1 The Writer and the Bishop

Billy Guthrie of the Times was not hard of heart, and he was sorry the papers had come into his hands, because he saw before him an unpleasant duty that must be done. The knowledge was not of his seeking, having been brought to him—and there was some consolation in the thought—but keen though he was in the search of news, he was willing that any other correspondent should have the task of first reporting it to the world.

He had known Templeton a long time, a young man of the kind welcome in any company, quick to tell a good story, and following all amusements with a zest that soon spread to others. Everybody liked Templeton and liked to be with him. It was these qualities of good fellowship, reaching all in a little capital like this, that won for him his responsible place in an office of the State government where much money was handled.

Guthrie’s acquaintance with Templeton had not been very intimate—the two men were too unlike in temperament and ambition—but, despite his youth, the faculty of observation was already highly trained in him by the nature of his profession, and, when he first came to the capital to report the session of the Legislature for the Times, he had taken note of Templeton, as one of the figures in the scenic setting.

He had liked Templeton at first, attracted as others were by his easy good humour and adaptability, but after a while he began to wonder how the man could attend to the duties of his office and yet have so much time for good fellowship. The same thought perhaps had occurred to others, but it was said that the influence of Templeton’s family, an old and powerful one established three generations in the capital, protected him in a place in which the duties were nominal, or done by others.

Now it was all clear to Guthrie, nor was it a surprise; he had long suspected such an issue; it was a common case, he had come in contact with others like it in the course of his professional career—a fondness for good living, an excessive expenditure, and then a hand in a purse not one’s own. The defalcation would not embarrass the department, but it was large enough, and the prominence of Templeton’s family would arouse still further interest.

Guthrie put the papers in his pocket, and walked across the tessellated floor of the hotel toward one of the front doors. It was early, but half a dozen members of the House or Senate were already in the lobby which was the heart of the little capital—a natural gathering-place, leading to the half-true jest that more legislation was done there than in the Capitol. All of them spoke courteously, some warmly, to Guthrie, because he was a young man of gravity and weight, and, moreover, the representative of the State’s most powerful newspaper; therefore, he was not to be neglected.

Guthrie replied to their greetings, and went out the steps, where he stood in the full glory of the morning sunshine, a smoothly-shaven young man, with the clear-cut, classic face that one often sees in this State, which is of both the South and the West, and not wholly of either.

Guthrie breathed the crisp wintry air, and felt it was good to live. This capital, with its ten thousand people, nestling in the warm hollow between the hills on the two sides of the silver river, always appealed to him—it seemed so snug, so homelike and so content with itself—and he was glad to be there.

But he could not forget Templeton, and he was troubled. For Templeton himself, he did not greatly care, but he knew Templeton’s sister, and then there was a mother—such disclosures as these always fall most heavily on the women. His duty, as he saw it, became more unpleasant than ever.

There was a crunch of wheels on the gravel, and Templeton himself in a high cart drove past. Guthrie observed him keenly, and, even at the distance, noticed the black marks of dissipation under his eyes. Guthrie looked at his watch.

“Nine-fifteen,” he murmured, “and I know that Templeton is due in his office at 8.30.”

Templeton drove briskly down the street, and then over the bridge. Guthrie saw him presently, a diminished figure, on the white road that wound among the hills beyond the town, a favourite drive there, and he knew Templeton was enjoying time that really belonged to the State; but, as for himself, he must go to work.

The session of the Legislature that day was short and dry, and Guthrie, returning to his hotel early in the afternoon, went to his room, where he wrote his brief despatch to the Times, telling of the day’s events at the Capitol. Then he put it aside, to be filed at six o’clock, and, taking a fresh pad of paper, approached the matter of Templeton’s defalcation.

Guthrie’s troubled state of mind returned, and again he was sorry that this exclusive piece of news had come into his hands; otherwise, he should have been released from a responsibility that he did not like.

The despatch was hard to begin, and as he tapped the pencil on the paper in thought, his bell rang. The coloured boy handed him a card, with the information that the gentleman was waiting below. Guthrie read the name on the card with surprise. “The Bishop!” he said to himself. “What can he want with me? At any rate, I must not keep him waiting.”

The Bishop was one of the best-beloved men in his State—and beyond it. For forty years, his good deeds had carried his name before him. He was one who always leaned to the side of charity and mercy, and his character was stamped on his features. There were few who were not familiar with his gentle face, the kind eyes and the crown of snow-white hair. Guthrie knew him well; more than once had he been a visitor in his house, and like others he felt a genuine reverence for the Bishop’s spotless character, and the noble distinction so well earned.

The Bishop was standing alone in the large parlour, gazing thoughtfully through the window at the silver band of the river and the lofty curve of the hills beyond, now clothed in the sober brown of winter. But he heard Guthrie’s step at the door, and he turned at once.

“My son,” he said—the paternal manner became him—“I am glad that I have found you.”

“But why did you come here?” exclaimed Guthrie reproachfully. “Had you sent me a message that you wanted me, I should have gone at once to your house. I should have been glad to do so.”

“I thought it best to see you here,” replied the Bishop. “To have brought you to my house would have been taking—perhaps—an unfair advantage, because, old as I am, it is I who have the favour to ask, and it is for you to grant it—if you will.”

A gentle smile lighted up the fine old eyes, but Guthrie, a keen and trained observer, noticed that he moved his fingers nervously. He divined the purpose of the Bishop’s errand, and became wary at once, but he replied:

“If there is any way in which I can be of service, it shall be a great pleasure to me to do what you ask.”

The Bishop looked again through the window at the silver river and the brown hills beyond. A faint flush came into his face, imparting to it a singular, delicate beauty like that of youth; it was this vivid quality in the Bishop that gave so fine a touch to his life and character.

“Mine is a delicate errand, Mr. Guthrie, and should have felt some hesitation in coming upon it to any one except yourself, whom I know so well.”

Guthrie was silent, his hand resting lightly upon the back of a chair. The Bishop paused despite his own words, he hesitated.

“It’s about Mr. Templeton that I wish to speak to you.”

“Yes,” said Guthrie respectfully.

“It has become known to his family that certain facts concerning him were given to you this morning—facts which, if published to the world, would ruin him and disgrace an old and honoured name.”

“It is true,” said Guthrie.

“And these facts, I understand,” continued the Bishop, “are in your hands alone; they have not, I believe, come to the knowledge of any other newspaper man.”

“That also is true,” assented Guthrie.

The Bishop paused, and with one hand threw back the thick, white hair from his brow.

“It is hardly necessary for me, Mr. Guthrie, to tell now why I am here,” he continued. “His mother and sister came to me at once—they were aware that I had known you all your life, that I had confirmed you—it was very pitiful, their grief and terror. There is no denial of the cruel and disgraceful facts he took the money, but he did not learn until noon that it had been discovered. They hurried him away an hour later on a train to the North, where he will remain until—until atonement is made, which will be very soon. His family will repay the money, the State will not lose anything, and his good name and theirs will be saved—that is, if you do not send anything about it to your newspaper, and make his disgrace and theirs known to all the world.”

Guthrie moved uneasily, and his eyes shifted away from the mild gaze of the old Bishop. He felt all the pity and pathos of this tragedy, but as before, his feeling was more for the mother and sister and less for Templeton.

His eyes came back, and met the gaze of the Bishop. The sense of professional duty was strong in him, he considered himself in a way a public servant, one to whom the people of the State looked for a faithful report about their public affairs, an office little, perhaps no less than priestly, and he did not believe that he had a right to take liberties with such a trust.

“If I do not send this report, the crime stands committed nevertheless,” he said. “Templeton remains the same.”

“It is true that he is the same now,” replied the Bishop, “but will he be the same hereafter? If you suppress this report, will you not be giving him another chance—an opportunity to reform? Circumstances have put in your hands the fate of a young man and the honour of an old family; this report is a small matter to you, an incident of the day’s work, and why should you hesitate to grant the request of this stricken mother and sister?”

Guthrie was conscious at that moment of a keen sense of admiration for the Bishop’s fine face, the humanity and mercy shining from his eyes, the lofty nature of an appeal made without any sacrifice of dignity. Why should he not give the promise at once, and feel the pleasant glow that gratitude confers? But the sense of duty to his profession, his loyalty to those whom he served, came back to him, and, with it, a slight rebellion against an implication in the Bishop’s words.

“But is it fair,” he asked, “to put the burden upon me? I have not had anything to do with this money; I am not one of Templeton’s associates. I suppose that a man, in a measure, makes himself. Should not Templeton, then, stand the consequences of what he has done?”

“In such a case as this,” replied the Bishop, “we do not apply a logic so cold. Templeton will reform. His life will be saved from ruin, and his mother and sister will be able to hold up their heads in the community in which they have lived all their lives.”

Guthrie in his heart did not believe in Templeton’s reformation, but he was willing to put that phase of the matter aside and confine himself to his own personal responsibility in the case.

“Would you be willing,” he asked, “for me to speak to you as I should to a man of my own age and position?”

“I would not have you do otherwise,” replied the Bishop with his kindly smile. “I wish to put this question upon a basis wholly fair.”

Guthrie’s glance wandered, as the Bishop’s had done, to the silver river and the rim of brown hills, but came back and met those of the old man.

“We have spoken only of Templeton and his family,” he said, “and we have disregarded my own position in this affair. Suppose, we speak of myself as we should of a third person. I will admit that the press is often sensational, that it prints some things that are bad and more that are frivolous. But there are also bad and frivolous lawyers and physicians and—pardon me—clergymen. These things do not alter the fact that the press has a duty to perform—to narrate faithfully to the world the public events that are occurring each day, and, if it fail in any particular, when the information is in its possession, is it not as much at fault as a lawyer who betrays his client or a clergyman who neglects the moral welfare of his people? Should there be one moral standard for the church and a lower one for the press? Did I not take an unsworn oath when I entered the employ of the Times to serve it to the best of my power, and should I not be breaking that oath if I failed to send to it the news of Templeton’s defalcation? In my profession, loyalty to those whom we serve is the heart of our code of honour, and I am proud that it is so. It enables us to endure much, to scorn the obloquy that we know is undeserved, to follow with zeal a vocation so necessary to our world, and yet you ask me to violate it merely to oblige some one.”

Guthrie’s face flushed slightly. He took the loftiest view of his calling, and the Bishop had asked him to speak as one man would to another of like age and position. It often seemed to him that people of the general world—“outsiders” he called them—were obstinate in not recognising these duties of a newspaper; they would persist in regarding it as something which should stroke and soothe the public and make it feel good, and would ignore its true and only functions—those of the historian and the critic. The Bishop, a man of the noblest character, seemed to him to typify this view—a crude one, he considered it—and again he felt a sense of rebellion that one of such high qualities should consider a young reporter’s moral obligation less than his own; in fact, something not to be reckoned with in the scheme of the world’s work.

The Bishop shook his head, as if in dissent, but his blue eyes shone with a benevolent gaze. He laid his hand lightly and for a moment on Guthrie’s shoulder. The act was paternal, and Guthrie recognised in it the fact that the clergyman, despite his wish to speak from a plane of perfect equality in age and otherwise, could not do so—a long habit of thought would not permit it.

“I honour the quality in your character that makes you speak as you do,” said the Bishop, “but I think it comes from a mistaken preconception of the world and one’s duty to it. It is the fault of youth to generalise too much, to think that no rule has an exception, and we find later that the world does not work that way. We of the church, the smallest part of whose duty is the sermons we preach, best know it. I am an old man, and I tell you that it is better to spare a family than to send a despatch to a newspaper.”

“But should you tell me that?” exclaimed Guthrie. “Mine is a public service, made so by universal necessity and universal consent. I have a managing editor back there in the city who is my general. He is a machine; when he comes on duty at eight o’clock, he leaves all human emotion behind him, not to be taken up again until the paper goes to press again at three o’clock in the morning—that is why he is such a valuable managing editor. He is exactly like a general in a real campaign, marshalling his forces for the most effective exertion of strength. Now, here am I, a sentinel at an advanced post. I have seen something more than suspicious, and you ask me to say nothing about it to my general—in fact, you ask me to let a deserter slip by because it will save the feelings of his family!”

The Bishop felt a faint sense of irritation, though he concealed it from Guthrie. The newspapers of his youth had been mere personal or political organs, devoted to the interests of a man or a party, and having their relations with the public only through that man or party. He could not grow used to the new view, the view held by a new generation, that a newspaper should be a prompt and accurate chronicler of public events, turning aside for nobody.

“I think you are mistaken,” he said, “in looking upon yourself as, in some sense, a judge.”

“Not as a judge,” replied Guthrie, “but as a clerk of the court. It is for me to report to the judge all things that come within my province, and then the judge, who ever he may be, can take what action he thinks fit.”

“But you forget,” said the Bishop earnestly, “that the newspaper is, in its inception at least, a private enterprise, and that the materials of its trade are human beings. The printed word that you write so easily and forget so quickly may wreck a life. It is, therefore, a power which should be used sparingly. I know of none other in which self-restraint is worth so much.”

“I concede all you say,” replied Guthrie, “but I do not think it touches the main issue. Your criticism applies only to the newspapers which turn aside from their duty, which exaggerate or tell untruths or distort from the true proportion, and, above all, I do not think it applies to my own personal responsibility in this case. I serve a company which, in its turn, is supposed to serve the public, and my loyalty is due directly to the company. I do not feel that I can betray it.”

The Bishop was still standing by the window, tapping lightly on the pane with his forefinger, a troubled look in his blue eyes. In his heart, he thought Guthrie a very stubborn young man and a creator of false issues. And his sense of irritation was increased by the memory of the home that he had left, the grief and terror of the mother and sister. These were the things that dwelled in his mind.

The brown hills melted away in the twilight, the silver river became faint, and night sank down over the little capital. The Bishop’s face was in the shadow as he turned again to Guthrie.

“If you refuse our request,” he said, and for the first time there was a note of sternness in his voice, “yours will be the responsibility for ruining a home.”

Guthrie flushed, but he did not retreat.

“It is such a charge as that which I and any one in my profession who serves it well resents most,” he replied. “Should I be controlled by sentiment or by duty? If I am faithless in this instance, why should I not be equally so in others, and who is to judge where the limit shall be? If the claim of Templeton to suppression of his crime be good, then the claims of all others who commit crime are equally good, and I, in this case at least, should become an accessory. Mine would be the sin of omission which differs only in degree from that of commission.”

“You think of yourself only,” said the Bishop, and the note of reproof in his voice grew stronger. “It is of your own career and of strengthening a particular profession, a desire that it shall acquire a reputation for omniscience, that you are thinking, not of a family’s honour and the forgiveness which the Book tells us we must have for the weak and the erring.”

It was said of the Bishop that he could have his stern moments, that he could become terrible in his wrath, and now Guthrie saw the suppressed fire in his eyes. But the discipline of years, the code of a profession as stern and exacting as the military, lay heavily upon him; he felt that, if he yielded to the Bishop’s request, he must become a traitor and regard himself as one.

Yet he valued the friendship of this man, and he was not willing to lose it.

“I think that you do me an injustice,” he said; “yours again—pardon me—is the hasty view. It is no pleasure to me, on the contrary, it is a pain, to send a report of Templeton’s crime. No man of the right kind in my profession ever rejoices over having to do such a thing; but we cannot escape it. We are the chroniclers of the world’s daily doings and that, like history, is to some extent the record of its crimes and follies; but we do not commit the evil, we merely state that it exists that is, we tell where the poison lies.”

The Bishop turned away again and looked through the window. A tear glittered on his eyelid, but Guthrie did not see it. The silver river shone through the dusk, and the electric lights twinkled like stars. The mother and sister were still in the Bishop’s mind; he was faithful to them.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that too many systems have been invented since my youth. We have grown too fond of classifying and generalising. I find something cold and hard in the youth of to-day. If society is to be organised into a single merciless machine, each wheel and cog doing an exact part and no more, then something human has gone out of it, and I, for one, prefer the old to the new. I should wish to have back again the editor who was swayed by human considerations, even if he were selfish and a place-seeker, and to lose him of to-day who, like your managing editor as you describe him, becomes from 8 P. M. to 3 A. M.—a metallic creature, wound up like a watch.”

“The more nearly we reach that ideal, the more nearly my profession realises perfection,” said Guthrie, “because it is something apart, and it is necessary for those who serve it to suppress their weaker emotions. And often it is hard to do it. Templeton’s mother and sister will grieve, and so shall I—but I am helpless. It is he, not I, who will make them grieve.”

“I shall leave it to your conscience,” said the Bishop. His mild eyes were full of reproach and pain. He started toward the table to take his hat and cane, but Guthrie was before him, glad to serve an old man whom he respected so much.

“I hope to hear to-morrow that you have suppressed this news, my son,” said the Bishop as he went out.

But they met by chance in the street two hours later, and the Bishop’s look was questioning.

“I am just coming from the telegraph office,” said Guthrie. “I have sent the Times a thousand words about Templeton.”

The Bishop frowned, and turned away without a word. Guthrie raised his head, and walked on toward the Capitol.

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