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 ofthe 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 waterwere woven across the green; and there were borders of tall treeson 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 and radiant.
When the travelers 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, which are never large.
The gate of the city was not like a gate a 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 travelers; "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 only through the door of dreams, and 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 offense? 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 butnecessary 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 splendor 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 had been; and yet also as if it were touched with the beauty of the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved.
One after another the travelers 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 ofone 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 pain here, no more death, nor sorrow, nor tears; 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 hisold 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, if only for a moment.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.
