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Updated: June 20, 2025
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.
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. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits of beautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had often seemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting.
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.
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.
I met him afterward often in California, and always esteemed him one of the best samples of that bold race of men who had grown up on the Plains, along with the Indians, in the service of the fur companies. He was afterward, in 1856, killed by R. C. Weightman, in a bar-room row, at Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he had just arrived from California.
A moment later he tuned an instrument and threw on a switch; "Weightman there?" he inquired. "Asleep? Wake him up. This is Curlie Carson. Yes, it's important. No, I'll tell you. Don't bother to wake him now have him over at the Coffee Shop at five bells. The Coffee Shop. He'll know. Don't fail! It's important!" He snapped down the receiver. Weightman was the radio mechanic assigned to his station.
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.
One after another the travellers 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.
His nostrils quivered with quick breath, his lips were curled. "Principle!" he said. "You mean principal and interest too. Well, sir, you know best whether that is religion or not. But if it is, count me out, please. Tom saved me from going to the devil, six years ago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best of my ability now." John Weightman looked at his son steadily.
I met him afterward often in California, and always esteemed him one of the best samples of that bold race of men who had grown up on the Plains, along with the Indians, in the service of the fur companies. He was afterward, in 1856, killed by R. C. Weightman, in a bar-room row, at Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he had just arrived from California.
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