"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 la.s.situde 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 G.o.d give us a good Christmas together."
BY HENRY VAN d.y.k.e
The Valley of Vision Fighting for Peace The Unknown Quant.i.ty The Ruling Pa.s.sion The Blue Flower
Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land Days Off Little Rivers Fisherman"s Luck
Poems, Collection in one volume
Golden Stars The Red Flower The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems The White Bees, and Other Poems The Builders, and Other Poems Music, and Other Poems The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems The House of Rimmon
Studies in Tennyson Poems of Tennyson
CHARLES SCRIBNER"S SONS