The Carleton Case

by Ellery H. Clark

Presently, through the stillness of the house, a bell pealed sharply. To the old man, however, it must have sounded but faintly, for at once, with but a momentary half glance upward from his book, he fell to reading again. Nor was his servant’s knock on the study door enough. It was only when he had entered the room, and had approached respectfully almost to within arm’s length, that the professor at last gave heed. “Mr. Vaughan, sir,” said the man, “wishes to know if you could see him for a little while.”

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 God?’ 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.”