The Land Of Mist

«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.»

«It's a damned shame!» cried Malone. «The way this thing has been treated is a disgrace to journalism. It's not Britain alone. America is worse. We seem to have the lowest, most soulless folk that ever lived on the Press – good-hearted fellows too, but material to a man. And these are the leaders of the people! It's awful!»

McArdle put a fatherly hand upon the young man's shoulder.

«Weel, weel, lad, we take the world as we find it. We didn't make it and we're no reesponsible. Give it time! Give it time! We're a' in such a hurry. Gang hame, now, think it over, remember your career, that young leddy of yours, and then come back and eat the old pie that all of us have to eat if we are to keep our places in the world.»