WHAT IS DUTY?
Ray now entered into a struggle with himself--a struggle so long and so
bitter that it well-nigh overwhelmed him. His reason and his conscience
were arrayed against his pride and his heart, and for a long time it
was extremely doubtful which would be victorious. Not that Ray realized
this to be the actual condition of things just then. No; he was honest
when he thought that his struggle was over the question: What is duty?
But he could have easily known what duty was had he only allowed
himself to use his sanctified common sense; but he so wanted duty to
lie in just the opposite direction from what it really did lie, that he
very readily made himself think there might be some question about it;
and thus he entered into a struggle that tried his faith, destroyed his
peace of soul, and surrounded him with a darkness blacker than night.
He never could recall that spiritual experience without a shudder. He
came so near grieving the Spirit and dishonoring the Master's name.
He knew that the men who had set fire to the Black Forge Mills, no
matter who they were, should be punished for their crime. He knew that
to know who the guilty parties were, and then to refuse to disclose
that knowledge, made him in the eyes of the law an accessory after
the fact. He knew that to allow the criminals to go unpunished was
really to countenance their deed. At least, had he allowed himself to
prayerfully reason the matter out, he would have known all this.
But one of those criminals was his own father, and to him it seemed
to make a vast difference in the case, or, at least, he wanted it to.
He would not have hesitated a moment to disclose who the guilty men
were, had not his father been one of the number. Duty would have been
very plain then, and he would have at once admitted that it would be
absolutely wrong to shield the incendiaries from the punishment they
so richly deserved. But his own father! His heart rebelled against
disclosing a single thing that would show his own parent to be a
criminal in the eyes of the law. No matter if that father had willfully
made himself a criminal, how could he, the son, disclose the fact? What
little love and respect he still had in his heart for that father made
him unwilling to do what seemed so terrible a thing.
Then, too, a little pride had, unconsciously perhaps, come into his
heart, and influenced him greatly in his trying to believe that his
duty might be to keep silent. He did so want the Branford name redeemed
from the evil reputation that had gathered about it. George and his
sisters, as well as he himself, were now all trying to live honest,
upright lives. This was a great deal. But there were two other brothers
who were fugitives from justice; how could he add a third name, and
that his father's, to the criminal list? He could not reveal the names
of the other incendiaries without his father's becoming known. Was it
not, then, duty for him to hide his shameful secret so deep in his own
breast that it should never be discovered by other eyes?
We can understand his position, and sympathize with him. We can see
how he could easily persuade himself that this might be his duty. But
an earnest desire to get at the real truth, leads us to ask--was it
his duty, after all? I am very anxious that we should all have clear
ideas of what one's real duty is in a case like this; for there is so
much condoning of crime in this our day, and so much covering up of
sin, even by those who call themselves Christians, that it is time
God's real children should pause, and ask themselves, prayerfully and
earnestly, whether they have a right to shield any crime, or excuse any
sin, simply because the guilty party happens to be one whom they have
loved, and one whom they cannot bear to have branded guilty. Sooner or
later all condoning of evil, and all concealment of crime will return
in accumulated measure upon our own heads. The principle is wrong; the
results must be evil. God himself never condones sin. He forgives on
true repentance; he never condones. Let us ever remember it is never
right to condone sin. By so doing we shall destroy our religious peace,
and may surround ourselves with a spiritual darkness in which there is
no light.
Ray saw this later on, and understood why it was that he found so
little enjoyment in his religious life; why the prayer room brought him
so little comfort, and even the reading of God's word had not its usual
delight. For the present, however, he hid his secret in his bosom, and
tried to persuade himself that he was doing his whole duty. The old
question, however, was ever reasserting itself. When it seemed most
settled, it had a strange way of suddenly reappearing in some new and
startling form.
For example, a week or two after the fire a circumstance happened that
lulled Ray's conscience into a perfect repose for a while. Hyde, the
leader of the strikers, was arrested, charged with the crime of firing
the mills. Ever since they were burned, an expert detective had been
quietly working up the case, and had found evidence enough it was said,
to warrant the arrest of Hyde. Ray now thought his whole trouble was
over.
His complacency was destined to be rudely shaken, however. Hyde waived
an examination in the lower court, and was remanded to jail to await
the action of the grand jury in November. Ray met Mr. Bacon about this
time, and ventured to ask him what he thought of Hyde's arrest, and the
prospects of finding the other criminals.
"There is little hope of accomplishing anything by his arrest," Mr.
Bacon had replied. "It is even doubtful whether with our present
evidence we can convict him. He is a hardened fellow, and will never
reveal his companions in crime, even if he is himself convicted. I have
been informed that he has secured one of the best criminal lawyers in
the country. And I should not be surprised if he were acquitted, unless
we discover new facts." And Mr. Bacon, with a deep sigh, walked on.
Ray looked after him a few minutes, almost tempted to follow, and
disclose what he knew. But he again resisted the impulse, and with a
sore heart went sadly down the street.
Stopping at the post office for Mr. Woodhull's mail, Ray was surprised
that a letter for himself was handed out with the rest. He seldom got
a letter, and this bore the postmark of a large city, a hundred miles
away. Who there could have written to him? There was nothing on the
envelope to give him the desired information, and so he hastily tore it
open. There was an ordinary sheet of note paper inside without printed
heading of any kind. On the sheet, however, these few lines were
scrawled:
W----, Oct. 30, 18--.
MR. RAY BRANFORD,
Dear Sir: Will you come to my office in this city, on Thursday,
Nov. 4th, at 10 o'clock? There is an important matter upon which I
wish to consult you.
Yours truly,
JAMES R. GREGORY,
27 Powell St., Room 3.
_Attorney and Counsellor-at-Law._
Ray puzzled over this letter. He showed it to Mr. Woodhull. No
explanation of its meaning occurred to either one, but on the morning
of November 4th, Ray took the first train for the designated city.
He arrived there about half-past nine o'clock, and used the next half
hour in looking for the specified street and number. He reached the
desired block just as the clock in the neighboring tower struck ten,
and though no lawyer's sign was over the door, he went up the narrow
stairway, and along to Room 3. At his knock a voice promptly responded,
"Come in."
Opening the door, he entered a large room, evidently only temporarily
occupied, for its sole furniture was a small table and three chairs. At
this table sat two men, one large and stout and smooth-faced; the other
small, and almost a fop in his dress, with a pair of enormous glasses
over his sharp, piercing eyes.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," said Ray, advancing toward them.
"Good-morning," they both responded, pleasantly, while the little man
arose and placed the vacant chair for Ray to occupy.
"Mr. Ray Branford, I presume?" he then said.
"Yes, sir," replied Ray.
"I am Mr. Gregory, who wrote to you, asking you to honor us with your
presence," the little gentleman went on, "and this is my friend, Mr.
John Wilson."
Mr. Wilson arose and shook hands heartily with Ray, saying, "I am very
glad to see you, sir."
Completely mystified by the marked cordiality of both men, who were
entire strangers to him, Ray took the offered chair, remarking:
"I believe you had some matter you wished to talk over with me."
"Certainly, certainly," replied Mr. Gregory. And then he manifested
a lawyer's proclivity, by beginning such a series of questions as to
well-nigh take away Ray's breath.
He commenced by asking Ray where he had been living two years before,
and then followed along until he had a very fair idea of the boy's
history during that period. He seemed satisfied with Ray's answers, as
though they were just what he had expected. Then he suddenly asked:
"You have formed the very laudable purpose of entering some academy
this fall, and securing an education, had you not, Mr. Branford?"
"Yes, sir; I had thought of it," admitted the astonished lad.
"May I ask if you have the means for carrying out this proposed course
of study? I ask as a friend," he added.
Ray could not understand the man's purpose in asking such a
question,--nor, in fact, any of the questions he had so far asked,--but
he had no real objection to telling him just how he was situated, so he
replied:
"I did have enough saved to defray my expenses for a year at school,
and was intending to have entered some academy last September; but
owing to some unexpected expenses, I had to delay my going for a time.
Perhaps I shall not be able to go until another year." And he gave a
deep sigh, for no one but himself knew how hard it had been for him to
give up his pet scheme.
"I suppose you would be very glad to earn money enough to enter school,
say this coming winter term, and pursue those studies through without
interruption to a full graduation?" Mr. Gregory now asked.
"I rather guess I would, if I could do it honestly," answered Ray, his
eyes brightening at the very thought.
The two men looked at each other significantly a moment. Then Mr.
Wilson arose and went to the door of the room. Opening it, he looked
up and down the hall, listening intently. Satisfied at last with his
examination, he closed and locked the door, and came back to his
chair. Both gentlemen now drew their chairs a little closer to Ray's,
while Mr. Gregory asked, with a peculiar emphasis upon his words:
"Mr. Branford, where were you on the night the Black Forge Mills were
burned?"
Ray gave a great start. How much did these men know of that night's
work? What was their purpose in asking? He finally answered, though
with manifest hesitation:
"I was there at Black Forge."
"Were you not the very first to discover that fire?" Mr. Gregory asked,
a little sharply.
"Yes, sir," replied Ray.
The lawyer fastened those piercing eyes upon the lad, and inquired
slowly and distinctly:
"Have you any objection to telling us where you were when you first saw
the fire, and where you immediately went upon discovering it?"
Ray colored a little, but otherwise was perfectly calm, as he answered:
"I at present see no reason why I should tell you."
The lawyer smiled and changed his tactics.
"Mr. Branford," he said, "let us understand each other. I ask these
questions, not in the interest of the prosecution, but in the interest
of the defense, at the coming trial. Mr. Hyde is my client, and it is
at his request I have sent for you. You will, of course, be summoned
by the prosecution, and we have reason to believe that you might prove
a very damaging witness, in case you told all you know about the Black
Forge fire. We respect the motives that have so far kept you silent
concerning what you do know; we simply ask, is it your intention to
make a full revelation on the witness stand, or will you preserve the
same reticence that has characterized you ever since the fire?"
This was certainly coming directly to the point. Ray had no doubt now
why he had been sent for, nor regarding Mr. Gregory's meaning. But he
did not immediately answer. He was thinking--thinking more clearly than
he had at any time since his lamentable discovery. He had not thought
before of his being called as a witness, but he saw plainly now that
such would be the case. He had been the first to report the fire, and
his testimony on that point would be desired at the least. How could
he under oath avoid telling the whole truth? If honest, would he not
there have to declare what he really knew? He did not, however, care to
commit himself either way just yet, so he replied:
"I have not admitted yet, Mr. Gregory, that I know any more about the
fire than I have already made known. But suppose I do continue to
maintain the same position I have so far occupied, what then?"
His answer seemed to give his questioner much satisfaction, for he
nodded his head toward his companion in a way that seemed to indicate
"We are not mistaken in our man." Then he continued:
"I see, Mr. Branford, I must be even more explicit with you. But I
expected it from what I have heard of you. In brief, then, and coming
directly to my point, Mr. Hyde has every reason to believe that it
was you who so pluckily grappled with him, as he jumped down from
the mill fence on the night of the fire. He believes also that you
know who his companions were, and that there is a special reason why
you have in no way betrayed him, or them, since your discovery. Now,
since you have had a reason of your own for keeping this knowledge to
yourself so long, doubtless you will have a reason to still maintain
your reticence. So we are asking you to do nothing that you have not
already done, Mr. Branford; probably nothing but that you still propose
to do. We only say we are much interested in you; we think so able a
young fellow as you have shown yourself to be should have the education
he so much desires; and as a token of our good will merely, we propose
to present you with a thousand dollars in cash, when you give us the
assurance that you will not remember on the witness stand that you
saw either of those four men on the night of the fire. My friend,
Mr. Wilson, has the money with him now, and will hand it over to you
as soon as you give us this promise. You understand me, I trust, Mr.
Branford."
These words were very persuasively and smilingly uttered. And to
make the temptation as great as possible, Mr. Wilson took out his
pocketbook, and counting ten one hundred dollar bills, laid them on the
table in easy reach of the lad. "Just your promise, Mr. Branford, that
you will throughout the trial maintain the position you have steadily
held since the fire, and you may put those bills into your pocket," he
said, and as though he felt sure of the lad's acceptance he closed his
pocketbook, and put it away.
How did the temptation affect Ray? It opened his eyes to the true
position he had been occupying all those weeks, and enabled him to see
himself as he had not done before. It was a rude awakening. The shock
was one that filled him with alarm. Could it be possible that the
standpoint he had taken respecting his duty in this matter of the fire
was one that led the criminals themselves to believe he was in sympathy
with them? Had they really thought he could be bought with a price?
That he would sell his manhood, his Christian faith, betray his Master,
for a paltry thousand dollars? The blood boiled within him at the
insult, and yet he restrained himself. He even grew perfectly calm, and
smiled upon them. He felt his contemptible position had merited just
such a stinging rebuke. More than that, he had determined to outwit
these scoundrels, and even before he left the city to clear his name
and reputation from every shadow of reproach that his weeks of silence
had brought upon it.
"Gentlemen," he said, with provoking coolness, "this is a remarkable
offer of yours. It is one that should not be accepted hastily. How long
are you willing to give me that I may think it over?"
His tempters tried in every way to bring him to an immediate decision,
but were not successful. "Let me take a turn in the fresh air, and get
a good dinner," Ray persistently said. "At two o'clock I will meet
you here, and give you a decided answer." The men finally yielded a
reluctant consent, and Ray hastened down to the street.
Glancing over at the clock tower, he saw it was five minutes to
twelve. "Two hours," he said, with an air of relief. "A great deal
can sometimes be done in two hours." Then he hurried off to find a
telegraph office.