The Man of Last Resort/The Rule against Carper/Chapter 1
THE RULE AGAINST CARPER
I
Carper did not recall that he had ever noticed the ugly details of the courtroom before,—the high, soiled ceiling, the rows of benches, worn, broken, empty as a fool's heart, the clerk's desk, and the presumptuous bench of the judge; the long tables, too, for the attorneys, heaped with papers, books, and dusty covers, a farrago of disorder—how ugly they were!
Carper looked up at the judge. The man's black silk robe fell away in sharp straight folds; he sat erect like a bronze cast, his face turned half toward the window in order that he might better read the paper before him. How power had changed this face! Carper remembered idly that, years before, the face of this man had been sweet, tender, lit with kindness. Now it was as hard as white ivory.
The attorneys at the table were talking in subdued whispers; Carper did not hear; he was wondering vaguely if the long slim fingers of the judge ever ached as his head was aching. The conjecture was unique.
It was difficult for Carper to realize his position. His clothing was certainly better than that of any other man in the court-room, He was quite certain that his face was the same powerful, clean-cut, immobile mask that it had been always. The world did not know, it did not even suspect. If one had asked the clerk yonder for a financial rating on Russell Carper, the clerk would have shrugged his shoulder and written six figures on the margin of his record. Yet this was the end,—the end.
Over by the window stood a prisoner in the custody of the marshal. The man was poor, miserably poor; his clothes were clean, threadbare, ancient as the law. Carper knew the story. The man was a little shopkeeper; his wife was ill,—dying, the deputy said. There were children, too, hungry, naked, absurdly miserable, and the crime,—some petty revenue infraction. He would be presently required to pay his fine, and, failing that, would be locked up in a cell. It was the law, heartless as an image. Yet Carper wondered listlessly if one from beyond the world's rim on the quest of the good would not take this man, and leave the others, leave all the others—the judge with his blue-veined patriciate face, the clerks with their lank jaws, the attorneys, with their expression of abominable indifference, and himself. Well, the machinery of human justice was awry. Then he wondered at the condition that bred this surmise. How was it possible to reflect so indolently upon the condition of another when his own was perilous. Still, such speculations obtained with men, it is said, in great crises, and at the grave's edge.
Presently the judge laid down his papers and began to speak. Carper heard him as one speaking a long distance away. At first the words seemed indistinct and without meaning; then he caught them full, as one waking suddenly catches and understands the conversation of his fellow.
“Our commissioner's report,” the judge was saying, “shows that this receiver has now in his custody three hundred and seventeen thousand dollars belonging to the stockholders of the Massachusetts Iron Company. At a former term of this court an order was entered directing the receiver to distribute this fund in accordance with a previous decree. At that term this order was resisted upon the ground that the decree was not sufficiently explicit; which objection the court, upon consideration, overruled. Later, the payment was sought to be held back upon the ground that this order was improvidently awarded, and a motion made to revoke, which was also overruled. And still later innumerable technical objections have been offered by the attorney for the receiver, all of which this court considers insufficient and trivial.”
At this point one of the attorneys for Carper arose. “If your honor please,” he said, “we ask to be heard in defense of our client. We think that it can yet be shown that this order should not be enforced.” Then he sat down.
The blue veins in the face of the jurist grew darker. “Gentlemen,” he continued, “cannot now be heard. The time of this court has already been much consumed by unprofitable argument. On yesterday the stockholders of the Massachusetts Iron Company applied for a rule, requiring Russell Carper, receiver, to appear and make answer, if any he has, why he should not be attached and punished for contempt in disobeying the orders of this court. The rule I have ordered to issue returnable tomorrow morning at ten o'clock.”
The judge handed the paper down to the clerk, and directed the next case to be called. Then he leaned back in his chair with the huge unconcern of one well removed from the grip of his fellows.
It was the end. But to Carper it was all as unreal as the yesterday. He seemed to be out of the scene, and, for that, out of himself, an idle spectator. His attorneys were whispering gravely. They were telling him that the game was now played out. There was nothing more to do. He must direct his banker to pay over the money. Even these hired fighters did not suspect; they presumed the delay was favorable to some deal in stocks. The truth—only he, Carper, knew the truth. There was grim humor in the huge deception.
On the way out of the court-room Carper stopped and handed the clerk the only bill in his pockets. It would pay the fine of the shopkeeper. The whole thing was an immensely clever little comedy, and he wanted to see the sunshine come back into the shopkeeper's face.