The Main Chance

by Meredith Nicholson

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  HOME THROUGH THE SNOW

  There was much to do, and John Saxton had been back and forth twicebetween the ranch house and the village before the sun had crept highinto the heavens. The little village had been slow to grasp the fact ofthe tragedy at its doors which had already carried its name afar. Therewas much to do and yet it was so pitifully little after all! WarryRaridan was dead, and eager men were scouring the country for hismurderer; but John Saxton sat in the room where Warry had died. Itseemed to John that the end had come of all the world. He sharpened hisgrief with self-reproach that he had been a party to an exploit sofoolhardy: they should never have attempted a midnight descent upon anunknown foe; and yet it was Raridan's own plan.

  It was like Warry, too, and the thought turned John's memory intogrooves that time was to deepen. This was the only man who had everbrought him friendship. The first night at the club in Clarkson, whenRaridan had spoken to him, came back, vivid in all its details. Herecalled with a great ache in his heart their talk there in the summertwilight; the charm that he had felt first that night, and how Warry hadgrown more and more into his life, and brightened it. He could not, inthe fullness of his sorrow, see himself again walking alone the waysthey had known together. Even the town seemed to him in these earlyhours an unreal place; it was not possible that it lay only a few hoursdistant, with its affairs going on uninterruptedly; nor could he realizethat he would himself take up there the threads of his life that nowseemed 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 sharpexperiences, had unnerved him. He clung to Saxton, and John soothed himuntil he slept, in one of the upper chambers.

  Wheaton stood suddenly in the door, and beckoned to Saxton, who went outto him. They had exchanged no words since that moment when the oldbishop's prayer had stilled the room where Warry Raridan died. Throughthe events of the morning hours, Wheaton had been merely a spectator ofwhat was done; Saxton had hardly noticed him, and glancing at Wheatonnow, 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," saidWheaton. The bishop was pacing up and down in the outer hall, which hadbeen quietly cleaned and put in order by men from the village. Wheatonled the way to the room once used as the ranch office.

  "Will you sit down, gentlemen?" He spoke with so much calmness that theothers looked at him curiously. The bishop and Saxton remained standing,and Wheaton repeated, sharply, "Will you sit down?" The two men satdown 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, thethree men left of the four who had come to the ranch house in the earlymorning.

  "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 hiscomposure. He looked from Saxton to the bishop, who nodded, and he wenton:

  "The man who killed Warry Raridan was my brother," he said, and waited.

  Saxton started slightly; his numbed senses quickened under Wheaton'swords, and in a flash he saw the explanation of many things.

  "He was my brother," Wheaton went on quietly. "He had wanted money fromme. I had refused to help him. He carried away Grant Porter thinking toinjure me in that way. It was that, I think, as much as the hope ofgetting 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 havebeen different, if I had not been"--he hesitated and then finishedabruptly--"if I had not been a coward."

  A great quiet lay upon the house; the two men remained sitting, andWheaton stood before them with his arms crossed, the bishop and Saxtonwatching him, and Wheaton looking from one to the other of hiscompanions. Contempt and anger were rising in John Saxton's heart; butthe old bishop waited calmly; this was not the first time that atroubled 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 myfather and mother." He paused, as we do sometimes when we have suddenlyspoken a thought which we have long carried in our hearts but have neveruttered. The words had elements of surprise for James Wheaton, and hewaited, weighing his words and wishing to deal justly with himself. "Mybrother was a bad boy; he had never gone to school, as I had; he hadseveral times been guilty of petty stealing. I joined him once in atheft; we were arrested, but he took the blame and was punished, and Iwent free. I am not sure that I was any better, or that I am now anybetter than he is. But that is the only time I ever stole."

  Saxton remembered that Warry had once said of James Wheaton that hewould not steal.

  "I wanted to be honest; I tried my best to do right. I never expected todo as well as I have--I mean in business and things like that. Thenafter all the years in which I had not seen anything of my brother hecame into the bank one day as a tramp, begging, and recognized me. Atfirst I helped him. I sent him here; you will remember the man Snyderyou found here when you came," turning to Saxton. "I knew you would notkeep him. There was nothing else that I could do for him. I had newambitions," his voice fell and broke, "there were--there were otherthings that meant a great deal to me--I could not have him about. It washe 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 gavehim money to leave the country and he promised to stay away; but hebegan blackmailing me again, and I thought then that I had done enoughfor him and refused to help him any more. When Grant Porter disappearedI knew at once what had happened. He had threatened--but there issomething--something wrong with me!"

  These last words broke from him like a cry, and he staggered suddenlyand would have fallen if Saxton had not sprung up and caught him. Herecovered 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, withoutheeding, 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 hisfingers crept nervously to his collar, "but it wasn't any use! It wasn'tany use!" He turned again to the bishop. "I heard you preach a sermononce. 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 afoolish 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! Thisman's blood is on my hands. I want to be punished!" And he sank to thefloor 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 ofdisclosure when for the first time he recognizes some vital weakness inhis own character. The other comes when, under stress, he submits thisdefect to the eyes of another. James Wheaton hardly knew when he hadrealized the first, but he was conscious now that he had passed thesecond. It had carried him like a high tide to a point of rest; but itwas a point of helplessness, too.

  "It isn't for us to punish you," the bishop began, "and I do not seethat 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 tosee.

  "Yes, it would be easier," the bishop continued. "Man's penalties arelighter than God's. I can see that in going back to Clarkson many thingswill be hard for you--"

  "I can't! Oh, I can't!" He still crouched on the floor, with his armsextended 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 ofbattle. I can imagine the discomfort of facing your old friends; thatyou will suffer keen humiliation; that you may have to begin again; butyou must do it, my friend, if you wish to rise above yourself, and youmay depend upon my help."

  The old man had spoken with emphasis, but with great gentleness. Heturned to Saxton, wishing him to speak.

  "The bishop is right. You must go back with us, Wheaton." But he did notsay that he would help him. John Saxton neither forgot nor forgaveeasily. He did not see in this dark hour what he had to do with JamesWheaton's affairs. But the Bishop of Clarkson went over to James Wheatonand lifted him up; it was as though he would make the physical act carrya spiritual aid with it.

  "We can talk of this to better purpose when we get home," he said. "Youare broken now and see your future darkly; but I say to you that you canbe restored; there's light and hope ahead for you. If there is anymeaning in my ministry it is that with the help of God a man may comeout 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 forit on the station platform, surrounded by awed villagers, who stoodsilent in the presence of death and a mystery which they but dimlycomprehended. Officers of the law from Clarkson came with the train andsurrounded Bishop Delafield, Wheaton and Saxton as they stood with GrantPorter by the rude bier of Warry Raridan. The men answered manyquestions and the sheriff of the county took the detectives away withhim. Margrave had sent his private car, and the returning party werehuddled in one end of it, save John Saxton, who sat alone with the bodyof Warry Raridan. The train was to go back immediately, but it waitedfor the west-bound express which followed it and passed the specialhere. There was a moment's confusion as the special with its dark burdenwas switched into a siding to allow the regular train to pass. Then thespecial returned to the main track and began its homeward journey.

  John sat with his arms folded, sunk into his greatcoat, and watched thegray landscape through the snow that was falling fast. The events of thenight seemed like a hideous dream. It was an inconceivable thing thatwithin a few hours so dire a calamity could have fallen. The verynearness of the city to which they were bound added to the unreality ofall that had happened. But there the dark burden lay; and the snow fellupon the gray earth and whitened it, as if to cleanse and remake it andblot out its dolor and dread. The others left Saxton alone; he wasnearer than they; but late in the afternoon, as they approached thecity, Captain Wheelock came in and touched him on the shoulder; BishopDelafield wished to see him. John rose, giving Wheelock his place, andwent back to where the old man sat staring out at the snow. He beckonedSaxton 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 thecar. He went to one of them and repeated the bishop's question, but wastold that Wheaton was not on the train. He had been at the station andhad come aboard the car with the rest; but he must have returned to thestation and been left. John remembered the passing of the west-boundexpress, and went back and told the bishop that Wheaton had not comewith them. The old man shook his head and turned again to the window andthe flying panorama of the snowy landscape. John sat by him, and neitherspoke until the train's speed diminished at a crossing on the outskirtsof Clarkson. Then suddenly, hot at heart and with tears of sorrow andrage 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 troubledeyes.