　grass　and　the　lavender　flowers；　toward　a　passing　group

of　people。

One　of　them　turned　to　meet　him；　and　held　out　his　hand。　　It　was　an

old　man；

under　whose　white　beard　and　brows　John　Weightman　thought　he　saw　

a