There was an air of calm opulence about the Carthwrite
Mansion that pealed out a message -- not of money
squandered, but of wealth prudently applied for the good of
one man's soul. Standing four square on a busy corner of
Adams Avenue no longer fashionable for residences, it
looked upon the swelling tide of business with a piqued
expression of complacency and subtle disdain.
The house was not beautiful by any means, no, not even
handsome. The best word to describe it was simply,
IMPOSING. Even the ivy looked verdantly green. There was
nothing in the mansion's front of creamy, chocolate-colored
stone, its heavy cornices, its broad, staring windows of
plate glass, its carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany
doors at the top of the wide stoop, to charm the eye or to
fascinate the imagination. It looked very solidly at home,
as if it would never move or change.
It was solidly, eminently respectable. It had stood so for 30
years and looked as if it would stand fixedly for another 3
centuries. Somehow the front seemed to be leaning forward
and this was what made it look imposing.
The mansion fulfilled its purpose for it seemed to say that
the glittering shops of the jewelers, the milliners, the
confectioners, the florists, the picture-dealers, the furriers,
the makers of rare and costly antiquities, retail traders in
luxuries of life, were beneath the notice of a house that had
its foundations in the great halls of high finance, and was
built literally in the shadow of the majestic St. Patrick's
Church building.
At the same time there was something self-pleased and
highly congratulatory in the way in which the mansion held
its own amid the changing neighborhood. It almost seemed
to be lifted up a little, among the tall buildings near at
hand, almost as if it were alive enough to share the opinion
of its owner and felt the rising value of the land on which it
stood.
Samuel Carthwrite was rather like the house into which he
had built himself a tidy cave thirty years ago, and in which
his ideals and ambitions were incrusted like sparkling gems.
He was a self-made man of which there was much to be
proud. In making himself he had chosen a highly esteemed
pattern and worked it out according to the most respected
and approved rules. There was nothing irregular, shady,
questionable or flamboyant about Samuel Carthwrite.
He was solid, correct,
and justly successful.
His minor tastes, of course, had been carefully kept up to
date. At the proper time, pictures of the Barbizon masters,
old English plate and portraits, bronzes by Barye and
marbles by Rodin, Persian carpets and Chinese porcelains,
had been introduced to the mansion as Samuel's fortunes
improved even farther on the financial scene.
His mansion contained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an
Empire drawing-room, a Jacobean dining-room, and various
apartments dimly reminiscent of the styles of furniture
affected by deceased monarchs. That the hallways were too
short for the historic perspective did not make much
difference. American decorative art is capable de tout, it
absorbs all periods. Of each period Mr. Carthwrite wished to
have something of the best. He understood its value,
present as a certificate, and prospective as an investment.
It was only in the architecture of his town house that he
remained conservative, immovable. His country house at
Ratter-Sound was a patterned palace of the Italian
Renaissance. But in town he adhered to an architecture
which had moral associations, El Rancho Del Real, in a New
York engineering style that proclaimed his independence of
all – common – style. Samuel Carthwrite's mansion was a
superb symbol of his social position, his religious doctrine,
and even, in a way, of his clean, sweeping business creed.
"A man of mixed and fixed principles," he would say with a
soft swelling of his chest, "should express them in the
etched looks of his home. New York changes its domestic
architecture too rapidly. It is like a sharp divorce with every
new generation. That is not rightly dignified. I don't like it.
Extravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these
new houses. I wish to be known for different qualities.
“Dignity and prudence are the things that people trust.
Every one knows that I can afford to live in the house that
suits me. It is my guarantee to the public. It inspires
confidence. It establishes my influence. There is a text in
the Bible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the
proper kind of a mansion for a solid man."
Samuel's son, Michael Carthwrite, had often listened to his
Father discoursing in this fashion on the fundamental
principles of life, and always listened with a divided mind.
He admired immensely his Father's talents and the singleminded
energy with which he improved them.
What new knowledge he wished to acquire was diligently
pursued until it was firmly his. But it was in the paternal
philosophy that was something found that disquieted and
oppressed the young man, that made him gasp inwardly for
fresh air and free action.
At times, during his college course and his years at the law
school, he had yielded to this impulse and broken away --
now toward extravagance and dissipation, and then, when
his best friend bid him to study his naked reflection in the
mirror, he turned toward a romantic devotion to work among
the poor.
He had endured his Father's disapproval for both of these
forms of imprudence; but frown was never heavy, but simply
expressed with a certain tolerant patience, such as one
might show for the mistakes and vagaries of the very
young. Samuel Carthwrite was not hasty, impulsive,
inconsiderate, even toward his own children. With Michael
and Catherine, as with the rest of the world, he felt that he
had a reputation to maintain, a theory to vindicate. He was
patient enough to give them enough time to see that he was
absolutely right.
One of his favorite Scripture quotations was,
"Wait on the Lord."
Samuel had applied that Scripture to real estate, to financial
investments – and to people -- with profitable results.
But to human perceptions the sensation of being waited for
is not always agreeable. Sometimes, especially with the
young man Michael, it produced a vague restlessness, a
dumb resentment if you will, which is increased by the fact
that one can hardly explain or justify it. Of this result his
Father was not conscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He did
not take it into account in the plan of life which Samuel
Carthwrite made for himself and for his family who were to
be the sharers and inheritors of his success.
"Don't you think Father plays us?" Michael asked Carolyn
Carthwrite, his mother in one tense moment of irritation. "I
sometimes feel as if Father is playing us much like pawns
and knights in a game of chess.”
"My dear boy," his mother replied. "you ought not to speak
so impertinent with your Father's attempts to soften the
impact of future confrontations you will experience in the
world. I've seen other children knock about, lacking proper
influence at home and quite often they shatter and lose all
the opportunities they might have acquired with ease if only
they had accepted proper guidance. Your Father is one of
the most respected men in New York. And he is very
generous to us with his wealth, too. Look how many pieces
of property he has put directly in your name and mine."
"Well, I just wish he would be more generous in letting us
be ourselves," Michael said mournfully. "I feel like he always
has some future plan for us and expects to move us up to it
in properly measured steps."
"But isn't it always for our benefit?" replied his mother.
"Look what a position we have. Nor can anyone say there is
any taint on our money. There are no rumors about your
Father taking unfair advantage of anyone. He has kept the
laws of God at home and the laws of man in his work. He
has never made any mistakes that have caused us the least
embarrassment."
Michael got up from his chair and stabbed the poker into the
coals. Then he came back to the ample, well-gowned, firmlooking
lady, and sat beside her on the sofa. He took her
hand gently and looked at the two rings -- a thin band of
yellow gold that proclaimed the marriage of his parents
would last through the eternities held a solitary diamond --
it kept its place on her third finger in modest dignity, as if
not shamed, but rather justified, by the splendor of the
emerald which glittered beside it.
"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand. And Father
made no mistake when he chose my mother. But are you so
sure he has always been inerrant?"
"Michael," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean?
His life is an open book."
"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother
dear. I know his life is an open book – but mother, it's a
ledger. Oh yes, it is kept in the best bookkeeping hand, and
always ready for inspection -- every page correct, and
showing a handsome balance besides. But isn't it a mistake
not to allow us to make some of our own mistakes, to learn
for ourselves, to live our own lives? Must we be always
working for 'the balance,' in one thing or another? I want to
be myself -- to get outside of this everlasting, profitable
'plan' -- to let myself go, and lose myself for a while at
least -- to do the things that I want to do, just because I
want to do them."
"My boy," said his mother, anxiously, "have you been
indulging in anything – wrong – or foolish?"
He threw back his head and laughed. "Father would skin me
alive if I wronged some poor maiden, mother," he answered.
"And I would help him do it; I know how precious is the
chastity of man and woman. You will never see me indulge
in flinging wild oats around. But in California, you know, the
wild oats are one of the most valuable crops. They grow all
over the hillsides and keep the cattle and the horses alive.
“But no, that wasn't what I meant -- sowing wild oats. Say
to pick wild flowers, if you like, or even to chase wild geese
-- to do something that seems good to me just for its own
sake, not for the sake of wages of one kind or another.
“I feel like a hired man, in the service of this magnificent
mansion – I feel as if I'm in training for Father's place as
majordomo. But I want a chance to wonder if that's what I
really want. I'd like to get out some way, to feel free --
perhaps to do some vague good thing for others."
The young man's voice hesitated a little. "Yes, it sounds like
cant, I know, but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do some
good in the world, if Father only wouldn't insist upon God's
putting it into the family's ledger."
His mother moved uneasily, and a slight look of
bewilderment came into her face.
"Isn't that almost irreverent?" she asked. "Surely the
righteous must have their reward. And your Father is good.
See how much he gives to all the established charities, how
many things he has founded. He's always thinking of others,
and planning for them. And surely, for us, he does
everything. How well he has planned this trip to Europe for
me and the girls -- the court-presentation at Berlin, the
season on the Riviera, the visits in England with the
Plumptons and the Halverstones. He says Lord Halverstone
has the finest old house in Sussex, pure Elizabethan, and all
the old customs are kept up, too -- family prayers every
morning for all the domestics. By-the-way, you know his son
Bertie, I believe."
Michael smiled a little to himself as he answered: "Yes, I
fished at Catalina Island last June with the Honorable
Ethelbert; he's rather a decent chap, in spite of his
ingrowing mind. But you? -- mother, you are simply
magnificent! You are Father's masterpiece." The young man
leaned over to kiss her, and went up to the Riding Club for
his afternoon canter in the Park.
So it came to pass, early in December, that Mrs. Carthwrite
and her two daughters sailed for Europe, on their serious
pleasure trip, even as it had been written in the book of
Providence; and Samuel Carthwrite, who had made the
entry, was left to pass the rest of the winter with his son
and heir in the brownstone mansion.
They were comfortable enough. The machinery of the
massive establishment ran as smoothly as a great electric
dynamo. They were busy enough, too. Samuel Carthwrite's
plans and enterprises were complicated, though his principle
of action was always simple -- to get good value for every
expenditure and effort. The banking-house of which he was
the chief, the brain, the will, the absolutely controlling
hand, was so admirably organized that the details of its
direction took but little time.
But the scores of other interests that radiated from it and
were dependent upon it -- or perhaps it would be more
accurate to say, that contributed to its solidity and success
-- the many investments, industrial, political, benevolent,
reformatory, ecclesiastical, that had made the name of
Carthwrite well known and potent in city, church, and state,
demanded much attention and careful steering, in order that
each might produce the desired result. There were board
meetings of corporations and hospitals, conferences in Wall
Street and at Albany, consultations and committee meetings
in the brownstone mansion.
For a share in all this business and its adjuncts Samuel
Carthwrite had his son in training in one of the famous law
firms of the city; for he held that banking itself is a simple
affair, the only real difficulties of finance are on its legal
side. Meantime he wished the young man to meet and know
the men with whom he would have to deal when he became
a partner in the house. So a couple of dinners were given in
the mansion during December, after which the Father called
the son's attention to the fact that over 2 billion dollars had
sat around the board that evening.
But on Christmas Eve Father and son were dining together
without guests, and their talk was intimate, though a little
slow at times, across the broad table glittering with silver
and cut glass, and softly lit by shaded Christmas candles.
The elder man was in rather a rare mood, more expansive
and confidential than usual; and, when the coffee was
brought in and they were left alone, he talked more freely
of his personal plans and hopes than he had ever done
before. "I feel very grateful to-night, it must be something
in the air of Christmas that gives me this feeling of special
gratitude for the many divine mercies that have been
bestowed upon me. All the Scriptural principles by which I
have tried to guide my life have been justified. I have never
made the value of this salted almond by anything that the
courts would not uphold, at least in the long run, and yet --
or wouldn't it be truer to say and therefore? -- my affairs
have been wonderfully prospered.
“There's a great deal in that text 'Honesty is the best' -- but
no, that's not from the Bible, after all, is it? Wait a moment;
there is something of that kind, I know."
"May I light a cigar, Father," said Michael, turning away to
hide a smile, "while you are remembering the text?"
"A cigar?" asked the elder man, rather shortly; "you know I
dislike the smell. Not only that, it is wasteful, useless and
habit forming, and therefore I have never practised it
myself. Nothing useless is worth while, that's what I have
found to be true in the game of life -- nothing that does not
bring the reward. But if you feel to smoke, certainly do it in
my presence – until your mother voices a contrary spirit, for
her health you know, her lungs are tender. Oh, now I recall
that text, 'Verily I say unto you they have their reward.' I
shall ask Doctor Snider to preach a sermon on that verse
some day."
"Using you as an illustration?"
"Well, not exactly that, my boy; but I desire to have his
thoughts expressed so that I might better determine my
own. I could give him some good materials from my own
experience to prove the truth of Scripture the way I read it,
of course. I can honestly say that there is not one of my
charities that has not brought me in a good return, either in
the increase of influence, the building up of credit, or the
association with substantial people. Of course you have to
be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results
-- no indiscriminate giving -- no pennies of mine cast into
some idle beggar's hat! I insist that their cry for alms be
filtered through the church. Just the other day there was a
story in the paper about this beggar that was taking down
over $60,000 per year with his begging. Doctor Snider can
make sure my money is not wasted. It has been one of my
principles always to use the same kind of judgment in
charities that I use in my other affairs, and those principles
have not disappointed me."
"Does that include even the handsome check that you put in
the plate when you take the offertory up the aisle on
Sunday morning?"
"Certainly, Michael; I tithe faithfully because the Lord asks
it, and I always round up to the next highest dollar in all my
calculations, although there the influence is less direct it
always pays a dividend. But, I must confess that I have my
doubts in regard to the collection for Foreign Missions. That
always seems to me romantic and wasteful. You never hear
from it in any definite way. They say the missionaries have
done a good deal to open the way for trade; perhaps -- but
they have also gotten us into commercial and political
difficulties. Yet I give to them -- a little -- it is a matter of
conscience with me to identify myself with all the
enterprises of the church especially in the matter of
providing funds for struggling scholars; Religion is the
mainstay of social order and the rock of a prosperous
civilization. The best forms of benevolence are the wellestablished,
organized ones here at home, where people can
see them and know what they are doing."
"You mean the ones that have a local habitation and a
name."
"Yes; they offer by far the safest return, though of course
there is something gained by contributing to general funds.
A public man can't afford to be seen without a public spirit.
But on the whole I prefer a building, or an endowment.
There is a mutual advantage to a good name and a good
institution in their connection in the public mind. It helps
them both. Remember that, my boy. Of course at the
beginning you will have to practice it in a small way; later,
you will have larger opportunities. But try to put your gifts
where they can be identified and do good all around. You'll
see the wisdom of it in the long run."
"I can see it already, sir, and the way you describe it looks
amazingly wise and prudent. If I may say it in other words
to see if I have it right, we must cast our bread on the
waters in large loaves, carried by sound ships marked with
the Carthwrite owner's name, so that the return freight will
be sure to come back to us."
Samuel laughed, but his eyes were frowning a little as if he
suspected something irreverent were being presented under
the respectful reply. "You put it humorously, but there's a
good patch of sense in what you say. Why not? God rules
the sea; but He expects us to follow the laws of navigation
and commerce. Why not take good care of your bread, even
when you give it away, and make sure it arrives safely?"
"It's not for me to say why not -- and yet I can think of
cases -- " Michael hesitated for a moment. His half-finished
cigar had gone out. He rose and tossed it into the fire, in
front of which he remained standing -- a slender, eager,
restless young figure, with a touch of hunger in the fine
face, strangely like and yet unlike his father's, at whom he
turned and looked with half-wistful curiosity.
"The fact is, sir," he continued, "there is such a case in my
mind right now, and it is a good deal on my heart, too. So I
thought of speaking to you about it to-night. You remember
Tom Rollins, the Junior who was so good to me when I
entered college?"
Samuel nodded. He remembered very well indeed the
annoying incidents of his son's first escapades in college for
he had been forced to pay off some indulgences. But it was
how Rollins had stood by him and helped to avoid a public
disgrace that he remembered best, and not how a close
friendship had grown between the two boys, so different in
their fortunes. "Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a
promising young man. Has he succeeded with that insane
venture of his?"
"Not exactly -- that is not yet. His business has been going
rather badly, in fact. But not because the idea wasn't
sound. He has a wife and little baby, you might remember.
And now his health has broken down, -- there is something
wrong with his lungs; they are not absorbing oxygen like
they should. His doctor says his only chance is a year – or
eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help him."
"He has no insurance, I suppose, or this situation would not
have arisen. Yet, I see no reason why you shouldn't help
him out. How much would it cost?"
"$20, $30,000, perhaps, provided as a loan, of course."
"Hmm. Does the doctor say he will definitely get well?"
"A fighting chance – that is all the doctor says."
The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was
altered, but it seemed to have taken a different substance,
as if it were carved out of some firm, imperishable stuff.
"A fighting chance?” Samuel mused out loud. “Any time I
hear something vague like that from a doctor I've been
proven right always to seek a second opinion. No two
doctors ever see the same case in the same light," he said.
"'A fighting chance' always turns out to be pure speculation,
but it is never a good investment.
“I realize that you feel indebted to young Rollins. I am, in
fact, quite grateful that you feel that way, for the feeling
does you much credit. But I would suggest that you don't
overwork it. I suggest that you sell off one of your houses
and send him three or four thousand to get a second opinion
with none of this business of it being a loan. Real friends
can give small sums of money without embarrassing the
other. But for Heaven's sake don't go sentimental and sell
off all your houses to keep him alive – for he will surely
bleed you dry."
It was the face of the younger man that changed now. But
instead of becoming fixed and graven, it seemed to melt
into life by the heat of an inward fire. His nostrils quivered
with quick breath. "I was thinking that you might pick up
the tab for this, sir." he said. "Tom saved me from going to
the devil, six years ago; and I believe he saved you a great
deal of money by doing it."
Samuel Carthwrite looked at his son steadily. "Michael," he
said at last, "you know this is my home and you know that I
dislike violent language. Furthermore, it never has any
influence with me. Your generosity with my money is totally
out of the question. If I could honestly approve of this
proposition of yours, I'd let you have the money; but I
can't; it's extravagant and useless. But you have your
Christmas check for $10,000.00 coming to you to-morrow.
You can use it as you please. You know that I would never
interfere with your private affairs."
"Thank you," said Michael. "Thank you very much! But that
brings up another private affair. I want to use that
Christmas check to get away from this life, this town, this
house. It stifles me. You refused to finance my venture last
summer when I asked you to let me go up to Grenfell's
Mission on the Labrador. With that $10,000 I could go now,
at least as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you
changed your mind on letting me do that?"
"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise,
but if you prefer doing that to helping your friend, why
should I have to foot the bill? Even though it would
interrupt the career that I have marked out for you it might
well give you more maturity."
"Maturity? Well, then, here's a younger generation proposal
for you. Algy Vanderhoof wants me to join him on his yacht
to cruise in the West Indies. Would you prefer that?"
"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is not only wild but
godless -- I do not wish to see you keeping company with
fools who walk in the broad and easy way that leads to
perdition."
"It is rather a hard choice," said the young man, with a
short laugh, turning toward the door. "According to you
there's very little difference -- a fool's paradise or a fool's
hell! Well, it's one or the other for me, and I'll toss up for it
to-night: heads, I lose; tails, the devil wins. Anyway, I'm
sick of this, and I'm out of it."
"Michael," said the older man (and there was a slight tremor
in his voice), "don't let us quarrel on Christmas Eve. All I
want is for you to think seriously of the duties and your
responsibilities to which God has called you -- don't speak
lightly of heaven and hell -- remember, there really is
another life after this one."
After heaving a deep sigh at the door Michael came back
and laid his hand upon Samuel's shoulder. "Father," he said,
"I want to remember it. I try to believe in it as deeply as
you do. 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 it
-- that'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
am very grateful to you for your generosity and your advice,
and we'll part friends. Good-night, sir."
Samuel 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 Samuel Carthwrite sat in his carved chair in the
Jacobean dining-room. He felt strangely old and dull even
amidst the portraits of beautiful women by Lawrence and
Reynolds and Raeburn, which had often seemed like real
company to him; they 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 Corot -- a dance of nymphs
around some forgotten altar in a vaporous glade -- and
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 Carthwrite Charities," one very
complaisant editor called them, as if they deserved
classification as a distinct species. He turned the papers
over listlessly. There was a description and a picture of the
"Carthwrite Wing of the Hospital for Cripples," of which he
was president; and an article on the new professor in the
"Carthwrite Chair of Political Jurisprudence" in Jackson
University, of which he was a trustee; and an illustrated
account of the opening of the "Carthwrite Grammar-School"
at Ratter-Sound, where he had his legal residence for
purposes of taxation.
This last was perhaps the most carefully planned of all the
Carthwrite 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
Michael 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 Carthwrite 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 Samuel Carthwrite 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 felt visibly heavy upon
his shoulders. 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 Michael 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 for most of us, after all – and
what if his time were now? What if he not founded his
house upon a rock? But how could that be? Had he not
kept all 10 of the Commandments? Was he not, "touching
the law, blameless"? And beyond this, even if there were
some faults in his character -- and all men have a few faults
-- 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 justified.
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 Snider had said? Ah, yes -- that
it was a mistake to pause here in reading this particular
verse. We must read on without a pause -- Lay not up
treasures upon earth where moth and rust do corrupt and
where thieves break through and steal. Samuel could see
that was the true doctrine. We may have treasures upon
earth, but they must not be put into unsafe places where
thieves could break through and steal, but put them into
safe places. It was a most comforting doctrine! He had
always followed it. Moths and rust and thieves had done no
harm to his investments.
Samuel Carthwrite'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
understood -- in what sense -- treasures -- in heaven? The
words sounded simple enough, but perhaps there was a
hidden meaning in them that had eluded him.
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The heavy book of Scriptural wisdom seemed to lift up from
his hands then float away from him. The light vanished,
sucked away in a swirl of darkness. He wondered dimly if
this could be Death, coming so suddenly, so quietly, so
irresistibly, and best of all – so painlessly.
Samuel struggled for a moment to hold himself up, and then
sank slowly forward upon the table. His head rested upon
his folded hands. His mind slipped into the unknown. His
spirit raced past the moon and darted among the stars.
How long afterward conscious life returned to him he did not
know. The blank might have been an hour or even a century.
Lights had flashed past him; stars had shifted in their
courses. From somewhere ahead of him he heard someone
ask the eternal question, “how far can it be to Kolob?”
It was a meaningless question. Samuel knew only that
some thing had happened in the interval. What it was he
could not remember. He found great difficulty in catching up
the thread of his identity again as well. He felt that he was
himself but there was so much more of himself to deal with
now. The trouble was to make his connections, to verify
and place himself, to know who and where he was.
At last it grew clear. Samuel Carthwrite was sitting on a
stone, not far from a white road in a land that was obviously
strange. For one thing, there was no sun in the sky and yet
there was light everywhere, and no shadows anywhere. For
another thing, there was no undergrowth in the trees behind
him and the birds perched openly in the trees sang songs of
summer gladness with greater joy than the birds at home
behind his mansion.
The road was not a formal highway, nor was it fenced and
graded. It was more like the mountains had been made
smooth and the valleys had been raised high so that a great
travel-trace, worn by thousands of feet floated from one
grade to the next, passing across the open country in the
same direction. Down in the valley that was more properly
described as a swale, into which his gaze could easily
penetrate the road seemed to form itself gradually out of
many minor paths; little footways coming across the
meadows, winding tracks following along beside the silver
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 Samuel Carthwrite sat
resting from exertions he could not remember, he saw
streams of travelers, in little groups or larger companies,
gathering from time to time by the different paths, and
making the ascent. They were all clothed uniformly in
garments of gleaming white, and the form of their garments
was cut in a manner strange to him; it was like gazing down
upon some old picture show movie set of the Holy Land,
only much more beautiful. The people passed him, group
after group, talking quietly together or singing lusty hymns;
not moving in haste, but with a certain air of eagerness that
could not be denied for long – and joy flooded their faces as
if they were glad to be on their way to an appointed place.
They did not pause to speak to him, but they looked at him
in passing 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 accept him as a
soujourner on their crusade if only he made the effort to be
mingled with them.
There was quite an interval between the groups occasionally
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 far, 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 contentedly 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.
Samuel had a faint premonition of what land it must be, but
he wished to be sure. So he rose at last from the stone yet
to grow uncomfortable 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, beaming radiantly to greet him. It
was an old man, under whose white beard and brows
Samuel Carthwrite thought he saw a suggestion of the face
of the village doctor who had cared for him years ago, back
when he was but a barefooted boy in the country.
"Welcome," said the old man. "Have you decided you will
come travel with us?"
"Where are you going?" asked Samuel
The old man pointed up, over the hill. "To the heavenly city,
to see our mansions there."
"And who are these with you?"
"Oh? Strangers to me, I suppose, at least they were until a
little while ago; I know them better now but names don't
really feel that important. But you – I have known you for a
long time, Samuel Carthwrite. Don't you remember your old
family doctor? I treated you for smallpox, diphtheria too."
"Yes," Samuel 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 your group, 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 seeing it?"
"Yes," replied Samuel, hesitating only for 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 perhaps 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. Samuel Carthwrite's adventures and
triumphs would have made a far richer, more imposing vein
of 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 besides the doctor in that little
company whom Samuel Carthwrite had known before -- an
old bookkeeper who had spent his life cribbed 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 labored 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
charge of a hospital in the sun-baked plains of Africa.
Then there was 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
paralyzed 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 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, infinite 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.
Samuel Carthwrite 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.
And it came to pass that 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 and radiant.
When the travelers saw it they were filled with trembling
awe and rich joy. They waded eagerly over the little streams
and treaded among the orchards quickly and silently, as if
they feared to speak – lest the city should vanish.
It came to pass that the wall of the city was very low, a
child could see over it, and it was made only of carbuncles
and other 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 single 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."
Samuel Carthwrite hesitated, for he was troubled by a
sudden 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 dead who were abundantly blessed? Would it be
right for him to enter with them into their rest within 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 Samuel paused and turned back in his tracks, the
Keeper of the Gate looked straight and deep into his eyes,
then beckoned to him. Then it came to pass that Samuel
knew that it was not only right that he should enter but
vitally necessary.
Thus it was that 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 and
cherished home that would be a mansion.
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 as if a banquet of family and friends
were there, waiting for them.
At last there was no one left walking with the Guide but the
two old friends, Doctor McLean and Samuel Carthwrite. 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 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 joined together and fashioned the progress you have
made on the erection of your mansion into this mansion
made just for you from your good deeds on earth."
The good doctor's face was instantly illuminated with a still,
crisp burst of joy. “I can't believe this is for me.”
He turned and clasped Samuel's hand closely. He said:
"How wonderful this is! Go on Samuel, your mansion must
be next and surely more magnificent than mine. It can not
be so far away, and we shall see each other again soon!"
So it came to pass that the good doctor passed over the
wide meadow, and melted into the music within. The Keeper
of the Gate then turned to Samuel Carthwrite with a level,
quiet, searching gaze. Then he asked, gravely: "Where
would you wish to go now, Samuel?"
"Why, to see my own mansion, if it is ready," Samuel
replied, with half-concealed excitement. "I realize 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 -- "You are Samuel,
Samuel Carthwrite."
"Yes," said Samuel, more confidently than he had spoken at
first, for it gratified him that his name was known here in
the wide boulevards of heaven. "Yes, I am the Samuel
Carthwrite, Senior Warden of St. Patrick's' Church. I wish
very much to see my mansion here, if only for a moment
and from the outside. I believe that you have one being
built 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," the guide
said, with a curious look at Samuel, "your name is here; and
you shall see the progress you have made on the erection of
your mansion if you will follow me."
“The progress that I have made?”
“Why yes. As I told your good friend the doctor; Our
mansions here are made from our good deeds and noble
desires during our sojourn on earth. Follow me.”
Samuel felt reassured by those words for he could
remember many noble enterprises executed on earth. But
that feeling left him later as he followed his guide – for it
seemed as if they walked miles and miles, through the vast
city, passing street after street of houses whose majesty
and luster seemed to be shrinking as they walked, but all
were full of beauty and delight.
They came finally into a kind of suburb, where there were
many small cottages, with plots of flowers. The lofty
dimensions of the cottages they were passing were
dwindling very slowly, but the homes were still bright and
fragrant. Finally they reached an open field, bare and
lonely-looking and it came to pass that his kind kept on
walking even though the trail became a path, and at last
even the path disappeared, but they kept on walking. At last
there was nothing in front of them but two little bushes and
the grass had waxed brown then passed away until it was
sparse and thin as wheat blasted by the cold winter wind.
Finally they crossed over yet another swale
and then up, over yet one more rise and
there, in the center of an empty field was a
tiny hut, hardly big enough to serve for a
shepherd's shelter.
It was out of joint and 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 some dry, cast-off materials. There was a hand
pump off to one side, rusty, old and Samuel knew that its
handle would bring forth screeching wails from the parched
leathers inside it as they scratched at the rusty throat of
the pump to bring forth the tiny stream of water.
There was something pitiful and shamefaced about the little
hut. It shrank and drooped and faded 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 off to one side. He was speaking with a low,
distinct voice -- "this is the mansion you have built in
heaven, Samuel Carthwrite."
An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and
indignation choked Samuel for a moment so that he could
not say a word. “How can I bring Carolyn into a cottage like
this to abide with me forever?” he wondered.
Then he turned his face away from the poor little hut and
began to question his guide. “I should not quibble if you
told me this was what mansion the Lord said was mine, sir.
But when you tell me that this is what I have earned, what I
have built with good deeds done on earth, then I should like
to have some elucidation.”
"There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate, very
calmly; "here is your name, the record of your title and a
list of the possessions you have built into this place."
"But how could such a house be prepared for me," Samuel
cried out with a resentful tremor trembling in his voice. I
know you might be busy, but could you, would you come in
with me for a moment, and explain for me, how this can be,
after my long and faithful service in the church? Is this a
suitable mansion for one so well known and so long
devoted? Tell me, if you can, Why is it so pitifully small and
mean? Why has it not been built to large and fair
proportions, like the others?"
"Why it is simple enough, Samuel. This that you see here is
all the material you have sent us."
"What!"
"We have used all the material that you sent us," repeated
the Keeper of the Gate.
"Now I know that you have mistaken me for someone else,"
Samuel wailed, with growing earnestness, "for all my life
long I have been doing things that must have supplied you
with enough material for a palace. Have you not heard that
I have built a large school-house with an accommodating
playground beside it; I have built the wing of a big hospital;
two -- yes, no, wait, three -- small churches, and the
greater part of a large one, the spire of St. Petro -- "
The Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand to stem the flow of
further jots and tittles on the ledger. "Yes," he said; "we
know all these things have been done. They were not ill
done or wrongly constructed. But they were all marked and
used as foundation for the name and mansion of Samuel
Carthwrite – in the world. Did you not plan them and build
them for that very purpose? Isn't your name blatantly
etched on the side of every gift you ever gave?"
Samuel thought hard. “Was it really that way? Were all of
them that way?” He felt confused and taken aback, "I must
confess that I did think often of them in that very way. And
perhaps my heart was set upon that end too much. But
surely there must have been thousands of other good deeds
that came from them? Aren't there thousands of other
things -- my endowment for the college -- my steady and
liberal contributions to all the established charities of my
church -- my support of every respectable -- "
"No," said the Keeper of the Gate again. "You gave all these
things out as advertising,not to do good. Were not all these
carefully recorded on earth to elevate your own good name,
given where they would add to your credit? Verily, you have
had your reward for them. Why would you wish to be paid
twice?"
"No," Samuel protested, with deepening dismay, "I dare not
claim that I wanted less than a fair return of advertising. 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 must have accomplished some
good in the world. Does not that count for something?"
"Yes," answered he Keeper of the Gate, "but it counts in the
world -- where you counted it was it accounted. But no, it
does not belong to you here. We have saved and used
everything that you sent us. This is the mansion gratefully
prepared for you. Its dimensions and contents cannot be
impeached from the evidence on your heavenly ledger."
As he spoke, his look grew deeper and more searching, like
a flame of fire. Samuel Carthwrite 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 silver bell.
"And how have I earned it?" he murmured.
"It is never earned; it is only given," came the clear, low
reply. “This is the least that is given to anyone, for all men
are the children of God and he loves them with a perfect
love. While what you see here might look mean to you it is
only because you are comparing it to the other mansions
that others have earned. Actually, inside your new home
you will find far more treasures than you could ever have
accumulated on earth. Solomon in all of his glory has not
received a mansion so great as yours. David too still waits
in his tomb, biding the day of judgment where he might gain
entrance into a home as beautiful as this one now is.”
"But how have I failed so wretchedly," Samuel asked, "in all
the purpose of my life? What could I have done better?"
His guide pulled a column of earth up into a pillar and sat
down upon it. "Surely it is not so hard to understand? Let
me give you an example from the life of a homeless man
that lived in your city. There were times that he could earn
a little money and he would pray that God would send him
someone to share it with, to provide food for another from
his own, meager substance. He did not ask to be
recognized by man or regent; he asked only for the right to
serve another human being.
“Only that which is truly given without reservation or quest
for recognition,” pealed 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 labors in which the sacrifice is greater than the
reward. Only those gifts in which the giver forgets himself."
Samuel had fallen to the earth and he grew silent. A great
weakness, an unspeakable despondency and humiliation
were weighing down upon him.
But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was infinitely tender
as he bent over him. “Wait, Think again, Samuel
Carthwrite. 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 a glowing smile on the face of the Keeper of the
Gate as he spoke gently: "These are the things that the
King never forgets; and because there were a few of them
in your life, you have a little place here."
The sense of coldness and hardness under Samuel
Carthwrite'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.
Then the chimney clock on the mantel chimed 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 a
vision in his sleep? Had his soul gone visiting his master in
the stars in his dreams? A certitude came to him that this
was so. Still drenched in the vision he sat for some time,
motionless, not lost, but finding himself in thought. Then he
took a narrow check 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.
Michael was asleep, his bare arm thrown above his head,
and his innocent face relaxed in peace. Samuel glanced at
him a moment with his eyes shining, and then tiptoed
quietly to the writing-desk. He found a ball point pen and a
sheet of paper, then wrote rapidly:
"My dear boy, here is the Christmas check I promised you
last night, and perhaps it is a little bit more than I promised
you, but no matter that. You have been a good son to me
and I appreciate it. Do what you like with the funds for I
shall always be proud of you. 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 -- "
The bed rustled behind him and Samuel turned his head.
Michael was sitting up in bed with wide-open eyes.
"Father!" he cried, "is that you?"
"Yes, my son," answered Samuel Carthwrite; "I've come
back -- I mean I've come up – no by golly, what I mean is
that I have come in. Yes, I knocked at your door and –
when you did not answer, well, the long and the short of it
is, here I am and there you are – awake. I have woken up
full of the Christmas Spirit, and I pray God will give us our
very best Christmas together ever. What do you think?
Could you join me in a prayer like that?"
Michael T. Carthwrite rubbed his eyes as if to rub sleep
out, or to wipe astonishment from them, or to clear
befuddlement from his mind as when our basic paradigms
shift beneath our feet. “Father, that is my very same
prayer. Word for word.”
“We have a few moments before church starts, what do you
say we put our heads together and plot a way – or ways –
to lay up some anonymous treasures in heaven for the
Carthwrites this Christmas? As you showed me last night,
we have not done enough of that. We could at least get a
start, don't you think so?”
Michael leaped to his feet and clasped his father to his
breast. “You're a jolly old soul.
Yes, by golly, let's make a good start on it. Let's make this
our very best Christmas together ever.”
THE END.