THE QUEST OF TRUTH
"And broader and brighter
The Gleam flying onward,
Wed to the melody,
Sang thro' the world;
* * *
After it, follow it,
Follow the Gleam."
_Tennyson._
It was nine o'clock on a cold, bleak evening in late December. A bitter,
stinging, northwest wind raged unopposed up and down the length of
the passive, shivering, all but deserted Avenue; buffeting the few
unfortunate stragglers still out-of-doors, making shrill music among the
chimney-tops, shouting and storming at fast-closed doors, and tracing
every moment deeper and deeper its bold, yet delicate design on rattling
window and frost-embroidered pane.
A pleasant thing, indeed, on this wild night, to turn indoors to some
place where comfort lay; and for a moment to glance at the little room
where Professor Emerson sat alone among his books, reading peacefully,
and with such absorption, that to the tumult without he paid no heed.
His venerable, white-bearded figure lay for the greater part almost
wholly in shadow, and the light of the study lamp, shining full upon his
features, brought out in vivid contrast the strong and well-etched
outline of his face. It was a face noble and sensitive, with a certain
clear-cut delicacy of line; pale as if hewn from the very marble, and
yet as if lighted by the cold, clear fire of the spirit within, so fine,
so keen, so intellectual still, that one must needs peer more closely to
discover the network of tiny, almost imperceptible wrinkles; one must
needs note more carefully the trembling of the thin, blue-veined hand
that held the book, to realize that the professor, alert and active for
so many long years, was but a professor emeritus now; and that one was
gazing on a man feeble, infirm and old.
Peacefully he sat there, and indeed, in that quiet room, on an ear far
quicker and readier than his own the fury of the gale would scarce have
struck disturbingly. Blow the wind as it might around the casement, rug
and curtain and tapestry laughed it to scorn; whistle as it would down
the chimney, the mounting warmth of the crackling flame met and repulsed
it at every turn. Verily the little room, restful and serene, the
scholar's orderly abode, seemed a sanctuary alike from the storms of
nature and from the storms of the world.
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."
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.