II

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

something had happened in the interval. What it 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

travellers, 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 as it passed along the ribbon of the road 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 white

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 real--as 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

suggestion of the face of the village doctor who had cared for him

years ago, when he was a 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

I have known you for a long time, John Weightman. Don't you remember

your old doctor?"

"Yes," he cried--"yes; your voice has not changed at all. I'm glad

indeed to see you, Doctor McLean, especially now. All this seems very

strange 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

you good. And you also must have a mansion in the city waiting for

you--a fine one, too--are you not looking forward to it?"

"Yes," replied the other, hesitating a moment: "yes--I believe it must

be so, although I had not expected to see it so soon. But I will go

with you, and we can talk by the way."

The two men quickly caught up with the other people, and all went

forward together along the road. The doctor had little to tell of his

experience, for it had been a plain, hard life, uneventfully spent for

others, and the story of the village was very simple. John Weightman's

adventures and triumphs would have made a far richer, more imposing

history, full of contacts with the great events and personages of the

time. But somehow or other he did not care to speak much about it,

walking on that wide heavenly moorland, under that tranquil, sunless

arch of blue, in that free air of perfect peace, where the light was

diffused without a shadow, as if the spirit of life in all things were

luminous.

There was only one person except the doctor in that little company

whom John Weightman had known before--an old book-keeper who had spent

his life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts--a rusty, dull little

man, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum for

twenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whose

comfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself without

stint. It was a surprise to find him here, as care-free and joyful as

the rest.

The lives of others in the company were revealed in brief glimpses as

they talked together--a mother, early widowed, who had kept her little

flock of children together and laboured through hard and heavy years

to bring them up in purity and knowledge--a Sister of Charity who had

devoted herself to the nursing of poor folk who were being eaten to

death by cancer--a schoolmaster whose heart and life had been poured

into his quiet work of training boys for a clean and thoughtful

manhood--a medical missionary who had given up a brilliant career in

science to take the charge of a hospital in darkest Africa--a

beautiful woman with silver hair who had resigned her dreams of love

and marriage to care for an invalid father, and after his death had

made her life a long, steady search for ways of doing kindnesses to

others--a poet who had walked among the crowded tenements of the great

city, bringing cheer and comfort not only by his songs, but by his

wise and patient works of practical aid--a paralysed woman who had

lain for thirty years upon her bed, helpless but not hopeless,

succeeding by a miracle of courage in her single aim, never to

complain, but always to impart a bit of her joy and peace to every one

who came near her. All these, and other persons like them, people of

little consideration in the world, but now seemingly all full of great

contentment and an inward gladness that made their steps light, were

in the company that passed along the road, talking together of things

past and things to come, and singing now and then with clear voices

from which the veil of age and sorrow was lifted.

John Weightman joined in some of the songs--which were familiar to him

from their use in the church--at first with a touch of hesitation, and

then more confidently. For as they went on his sense of strangeness

and fear at his new experience diminished, and his thoughts began to

take on their habitual assurance and complacency. Were not these

people going to the Celestial City? And was not he in his right place

among them? He had always looked forward to this journey. If they

were sure, each one, of finding a mansion there, could not he be far

more sure? His life had been more fruitful than theirs. He had been a

leader, a founder of new enterprises, a pillar of Church and State, a

prince of the House of Israel. Ten talents had been given him, and he

had made them twenty. His reward would be proportionate. He was glad

that his companions were going to find fit dwellings prepared for

them; but he thought also with a certain pleasure of the surprise that

some of them would feel when they saw his appointed mansion.

So they came to the summit of the moorland and looked over into the

world beyond. It was a vast green plain, softly rounded like a shallow

vase, and circled with hills of amethyst. A broad, shining river

flowed through it, and many silver threads of water were woven across

the green; and there were borders of tall trees on the banks of the

river, and orchards full of roses abloom along the little streams, and

in the midst of all stood the city, white and wonderful.

When the travellers saw it they were filled with awe and joy. They

passed over the little streams and among the orchards quickly and

silently, 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 it

was made only of precious stones. The gate of the city was not like a

gate at all, for it was not barred with iron or wood, but only a

single pearl, softly gleaming, marked the place where the wall ended

and the entrance lay open.

A person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose robe

was like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a living

texture.

"Come in," he said to the company of travellers; "you are at your

journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you."

John Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt. Suppose that

he was not really, like his companions, at his journey's end, but only

transported for a little while out of the regular course of his life

into this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after all, he had not

really passed through the door of death, like these others, but was

walking in a vision, a living man among the blessed dead. Would it be

right for him to go with them into the heavenly city? Would it not be

a deception, a desecration, a deep and unforgivable offence? The

strange, confusing question had no reason in it, as he very well knew;

for if he was dreaming, then it was all a dream; but if his companions

were real, then he also was with them in reality, and if they had died

then he must have died too. Yet he could not rid his mind of the sense

that there was a difference between them and him, and it made him

afraid to go on. But, as he paused and turned, the Keeper of the Gate

looked straight and deep into his eyes, and beckoned to him. Then he

knew that it was not only right but 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 varied

beauty 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 one

another, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquil

splendour of the city.

As the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which were

prepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant to

enter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, half

wonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling were

crowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all the

dreams of it; and yet also as if it were touched with the beauty of

the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One after another the

travellers were led to their own mansions, and went in gladly; and

from within, through the open doorways, came sweet voices of welcome,

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 one

of the largest and fairest of the houses, whose garden glowed softly

with radiant flowers. The Guide laid his hand upon the doctor's

shoulder.

"This is for you," he said. "Go in; there is no more sickness here,

no more death, nor sorrow, nor pain; for your old enemies are all

conquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the

help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all

the strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, are

here; 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 old

friend's hand closely, and whispered: "How wonderful it is! Go on, you

will come to your mansion next, it is not far away, and we shall see

each other again soon, very soon."

So he went through the garden, and into the music within. The Keeper

of 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-concealed

excitement. "Is there not one here for me? You may not let me enter it

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 it

gratified him that his name was known. "Yes, I am John Weightman,

Senior Warden of St. Petronius' Church. I wish very much to see my

mansion here. I believe that you have one for me. Will you take me to

it?"

The Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robe

and turned over the pages.

"Certainly," he said, with a curious look at the man, "your name is

here; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me."

It seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles through the vast

city, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller, of

gardens 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. Finally they

reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two or

three little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse

and thin. In the centre of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough

for a shepherd's shelter. It looked as if it had been built of

discarded things, scraps and fragments of other buildings, put

together with care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the

most of cast-off material. There was something pitiful and shamefaced

about the hut. It shrank and drooped in its barren field, and seemed

to cling only by sufferance to the edge of the splendid city.

"This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with

a low, distinct voice--"this is your mansion, John Weightman."

An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation choked

the man for a moment so that he could not say a word. Then he turned

his face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate

eagerly with his companion.

"Surely, sir," he stammered, "you must be in error about this. There

is something wrong--some other John Weightman--a confusion of

names--the book must be incorrect."

"There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate very calmly; "here

is your name, the record of your title and your possessions in this

place."

"But how could such a house be prepared for me," cried the man with a

resentful tremor in his voice--"for me, after my long and faithful

service? 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 large

and 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 Keeper

of the Gate.

"Now I know that you are mistaken," cried the man with growing

earnestness, "for all my life long I have been doing things that must

have supplied you with material. Have you not heard that I have built

a school-house; the wing of a hospital; two--yes, three--small

churches, 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 foundations for the name and

mansion of John Weightman in the world. Did you not plan them for

that?"

"Yes," answered the man, confused and taken aback, "I confess that I

thought often of them in that way. Perhaps my heart was set upon that

too much. But there are other things--my endowment for the college--my

steady and liberal contributions to all the established charities--my

support of every respectable----"

"Wait," said the Keeper of the Gate again. "Were not all these

carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit? They

were 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. I

acknowledge that I considered my own interest too much. But surely not

altogether. You have said that these things were not foolishly done.

They accomplished some good in the world. Does not that count for

something?"

"Yes," answered the Keeper of the Gate, "it counts in the world--where

you counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved and

used everything that you sent us. This is the mansion prepared for

you."

As he spoke, his look grew deeper and more searching, like a flame of

fire. John Weightman could not endure it. It seemed to strip him naked

and wither him. He sank to the ground under a crushing weight of

shame, covering his eyes with his hands and cowering, face downward,

upon the stones. Dimly through the trouble of his mind he felt their

hardness and coldness.

"Tell me, then," he cried, brokenly, "since my life has been so little

worth, how came I here at all?"

"Through the mercy of the King"--the answer was like the soft tolling

of 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

of my life? What could I have done better? What is it that counts

here?"

"Only that which is truly given," answered the bell-like voice. "Only

that good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in

which the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labours

in which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts

in which the giver forgets himself."

The man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency and

humiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was

infinitely tender as he bent over him.

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

life?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "If there ever were such things, it must have

been 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,

and his hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he

spoke gently:

"These are the things that the King never forgets; and because there

were a few of these in your life, you have a little place here."

* * * * *

The sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands grew

sharper and more distinct. The feeling of bodily weariness and

lassitude weighed upon him, but there was a calm, almost a lightness

in his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the silvery

bell-tones. The chimney clock on the mantel had just ended the last

stroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table. Thin, pale

strips of the city morning were falling into the room through the

narrow partings of the heavy curtains.

What was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he died and

come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gone

visiting in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, but

finding himself in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the table

drawer, 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, his

bare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in peace.

His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes, and

then tiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and a sheet

of paper, 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 that

work with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church. I want to

know your heart better; and if I have made mistakes----"

A slight noise made him turn his head. Harold was sitting up in bed

with wide-open eyes.

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

"Yes, my son," answered John Weightman; "I've come back--I mean I've

come up--no, I mean come in--well, here I am, and God give us a good

Christmas together."

* * * * *