PAGE 7
The Mansion
by
“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 said–it was almost childish–and 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 thought–the end must come some time–what 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 character–and all men are sinners– yet he surely believed in the saving doctrines of religion–the 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.