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Updated: June 20, 2025
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."
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.
Just now neither the present nor the future means anything to me. But surely we won't quarrel. I'm very grateful to you, and we'll part friends. Good-night, sir." The father 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 John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobean dining-room.
Weightman read the parable from the pulpit, but he had never reflected how it would be to be the father of a real prodigal. What was to be done about the calf? Was there to be a calf, or was there not? No, he would deal with justice. How he dealt will be seen presently, but when he finally reached this conclusion, the clipping from the Pepper County Plainsman had not yet come before his eyes.
There was, no doubt, a horrid scandal brewing about Mrs. Weightman, Chloe's old friend a friend of his own, too, in former days. Through Chloe's unpardonable indiscretions he knew a great deal more about this lady's affairs than he had ever wished to know.
But he was meditating. He had many times listened to the Reverend Mr. Weightman read the parable from the pulpit, but he had never reflected how it would be to be the father of a real prodigal. What was to be done about the calf? Was there to be a calf, or was there not? No, he would deal with justice.
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.
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?"
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.
"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.
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