HOME THROUGH THE SNOW
There was much to do, and John Saxton had been back and forth twice
between the ranch house and the village before the sun had crept high
into the heavens. The little village had been slow to grasp the fact of
the tragedy at its doors which had already carried its name afar. There
was much to do and yet it was so pitifully little after all! Warry
Raridan was dead, and eager men were scouring the country for his
murderer; but John Saxton sat in the room where Warry had died. It
seemed to John that the end had come of all the world. He sharpened his
grief with self-reproach that he had been a party to an exploit so
foolhardy: they should never have attempted a midnight descent upon an
unknown foe; and yet it was Raridan's own plan.
It was like Warry, too, and the thought turned John's memory into
grooves that time was to deepen. This was the only man who had ever
brought him friendship. The first night at the club in Clarkson, when
Raridan had spoken to him, came back, vivid in all its details. He
recalled with a great ache in his heart their talk there in the summer
twilight; the charm that he had felt first that night, and how Warry had
grown more and more into his life, and brightened it. He could not, in
the fullness of his sorrow, see himself again walking alone the ways
they had known together. Even the town seemed to him in these early
hours an unreal place; it was not possible that it lay only a few hours
distant, with its affairs going on uninterruptedly; nor could he realize
that he would himself take up there the threads of his life that now
seemed so hopelessly broken.
Saxton had ministered to the boy Grant with characteristic kindness.
Grant knew now of Warry's death, and this, with his own sharp
experiences, had unnerved him. He clung to Saxton, and John soothed him
until he slept, in one of the upper chambers.
Wheaton stood suddenly in the door, and beckoned to Saxton, who went out
to him. They had exchanged no words since that moment when the old
bishop's prayer had stilled the room where Warry Raridan died. Through
the events of the morning hours, Wheaton had been merely a spectator of
what was done; Saxton had hardly noticed him, and glancing at Wheaton
now, he was shocked at the look of great age that had come upon him.
"I want to speak to you a minute,--you and Bishop Delafield," said
Wheaton. The bishop was pacing up and down in the outer hall, which had
been quietly cleaned and put in order by men from the village. Wheaton
led the way to the room once used as the ranch office.
"Will you sit down, gentlemen?" He spoke with so much calmness that the
others looked at him curiously. The bishop and Saxton remained standing,
and Wheaton repeated, sharply, "Will you sit down?" The two men sat
down side by side on the leather-covered bench that ran around the room,
and Wheaton stood up before them; and so they met together here, the
three men left of the four who had come to the ranch house in the early
morning.
"I have something to say to you, before you--before we go," he said.
Their silence seemed to confuse him for a moment, but he regained his
composure. He looked from Saxton to the bishop, who nodded, and he went
on:
"The man who killed Warry Raridan was my brother," he said, and waited.
Saxton started slightly; his numbed senses quickened under Wheaton's
words, and in a flash he saw the explanation of many things.
"He was my brother," Wheaton went on quietly. "He had wanted money from
me. I had refused to help him. He carried away Grant Porter thinking to
injure me in that way. It was that, I think, as much as the hope of
getting a large sum for the boy's return."
"But--" began the bishop.
"There are many questions that will occur to you--and to others,"
Wheaton resumed, with an assurance that transformed him for the moment.
He spoke as of events in ages past which had no relation to himself.
"There are many things that might have been different, that would have
been different, if I had not been"--he hesitated and then finished
abruptly--"if I had not been a coward."
A great quiet lay upon the house; the two men remained sitting, and
Wheaton stood before them with his arms crossed, the bishop and Saxton
watching him, and Wheaton looking from one to the other of his
companions. Contempt and anger were rising in John Saxton's heart; but
the old bishop waited calmly; this was not the first time that a
troubled soul had opened its door to him.
"Go on," he said, kindly.
"My brother and I ran away from the little Ohio town where we were born.
Our father was a harness maker. I hated the place. I think I hated my
father and mother." He paused, as we do sometimes when we have suddenly
spoken a thought which we have long carried in our hearts but have never
uttered. The words had elements of surprise for James Wheaton, and he
waited, weighing his words and wishing to deal justly with himself. "My
brother was a bad boy; he had never gone to school, as I had; he had
several times been guilty of petty stealing. I joined him once in a
theft; we were arrested, but he took the blame and was punished, and I
went free. I am not sure that I was any better, or that I am now any
better than he is. But that is the only time I ever stole."
Saxton remembered that Warry had once said of James Wheaton that he
would not steal.
"I wanted to be honest; I tried my best to do right. I never expected to
do as well as I have--I mean in business and things like that. Then
after all the years in which I had not seen anything of my brother he
came into the bank one day as a tramp, begging, and recognized me. At
first I helped him. I sent him here; you will remember the man Snyder
you found here when you came," turning to Saxton. "I knew you would not
keep him. There was nothing else that I could do for him. I had new
ambitions," his voice fell and broke, "there were--there were other
things that meant a great deal to me--I could not have him about. It was
he who assaulted me one night at Mr. Porter's two years ago, when you,"
he turned to the bishop, "came up and drove him away. After that I gave
him money to leave the country and he promised to stay away; but he
began blackmailing me again, and I thought then that I had done enough
for him and refused to help him any more. When Grant Porter disappeared
I knew at once what had happened. He had threatened--but there is
something--something wrong with me!"
These last words broke from him like a cry, and he staggered suddenly
and would have fallen if Saxton had not sprung up and caught him. He
recovered quickly and sat down on the bench.
"Let us drop this now," said Saxton, standing over him; "it's no time--"
"There's something wrong with me," said Wheaton huskily, without
heeding, and Saxton drew back from him. "I was a vain, cowardly fool.
But I did the best I could," he passed his hand over his face, and his
fingers crept nervously to his collar, "but it wasn't any use! It wasn't
any use!" He turned again to the bishop. "I heard you preach a sermon
once. It was about our opportunities. You said we must live in the open.
I had never thought of that before," and he looked at the bishop with a
foolish grin on his face. He stood up suddenly and extended his arms.
"Now I want you to tell me what to do. I want to be punished! This
man's blood is on my hands. I want to be punished!" And he sank to the
floor in a heap, repeating, as if to himself, "I want to be punished!"
There are two great crises in the life of a man. One is that moment of
disclosure when for the first time he recognizes some vital weakness in
his own character. The other comes when, under stress, he submits this
defect to the eyes of another. James Wheaton hardly knew when he had
realized the first, but he was conscious now that he had passed the
second. It had carried him like a high tide to a point of rest; but it
was a point of helplessness, too.
"It isn't for us to punish you," the bishop began, "and I do not see
that you have transgressed any law."
"That is it! that is it! It would be easier! I would to God I had!"
moaned Wheaton. John turned away. James Wheaton's face was not good to
see.
"Yes, it would be easier," the bishop continued. "Man's penalties are
lighter than God's. I can see that in going back to Clarkson many things
will be hard for you--"
"I can't! Oh, I can't!" He still crouched on the floor, with his arms
extended along the bench.
"But that is the manly thing for you. If you have acted a cowardly part,
now is the time for you to change, and you must change on the field of
battle. I can imagine the discomfort of facing your old friends; that
you will suffer keen humiliation; that you may have to begin again; but
you must do it, my friend, if you wish to rise above yourself, and you
may depend upon my help."
The old man had spoken with emphasis, but with great gentleness. He
turned to Saxton, wishing him to speak.
"The bishop is right. You must go back with us, Wheaton." But he did not
say that he would help him. John Saxton neither forgot nor forgave
easily. He did not see in this dark hour what he had to do with James
Wheaton's affairs. But the Bishop of Clarkson went over to James Wheaton
and lifted him up; it was as though he would make the physical act carry
a spiritual aid with it.
"We can talk of this to better purpose when we get home," he said. "You
are broken now and see your future darkly; but I say to you that you can
be restored; there's light and hope ahead for you. If there is any
meaning in my ministry it is that with the help of God a man may come
out of darkness into the light again."
There was a moment's silence. Wheaton sat bent forward on the bench,
with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
"They are waiting for us," said Saxton.
A special train was sent to Great River, and the little party waited for
it on the station platform, surrounded by awed villagers, who stood
silent in the presence of death and a mystery which they but dimly
comprehended. Officers of the law from Clarkson came with the train and
surrounded Bishop Delafield, Wheaton and Saxton as they stood with Grant
Porter by the rude bier of Warry Raridan. The men answered many
questions and the sheriff of the county took the detectives away with
him. Margrave had sent his private car, and the returning party were
huddled in one end of it, save John Saxton, who sat alone with the body
of Warry Raridan. The train was to go back immediately, but it waited
for the west-bound express which followed it and passed the special
here. There was a moment's confusion as the special with its dark burden
was switched into a siding to allow the regular train to pass. Then the
special returned to the main track and began its homeward journey.
John sat with his arms folded, sunk into his greatcoat, and watched the
gray landscape through the snow that was falling fast. The events of the
night seemed like a hideous dream. It was an inconceivable thing that
within a few hours so dire a calamity could have fallen. The very
nearness of the city to which they were bound added to the unreality of
all that had happened. But there the dark burden lay; and the snow fell
upon the gray earth and whitened it, as if to cleanse and remake it and
blot out its dolor and dread. The others left Saxton alone; he was
nearer than they; but late in the afternoon, as they approached the
city, Captain Wheelock came in and touched him on the shoulder; Bishop
Delafield wished to see him. John rose, giving Wheelock his place, and
went back to where the old man sat staring out at the snow. He beckoned
Saxton to sit down by him.
"Where's Wheaton?" the bishop asked.
John looked at him and at the other men who sat in silence about the
car. He went to one of them and repeated the bishop's question, but was
told that Wheaton was not on the train. He had been at the station and
had come aboard the car with the rest; but he must have returned to the
station and been left. John remembered the passing of the west-bound
express, and went back and told the bishop that Wheaton had not come
with them. The old man shook his head and turned again to the window and
the flying panorama of the snowy landscape. John sat by him, and neither
spoke until the train's speed diminished at a crossing on the outskirts
of Clarkson. Then suddenly, hot at heart and with tears of sorrow and
rage in his eyes, Saxton said, so that only the bishop could hear:
"He's a damned coward!"
The Bishop of Clarkson stared steadily out upon the snow with troubled
eyes.