"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 a.s.saulted 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.sing 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 d.a.m.ned coward!"

The Bishop of Clarkson stared steadily out upon the snow with troubled eyes.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

"A PECULIAR BRICK"

It was Fenton who most nearly voiced the public sorrow at the death of Warrick Raridan. His address at the memorial meeting of the Clarkson Bar a.s.sociation surprised the community, which knew Fenton only as a corporation lawyer who rarely made speeches, even to juries. Fenton put into words the general apprais.e.m.e.nt of Warry Raridan--his social grace and charm, his wit and variety. People who hardly knew that Raridan had been a lawyer were surprised that the leader of the Clarkson bar dwelt upon his instinctive grasp of legal questions, "the thoroughness of his research and the clarity and force with which he presented legal propositions." Raridan was a lawyer with an imagination, Fenton said, thus seizing what had been considered a weakness of character and making it count as an element of strength. Fenton was not given to careless praise, and what he said of Raridan had much to do with formulating the opinion that was to pa.s.s into Clarkson history. The last few months of Warry's life had won him this eulogy--the work which he had done for Evelyn. Fenton had learned to know him well after the appointment of Saxton as receiver. He had thrown a number of important questions to Warry to investigate, and he had been amazed at his young lieutenant's capacity and industry. He did not know that a woman had been the inspiration of this work; he thought that it proceeded from Saxton's influence and the pleasure Warry found in labor that brought him near his friend.

It was not alone Warry's death, but the sharp, tragic manner of it, so wretchedly inconsonant with his life, that grieved and shocked the community. But this too had its compensations; for many read into his life now a recklessness and daring which it had lacked. They spoke of him as though he had been a young soldier who had fallen at the first skirmish, without having been tried in battle; all spoke of his promise and mourned that his life had been harvested before he had finished sowing. On every hand his good deeds were recounted; many unknown witnesses rose to tell of acts of generosity and kindness which would never have been disclosed in his lifetime. Those who had really known him no longer lamented his erratic habits. They now magnified his talents; and his whimsical, fanciful ways they attributed to genius.

It was much easier to account for Raridan than to explain Wheaton. Most of the people of Clarkson did not understand his flight, if he had neither stolen the bank's money nor killed Warry Raridan. There was a disposition for a time to reject the story of the tragedy at the Poindexter ranch house as it had been given out by Bishop Delafield and John Saxton; but the bishop's word in the matter was final; he was not a man to conceal the truth. Those who had seen most of Wheaton were the most puzzled. The men who remained at The Bachelors' were stunned by the whole affair, but in particular they failed to grasp the curious phase presented by Wheaton's connection--or lack of connection--with it.

They expected him to return, and even discussed what should be their att.i.tude toward him if he came back. As the days pa.s.sed and nothing was heard, they gradually ceased talking of him; but by silent a.s.sent no one took the seat he had occupied at their table. When presently the landlord sent Wheaton's things to be stored in the cellar, and new men appeared in the places of Raridan and Wheaton, they exchanged the oblong table for a round one, to take away whatever ill luck might follow the places of the lost members of their board.

The chief shock to William Porter was a shock to his pride. He had trusted Wheaton as implicitly as he trusted any man, and while his trust at all times had limitations, he had extended these beyond precedent in James Wheaton's case. Saxton and Bishop Delafield had gone to him as soon as possible, with Fenton. It was important for Porter to understand exactly what had occurred at the Poindexter ranch house. The newspapers had now announced Wheaton's flight; it was natural that the bank should fall under suspicion, and that all of Porter's interests should be jeopardized. A cashier implicated in some way in a murder, and in full flight for parts unknown, created a situation which could not be ignored. But Porter met the issue squarely and sanely.

The expert accountants who were put to work on the bank's books made an absolutely clean report, and the minutest scrutiny of the securities of the bank proved everything intact. Wheaton had been a master of order and system. The searching investigation of experts and directors revealed nothing that was not creditable to the missing cashier.

"Well, sir," said Porter, "you've got me. I guess Jim was crooked some way, but he didn't do us up. I guess there's nothing we can say against him."

"His case is unusual," said Fenton. "I think we'd better leave it to the psychologists."

It was necessary to fill Wheaton's place, and while they were casting about for a cashier Porter and Thompson received offers from a Chicago syndicate for their stock in the bank. The offer was advantageous; both of the founders were old and both were in broken health. They debated long what they should do. The bank was a child of their own creating; Porter was particularly loath to part with it; but Evelyn, to whom he brought the matter in a new spirit of dependence on her, finally prevailed upon him. They closed with the offer of the syndicate, parting with the control but remaining in the directorate. Porter had other interests that required his attention, chief among which was the Traction Company; and after the bank question had been determined, he gave himself to a careful study of its affairs.

"I guess this thing ain't so terribly rotten after all," he said one day, at a conference with Saxton and Fenton. The earnings were steadily increasing.

"No, it's making a showing now, and unless you want to keep it for a long run you had better sell it before you get into a strike or a row with the city authorities or something like that, to spoil it. And I fancy that Saxton's making a showing that the next fellow can't beat.

One thing's sure," said Fenton, "some extensions and improvements have got to be made the coming summer, and they will take money."

"Well, we won't make them," Porter declared. "We'll reorganize and bond and get out."

While the newspapers, and the judge of the court to whom he reported, praised Saxton, Porter never praised him. It was not his way; but Fenton took care that Porter should understand fully the value of Saxton's services. Praise had not often been John Saxton's portion, and he was not seriously troubled by Porter's apparent indifference. He was not working for William Porter, he told himself, at times when Porter's att.i.tude annoyed him; he was working for the United States District Court; and he went on doing his duty as he saw it. He was, however, anxious to be relieved, but Fenton begged him to remain through the reorganization. He liked Saxton and admired his steady persistence.

Together they worked out the problem of the proposed new company, and managed it with so much tact and self-effacement that Porter believed all their suggestions to have originated with himself.

"It's simpler that way," said Fenton, speaking to Saxton one day of the necessity of this method of procedure. "He's a perfect brick, and he'll like us a lot better if we let him think he's doing all the work."

"He is a brick all right," said John thoughtfully, "but he's a peculiar brick."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

OLD PHOTOGRAPHS

In the days that followed, John Saxton knew again the heartache and loneliness which he had known before Warry Raridan came into his life.

He had lost the first real friend he had ever had, and his days were once more empty of light and cheer. His work still engrossed him, but it failed to bring him the happiness which he had found in it when he and Warry discussed its perplexities together. His memory sought its old ruts again; the hardship and failure of his years in Wyoming were like fresh wounds. He talked to no one except Bishop Delafield, who had reasoned him out of his self-indictment for Warry's death. He did not know that his own part in the recovery of Grant Porter, as Bishop Delafield described it, was touched with a fine and generous courage, and he would have resented it if he had known.

Warry was constantly in his thoughts; but he thought much of Evelyn too; through all the years to come, he told himself, he would remember them and they would be his ideals. Echoes of the gossip which connected Warry's name and Evelyn's reached him, and he felt no shock that such surmises should be afloat. Warry and he had understood each other; they had talked of Evelyn frequently; Warry had come to him often with the confidences of a despairing lover, and John had encouraged and consoled him. He predicted his ultimate success; it had always seemed to him an inevitable thing that Warry and Evelyn should marry.