“And the spirit of confirmation,” said Mason, seriously. “We must take our partners into consultation.”
“Of course we must, padre. That is the right note to strike. Well, that’s settled, Malone, and we can only await the event.”
As it chanced, a very different event was awaiting Malone that evening, and he came upon one of those chasms which unexpectedly open across the path of life. When, in his ordinary routine, he reached the office of the Gazette, he was informed by the commissionaire that Mr. Beaumont desired to see him. Malone’s immediate superior was the old Scotch sub-editor, Mr. McArdle, and it was rare indeed for the supreme editor to cast a glimpse down from that peak whence he surveyed the kingdoms of the world, or to show any cognizance of his humble fellow-workers upon the slopes beneath him. The great man, clean-shaven, prosperous and capable, sat in his palatial sanctum amid a rich assortment of old oak furniture and sealing-wax-red leather. He continued his letter when Malone entered, and only raised his shrewd, grey eyes after some minutes’ interval.
“Ah, Mr. Malone, good evening! I have wanted to see you for some little time. Won’t you sit down? It is in reference to these articles on psychic matters which you have been writing. You opened them in a tone of healthy scepticism, tempered by humour, which was very acceptable both to me and to our public. I regret, however, to observe that your view changed as you proceeded, and that you have now assumed a position in which you really seem to condone some of these practices. That, I need not say, is not the policy of the Gazette, and we s
hould have discontinued the articles had it not been that we had announced a series by an impartial investigator. We have to continue but the tone must change.”
“What do you wish me to do, sir?”
“You must get the funny side of it again. That is what our public loves. Poke fun at it all. Call up the maiden aunt and make her talk in an amusing fashion. You grasp my meaning?”
“I am afraid, sir, it has ceased to seem funny in my eyes. On the contrary, I take it more and more seriously.”
Beaumont shook his solemn head.
“So, unfortunately, do our subscribers.” He had a small pile of letters upon the desk beside him and he took one up.
“Look at this. ‘I had always regarded your paper as a God-fearing publication, and I would remind you that such practices as your correspondent seems to condone are expressly forbidden both in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. I should share your sin if I continued to be a subscriber.’”
“Bigoted ass!” muttered Malone.
“So he may be, but the penny of a bigoted ass is as good as any other penny. Here is another letter: ‘Surely in this age of free-thought and enlightenment you are not helping a movement which tries to lead us back to the exploded idea of angelic and diabolic intelligences outside ourselves. If so, I must ask you to cancel my subscription.’”
“It would be amusing, sir, to shut these various objectors up in a room and let them settle it among themselves.”
“That may be, Mr. Malone, but what I have to consider is the circulation of the Gazette.”
“Don’t you think, sir, that possibly you underrate the intelligence of the public, and that behind these extremists of various sorts there is a vast body of people who have been impressed by the utterances of so many great and honourable witnesses? Is it not our duty to keep these people abreast of the real facts without making fun of them?”
Mr. Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.
“The Spiritualists must fight their own battle. This is not a propaganda newspaper, and we make no pretence to lead the public on religious beliefs.”
“No, no, I only meant as to the actual facts. Look how systematically they are kept in the dark. When, for example, did one ever read an intelligent article upon ectoplasm in any London paper? Who would imagine that this all-important substance has been examined and described and endorsed by men of science with innumerable photographs to prove their words?”
“Well, well,” said Beaumont, impatiently. “I am afraid I am too busy to argue the question. The point of this interview is that I have had a letter from Mr. Cornelius to say that we must at once take another line.”
Mr. Cornelius was the owner of the Gazette, having become so, not from any personal merit, but because his father left him some millions, part of which he expended upon this purchase. He seldom was seen in the office himself, but occasionally a paragraph in the paper recorded that his yacht had touched at Mentone and that he had been seen at the Monte Carlo tables, or that he was expected in Leicestershire for the season. He was a man of no force of brain or character, though occasionally he swayed public affairs by a manifesto printed in larger type upon his own front page. Without being dissolute, he was a free liver, living in a constant luxury which placed him always on the edge of vice and occasionally over the border. Malone’s hot blood flushed to his head as he thought of this trifler, this insect, coming between mankind and a message of instruction and consolation descending from above. And yet those clumsy, childish fingers could actually turn the tap and cut off the divine stream, however much it might break through in other quarters.
“So that is final, Mr. Malone,” said Beaumont, with the manner of one who ends an argument.
“Quite final!” said Malone. “So final that it marks the end of my connection with your paper. I have a six months’ contract. When it ends, I go!”
“Please yourself, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Beaumont went on with his writing.
Malone, with the flush of battle still upon him, went into McArdle’s room and told him what had happened. The old Scotch sub-editor was very perturbed.
“Eh, man, it’s that Irish blood of yours. A drop o’ Scotch is a good thing, either in your veins or at the bottom o’ a glass. Go back, man, and say you have reconseedered!”
“Not I! The idea of this man Cornelius, with his pot-belly and red face, and—well, you know all about his private life—the idea of such a man dictating what folk are to believe, and asking me to make fun of the holiest thing on this earth!”
“Man, you’ll be ruined!”
“Well, better men than I have been ruined over this cause. But I’ll get another job.”
“Not if Cornelius can stop you. If you get the name of an insubordinate dog there is no place for you in Fleet Street.”