The Carleton Case

by Ellery H. Clark

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 circumstances, or rather, perhaps, I should say, under extraordinary circumstances, 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, passes 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 luster 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.