The Carleton Case Part 16

At once the old scholar seemed to rouse himself. Closing his book, he laid it aside. "Mr. Vaughan," he repeated, "why, yes indeed. Ask him to step right up, please," and a moment later footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and Arthur Vaughan came quickly into the room.

Greetings exchanged, the old man beamed benevolently across the fire at his former pupil. "This is very kind of you, Arthur," he said, "I'm always glad to see any of my old boys; and I don't get the chance so often now. And what is it to-night? Something you wished to ask me about, or did you just drop in for a chat?"

Vaughan hesitated for a moment before replying. "A little of both, Professor," he said at length. "I wanted to see how you were, for one thing; and for another, I had something on my mind that I wanted to get your opinion on. I always used to come to you in college, when things bothered me, and I thought I'd do the same now. This is a hypothetical case--a question of conduct--and one of the puzzling ones that seem to have right on both sides."

Instantly the old man's interest was awakened. "A question of conduct,"

he repeated, "by all means let me hear it, Arthur. There's nothing more interesting than that, ever. Matthew Arnold, you know--'conduct three-fourths of life.' Very likely so, of course, and yet I always wondered just how he fixed it with such exactness. Why not five-eighths, I used to wonder, or seven-eighths; why just the seventy-five per cent.

He thought himself, as I remember it, that he'd pitched it low, and Stevenson, on the other hand, considered it high. Well, that was Arnold, all over. A little arbitrary in such things; a little given to catch-words, perhaps; black letter, you know; and yet, for all that, a great critic, a great debater, and to my thinking, a great poet as well. Well, well, there I go rambling again. This old head-piece, I'm beginning to think, Arthur, is getting pretty shaky now. Well, to come back to the point. A question of conduct; that's it, isn't it?"

Vaughan smiled. "To tell the truth, Professor," he answered, "if I were to consult my own pleasure, I'd rather try to keep you rambling, as you call it, than to come down to any dry question of right and wrong. But as long as I have this on my mind, I suppose I'd better get down to business, and save the ramble for another time. This is the case, Professor. Suppose a man has a friend--not a mere acquaintance, you understand--but one of those rare things, a real friend, for whom he would do almost anything under heaven, if it would help him in any way.

And then suppose that suddenly, absolutely by chance, he comes upon the knowledge that this friend has committed a crime--a crime so dastardly that he can atone for it only with his life. No one else in the whole world--" for just an instant he stopped, then with a shrug of his shoulders, went on. "Yes, we'll let it go at that, I think. No one else in the whole world knows the facts. He holds his friend's life practically in his hands. And so--the question comes. Shall he turn informer? What is his duty? Shall he treat his friend as if he were some ordinary criminal whom he had never seen--should be at all eagerness to drag him before the bar of justice, and have him pay the penalty of his crime? Or has friendship some claim? Has he the right to stand aside, shoulders shrugged, mouth tightly closed? Has he the right to say, 'No business of mine. Let the man settle it with his conscience and his G.o.d?' Has he a choice? Or is he bound to step forward? Is he dragged into the cursed business against his will? Can he keep silence, or must he speak?"

He stopped abruptly. There was a silence, a silence so long that Vaughan was beginning to wonder whether or not the old man's brain had fully grasped his words. But when at last the professor spoke, it was evident that the pause had been given only to careful thought; that no detail of the problem had been lost on him. "Is any one else, Arthur," he asked, "supposed to be involved? Or is it simply the case of the man himself?

Are there others to be considered, or does he stand alone, confronted with the deed he has done?"

Vaughan's answering laugh had nothing of mirth in it. "Any one else," he echoed, "I should say so. Relatives; friends; a woman's heart, perhaps, to be broken. And the man who is confronted with the problem--it may mean loss of his own happiness as well. And a name, too; a family name that's been maintained with honor for centuries, almost, one might say.

That's to be dragged in the dust, if it all becomes known. Is any one else involved?" He laughed again.

There was a pause before the professor spoke, and then, "Could the man make atonement, Arthur?" he asked.

Vaughan's tone, when he answered, was low and sad. "Never," he replied, "never in a million years. It is a crime where mankind seek to do justice, but where really there is no possible atonement. The crime is the taking of the life of a fellow-man."

The old man slowly nodded. "And he refuses to come forward?" he asked.

"He refuses to come forward," Vaughan answered, "though of his motives, perhaps it is hardly fair to pretend to judge. Still, strictly speaking, I suppose that scarcely alters the case. Whatever his idea in keeping silent, in any event he does so."

"And of his guilt," said the professor, "I understand you to make no question. That, as I understand it, is one of the fixed hypotheses of the problem, and not open to discussion."

Vaughan inclined his head. "Exactly," he returned. "Of his guilt, unfortunately, there is no question. That we may regard as fixed."

Long and earnestly the old man pondered. "There is a difficulty, of course," he said, at length. "Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, or rather, perhaps, I should say, under extraordinary circ.u.mstances, under the hypothesis, I mean, that there existed in all the world only the murdered man, the criminal, yourself, and the tribunal of justice, then I suppose the case would be tolerably clear. I suppose no sophistry could convince us that the incidental fact of a personal friendship should in reality make the slightest difference as to what your duty would be. But then there enters the complication of which you speak--the rights of the other parties involved. As to whether there were others concerned, my question was almost a needless precaution. Of course there are. No man, even the lowest, ever lives to himself alone. Consciously or unconsciously, he has to influence some one about him, for good or evil, as the case may be. But considering everything, even the sorrow and misfortune that must result from it, I am of opinion, Arthur, that the man should speak. It would be hard, of course; terribly hard; but life _is_ hard. And of the ultimate standard of right and wrong, we may scarcely hope to judge. All that we may hope to do is to act up to the truth as we see it. And here, Arthur, I believe the duty is plain. To what the man has seen he must bear witness, at whatever cost. That way lies right, and to follow the easier, the more human course, and to keep silence, that way lies wrong."

Vaughan had sat listening with downcast eyes. In spite of himself, he could not raise them to meet the professor's glance, though within him his mind, mutinous, rebelled. "But doesn't friendship count?" he said at last. "Doesn't loyalty go for anything? Can a man play the traitor, as you would have him do, and not be branded false for all eternity?"

The professor's gaze, serene and calm, never for an instant faltered.

"Arthur," he said, "you don't believe that--not a word of it. You're trying to make good soldiers enlist in a bad cause. Friendship, loyalty; yes, they are fine things; scarce anything finer, perhaps; but where the true allegiance of these fine things belongs--that it is the truth that transcends all else--that, Arthur, you know, in your inmost heart, as well as I."

Vaughan sat silent, with clouded brow. And then, as the pause lengthened, he made another effort still. "But, Professor, even if the individual amounts to little, isn't there the further question of the other matter of which I have spoken--the question of an honored family name. That, at least, Professor, is no small thing. To bring a stain upon it, without the most absolute necessity for so doing, doesn't it seem, in a way, like seeking to debase the currency? A name, graced by generations of those who have borne it worthily, pa.s.ses always current for patriotism, integrity, honesty; the name becomes of itself a force for the public good. And now, suddenly debase that name--smirch and mar it--and you have struck a blow at the very foundation of things; you shake the confidence of the people at large in something which they had come to regard as one of the unquestioned bulwarks of the city and the state. Isn't that something to be well considered? Should not the man see to it, that in righting, or trying to right, a wrong for which he is not responsible, he does not go too far, and instead of reparation, leave behind him, in its place, a scar--a blot--that even time can not erase. Isn't that the solution, sir? Should not the man keep still?"

For a time the old man sat silent, weighing Vaughan's words well, before he at length made answer. "That is an argument, Arthur," he replied, "a plausible argument; yet hardly, I should say, sound. Debasing the currency is an excellent figure, yet there is a currency as much higher than that of family names, as gold outvalues copper. And to seek to keep the copper inviolate, while at the same time forced to debase the real currency--the standard gold--would that be the path of wisdom? Names, you say; great names; but they seem such a small thing in the wide universe itself; a name; a great name; a generation of great names; all but the tiniest dust motes shimmering across the sunbeam which gives them all the l.u.s.ter they may claim. Is the dust speck of reputation worth saving, if its rescue means the shutting out of the sunbeam--Truth?"

In his turn Vaughan sat silent, seeking vainly for words--thoughts--arguments--that would not come. At length he rose, his hands clenched, the struggle going on within him showing in every line of his sensitive face. "I don't know; I don't know;" he cried, "I have to think it out myself. But I thank you, Professor, for your kindness; I hope I haven't tired you," and taking the old man's hand in farewell, he made his way hurriedly out of the room.

CHAPTER XV

MURDER WILL OUT

"Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ."

_Shakespeare._

Henry Carleton and his daughter sat in the library at The Birches, Carleton writing at the long table, Rose, with easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, busied with her embroidery. Presently Henry Carleton laid aside his pen, and rising, walked over to the bookcase; where he found the volume and verified the quotation which he sought; then, with a smile of satisfaction, he walked back to the table again, and for an instant stood there, glancing down contentedly at the orderly arrangement of papers and doc.u.ments now completed and laid aside, awaiting the morrow.

The expression of his face was serene and benevolent. His very att.i.tude--even, indeed, something about the atmosphere of the room itself--breathed of the man at peace with himself and with the world.

And such a man, at the moment, in very truth Henry Carleton was, and with every reason therefor besides. The routine of his well-ordered day was drawing to a close. From the dinner table he had gone direct to his evening paper--from the paper to his desk. The little white heap of envelopes that stood ready for the morrow's mailing bore witness to his labors there. The big check book at their side was closed--modestly and becomingly closed--but if the observer's eye had been able to penetrate the cover, and for a moment to look at the stubs within, his admiration for Henry Carleton could but have been increased by what he would there have seen. One check, made payable to the Cripples' Home, was for five hundred dollars; there were a half dozen more, payable to other charities, for a hundred each; there was one for twenty-five drawn to the order of a poor veteran in Eversley village. Surely witnesses better than these no man could well desire. What wonder that Henry Carleton was content.

And now, with business out of the way, with his household and his private affairs all in order, this man of so many talents and virtues had turned to his pet avocation--literature--and was forging busily ahead on his scholarly essay, _Character Drawing in the Early English Novel_. Glancing over what he had written, at once he spoke aloud, half to his daughter, half--the most important half--to himself. This thinking aloud over his literary work was a favorite method with him. He liked to get Rose's ideas and criticisms--sometimes, to his surprise, they appeared upon reflection to contain much of good sense--and apart from this, he believed that it was in this way he could pa.s.s the fairest and the most searching judgment upon his labors. And after all, the question of benefit apart, the sound of his own voice was in nowise distasteful to him. Nor could he well be blamed. It was a pleasant voice and well-modulated, and through its medium he liked to think around his subject, to get the swing and cadence of each varying phrase, before at length he came to make his last "fair copy," and thus to transmit his ideas to paper in final form.

"'Sir Charles Grandison,' Rose," he read, "'is beyond question most skilfully drawn, with all the author's great command of those quiet little strokes and touches, one superimposed on the other, which at last give us the portrait of the man, standing forth from the canvas in all the seeming reality of flesh and blood.' How does that strike you, Rose?"

The girl wrinkled her pretty forehead "Well, father," she answered, a little dubiously, "for one thing, I don't know that I think it's quite true. I always thought Sir Charles was a terrible prig; horribly self-satisfied and altogether too much taken up with marveling at his own virtues. I don't believe, you know, that a man like Sir Charles ever could a.s.sume for any one 'the seeming reality of flesh and blood.' 'The seeming reality of a lay figure,' I think, would be about the nearest phrase one could properly use."

Henry Carleton hastened to dissent. "No, no, my dear," he returned, "you're quite wrong. Sir Charles wasn't perfect. Richardson was far too clever to fall into that error. Sir Charles had his faults, and the author in his concluding note takes special pains to draw attention to them. He had his faults, but then his virtues so far outweighed them that they sank into insignificance. Then there was Lovelace, whose faults were so p.r.o.nounced, and who had such a lack of any redeeming virtues, that he is at once to be condemned as a character thoroughly immoral, serviceable ethically only to point the awful example of talents misspent and energies abused. And midway between the two is Mr.

B., who also had his failings, but who finally atoned for them by his condescension in marrying Pamela. The trio, I think, point the way to the author's whole philosophy of life. We have our faults, even the best of us. We can't help them. But on the other hand, by constant endeavor, we can do so much good that in the end we counterbalance the evil we do, and so to speak obliterate it altogether. Very good, I think, and very sound. An interesting t.i.tle for a little essay, _The Balance_, don't you think so, Rose?"

The girl looked doubtful. "Why, no," she answered, "to tell the truth, I don't. I should think that was a pretty dangerous doctrine. Good and evil--debit and credit. I should think it was a very grave question whether any amount of good could ever really balance one conscious evil act. Take Mr. B., whom you've just quoted, for example. I could never, in reading that book, think of him as anything but a great, hulking, overbearing, arrogant animal, and the shameful way in which he treated poor Sally Goodwin is a case right in point--that was something no man could ever atone for, even by a series of the finest deeds in the world.

No, father, I think, if I were you, I shouldn't try to justify a theory like that. I'm afraid it isn't sound."

Henry Carleton frowned. "Nonsense," he cried, for him a little irritably, "it's perfectly sound. I could give you a hundred examples.

'Take him for all in all,' as Shakespeare phrases it; that's what I mean. Some evil has to be done with the good, unless we're going back to pillories and hermitages, to keep ourselves unspotted from the world.

And in these days common sense forbids that. Your view is entirely unreasonable, Rose."

The girl seemed somewhat surprised at his unusual heat. With a little laugh she rolled up her embroidery, quitted the easy chair, and coming over to him, kissed him obediently on the cheek. "Well, don't mind me, father," she said affectionately, "if you don't want my foolish ideas, you shouldn't ask for them. One thing's sure; if your theory is right, you can do about anything you want to now. Rob a bank--or commit any dreadful crime you choose. Your balance must be so large you couldn't overdraw it if you tried."

Carleton laughed. "Well, perhaps that is rather a _reductio ad absurdum_," he answered. "In any event, I don't think I'll experiment in the way you mention. You're not going up-stairs already, are you, Rose?"

She nodded. "Yes, if you don't mind," she replied, "I'm a little tired this evening. Good night. Don't work too hard over your writing now.

You never rest. I never saw such a man."

Left alone, Carleton returned to his essay, but not with the concentration he had before displayed. A sudden restlessness seemed to have come over him. Once or twice he ceased his work to consult his watch, and finally stopped, rose hastily, and walked over to the window, where he stood gazing aimlessly put into the night; then, with a sigh, turned slowly, almost, one would have said, reluctantly, again to his task.

For perhaps five minutes he kept manfully at work. Then once again his attention seemed to wander; slowly and still more slowly moved the unwilling pen, and finally, with a sudden impatient gesture, he laid it down, flung himself back in his chair, and sat there motionless, yet not with the air of one who has comfortably finished the task he has in hand, but rather as if debating within himself, between two possible courses of action, which one at last to choose.

If such, indeed, was the case, the decision was not to lie with him.

There came a knock at the door. "Come in," he said quickly, and the butler, Helmar's friend of old, a little thinner, a little grayer, a little more imperturbable than ever, entered softly, approaching close to his master's elbow before he delivered himself of his message.

"Mr. Vaughan, sir," he announced with slow deliberation, "in the reception-room. He wishes to know, sir, if without inconvenience to yourself you could give him a few moments."

Henry Carleton looked a little surprised, perhaps also a little annoyed.

"To see _me_," he said, "you're sure, Burton, that it wasn't Miss Rose he asked for?"

The butler's manner was one verging on gentle reproof. Within his domain he did not allow himself the luxury of making mistakes. "Quite sure, sir," he answered. His tone, though respectful, did not admit of further questioning upon the point. Henry Carleton sighed, and appeared to rouse himself. "Why, of course," he said, "tell him I'll be down at once; or no," he added, "please, Burton, tell him to come up here instead."

The butler, inclining his head, withdrew. Then, a moment or two later, the sound of ascending footsteps, and Vaughan entered the room. At once something in his appearance struck Henry Carleton as far out of the ordinary. "Why, my dear boy," he cried, "you look worried to death.

What's gone wrong? No more bad news from the book?"