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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIGHTIER THAN

THE SWORD ***
MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Crown 8vo, Cloth, 6/-

THE SACRIFICE. (Also a Sixpenny Edition.)

EVE'S APPLE.
HENRY IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.
UNCLE POLPERRO.

London: T. FISHER UNWIN

MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
BY

ALPHONSE COURLANDER

LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
ADELPHI TERRACE
1913
First Edition May 1912
Second Impression July 1912
Third Impression October 1913

[All Rights Reserved]

CONTENTS
PART I
Easterham 9
PART II
Lilian 71
PART III
Elizabeth 199
PART IV
Paris 281
 PART I
EASTERHAM
MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
 I
If you had been standing on a certain cold night in January opposite
the great building where The Day is jewelled in electric lights across
the dark sky, you would have seen a little, stout man run down the
steps of the entrance at the side, three at a time, land on the
pavement as if he were preparing to leap the roadway, with the
sheer impetus of the flight of steps behind him, and had suddenly
thought better of it, glance hurriedly at the big, lighted clock whose
hands, formed of the letters T-H-E D-A-Y, in red and green electric
lights, showed that it was nearly half-past twelve, and suddenly start
off in a terrible hurry towards Chancery Lane, as though pursued by
some awful thing.
Considering the bulkiness of the little man, he ran remarkably well.
He dodged a light newspaper van that was coming recklessly round
Fetter Lane, for there was none of the crowded traffic of daylight to
be negotiated, and then, he turned the corner of Chancery Lane—
and there you would have seen the last of him. He would have
vanished from your life, a stumpy little man, with an umbrella
popped under one arm, a bundle of papers grasped in his hand, a
hat jammed down on his head, and the ends of a striped muffler
floating in the breeze of his own making.
The sight of a man running, even in these days when life itself goes
with a rush, is sufficient to awaken comment in the mind of the
onlooker. It suggests pursuit, the recklessness of other days; it
impels, instinctively, the cry of "Stop, thief," for no man runs unless
he is hunted by a powerful motive. Therefore it may be assumed
that since I have sent a man bolting hard out of your sight up the
lamp-lit avenue of Chancery Lane, you are wondering why the devil
he's in such a hurry.
Well, he was hurrying because the last train to Shepherd's Bush goes
at 12.35, and, as he had been away from home since ten o'clock
that morning, he was rather anxious to get back. He could not afford
a cab fare, though only a few hours ago he had been eating oysters,
bisque soup, turbot, pheasant, asparagus out of season and pêche
Melba at the Savoy Hotel with eighteenpence in his pocket—and the
odd pence had gone to the waiter and the cloakroom man. So that
by the time he had reached the top of Chancery Lane, dashed across
the road and through the door of the station, where a porter would
have slammed the grille in another second, and bought his ticket
with an explosive, panting "Bush," he had just tenpence left.
The lift-man knew him, nodded affably and said: "Just in time, Mr
Pride."
"A hard run," said Mr Pride; and then with a cheery smile, "never
mind; good for the liver." There were only a few people in the lift—
four men and a woman to be precise. He knew the men as casual
acquaintances of the last tube train. There was Denning, a sporting
sub-editor on The Lantern; another was a proof-reader on one of the
afternoon papers, who finished work in the evening but never went
home before the last tube; then there was Harlem, the librarian of
The Day, an amazing man who spoke all the European languages,
and some of the Asiatic ones after his fifth glass of beer; the fourth
was a friend of Harlem, a moody young man who wore his hair long,
smoked an evil-looking pipe, and seemed to be a little unsteady on
his feet. As for the woman, Pride knew her well by sight. She had
hair that was of an unreal yellow, and a latch-key dangled from her
little finger as though it were a new kind of ring. She always got out
at Tottenham Court Road.
As the lift went down, its high complaining noise falling to a low
buzzing sound seemed like the tired murmur of a weary human
being glad that rest had come at last. The sound of the approaching
train came rolling through the tunnel. They all rushed desperately
down the short flight of steps that led to the platform, as the train
came in with a rattle of doors opening and slamming, and scrambled
for seats, while the uniformed men, who appeared to be the only
thoroughly wide-awake people in the neighbourhood, said in the
most contradictory fashion: "Stand clear of the gates," "Hurry on,
please," and "Passengers off first."
Pride found himself in the smoking carriage, opposite Harlem, with
his young friend at his side. It never occurred to him that there was
anything exceptional in his dash for the last train. He did it four
nights out of the week, as a matter of course. He was fifty years old,
though he pretended he was ten years younger, and shaved his face
clean to keep up the illusion. He used to explain to his friends that
he came of a family famous for baldness in early years.
"Been busy?" asked Harlem, filling his pipe.
"Nothing to speak of," said Pride. "Turned up at the office at eleven,
but there was nothing doing until after lunch. Then I had to go and
see Sir William Darton—they're going to start the Thames
Steamboats again. He wasn't at home, and he wasn't in his office,
but I found him at six o'clock in the Constitutional. Got back and
found they'd sent home for my dress clothes, and left a nice little
envelope with the ticket of the Canadian Dinner.... That's why I'm so
late to-night...."
Pride filled his own pipe, and sighed. "The old days are over!" he
said. "They used to post our assignments overnight—'Dear Mr Pride,
kindly do a quarter of a column of the enclosed meeting.' Why, The
Sentinel used to allow us five shillings every time we put on evening
dress."
"Well, The Sentinel was a pretty dull paper before the Kelmscotts
bought it and turned it into a halfpenny," said Harlem. "Look at it
now, a nice, bright paper—oh, by the way, do you know Cannock,"
he jerked his head to the man at his side. "He's The Sentinel's latest
acquisition. This is Tommy Pride, one of the ancient bulwarks of The
Sentinel, until they fired him. Now he's learning to be a halfpenny
journalist."
Pride looked at the young man.
"I don't know about being the latest acquisition," Cannock said. "As
a matter of fact, they've fired me to-day."
"It's a hobby of theirs now," Harlem remarked. "You'll get a job on
The Day if you ask for one. There's always room with us, ain't there,
Tommy?"
Pride looked wistfully at the clouds of blue smoke that rose from his
lips.... Yes, he thought, there was always room on The Day—at any
moment they might decide to make alterations in the staff. The fact
of Cannock's being sacked mattered nothing; he was a young man,
and for young men, knocking at the door of Fleet Street, there was
always an open pathway. Think of the papers there were left to work
for—the evenings and the dailies, and even when they were
exhausted, perhaps a job on a weekly paper, or the editorship of one
of the scores of penny and sixpenny magazines. And, after that, the
provinces and the suburbs had their papers. Pride knew: in his long
experience he had wandered from one paper to another, two years
here, three years here, until the halfpenny papers had brought a
new type of journalist into the street.
"Married?" asked Pride.
"Not me!" replied Cannock, with a slight hiccough.
"Well, you're all right. You can free-lance if you want to."
"Oh, it's no good to me," Cannock said. "It's a dog's life anyhow, and
I've only had two months of it. I'm going back to my guv'nor's
business."
"Ah," said Pride, "there's no use wasting sympathy on you. Why did
you ever leave it? What's his business?"
"That," Cannock laughed gaily and pointed to a poster as the train
stopped at Tottenham Court Road Station. It was a great picture of
barrels and barrels of beer, piled one above the other, reaching away
into the far distance. Thousands of barrels under a vaulted roof. And
in the foreground were little figures of men in white aprons with red
jersey caps on their heads, rolling in more barrels, with their arms
bared to the elbows. Across the picture in large letters Pride could
read: "Cannock Brothers, Holloway. Cannock's Entire."
"Why, your people are worth millions!" Pride said. "What on earth
are you doing in journalism."
"I know they are. That's what I was thinking of yesterday. I
wondered how on earth they got anybody to do the work."
"Well, you won't mind me, I'm sure," Pride said, leaning over to
Cannock. "I'm older than you, and I belong to what they call the old
school of journalism. This isn't the lovely life some people think it
must be, and it's going to get worse each year. We've got to fight for
our jobs every day of our life. 'Making good,' they call it. I'm used to
it," he said defiantly, looking at Harlem, "I like it.... I couldn't do
anything else. I'm not fit for anything else. It has its lazy moments,
too, and its moments of excitement and thrills. No, my son, you go
back to the brewery, there's more money in it for you and all the
glory you want with your name plastered over every bottle and on all
the walls. Ask five hundred men in the street if they've ever heard of
Tommy Pride. They've been reading things I've written every day,
but they don't know who's written them. Ask 'em who's Cannock?
Why, they'll turn mechanically into the nearest public-house and call
for a bottle of you."
"I used to think it would be jolly to be on a newspaper," Cannock
said. "My guv'nor got me the job. He's something to do with the
Kelmscotts."
"So it is if you're meant to be on a newspaper. That's the trouble of
fellows like you. You come out of nowhere, or from the 'Varsity, and
get plunked right down in the heart of a London newspaper office—
probably someone's fired to make room for you. You're friends of the
editor and you think you're great men, until you find you're expected
to take your turn with the rest. Then you grouse, because you're not
meant for it. You've got appointments to keep at dinner-time, and
you must get your meals regularly. Or you want to write fine stuff
and be great star descriptive men at once, or go to Persia and
Timbuctoo, and live on flam and signed articles. But, if you were
meant to be a reporter, you'd hang round the news editor's room for
any job that came along, you'd take any old thing that was given
you, and do it without a murmur, and when you've done that for
thirty years you might meet success, and stay on until they shoved
you out of the office."
He saw that Cannock was smiling, and seemed to read his thoughts.
"Me?" he said. "Oh, you mustn't judge by me. I belong to the old
school, you know. I'm the son of my father—he was a Gallery man,
and died worth three hundred pounds, and that's more than I am.
I'm one of the products of the last generation, and all I want is £2 a
week and a cottage in the country." The little man relit his pipe, and
puffed contentedly. "Lord! I should like that!" he said.
"You're always frightened of being fired, Tommy," said Harlem. "You
know well enough you're what we call a thoroughly reliable and
experienced man, and Ferrol wouldn't have you sacked."
"There's always that bogy," Pride answered with a laugh. "You never
know what may happen. The only thing is to join the Newspaper
Press Fund and trust in the Lord. None of the youngsters do either
of these things to-day."
Cannock and Harlem prepared to leave as the train slowed down
before Marble Arch. "It's a rotten game," said Cannock. "I'm glad I'm
out of it. Good-bye."
Pride took his hand. "Good-bye." He saw them pass the window, and
wave to him as they went under the lighted "Way Out" sign, and
then he turned to his papers with a sigh. But somehow or other he
did not read. He always carried papers about with him, through
sheer force of habit, much as the under side of a tailor's coat lapel is
bristling with pins. He had been with news all day; he had written
some of it; he had read the same things in the different editions of
the newspapers; he had left the street when they were printing
more news; and the first thing he would do on waking up in the
morning would be to reach out for a copy of The Day which was
brought with the morning tea. He did not read news as the average
man does—he regarded it objectively, reading it without emotion.
The march of the world, the daily happenings moved him as much
as a packet of loose diamonds moves the jeweller who handles them
daily, and weighs them to see their worth.
He was thinking of Cannock, with his future all clear before him:
Cannock, with beer woven into the fibre of his being, as news was in
his. It must be rather fine to be independent like that.... Idly, he
wondered what Cannock's guv'nor was like: did he admire these
pictures of the vast hall crowded with beer barrels, enough to last
London for a whole Saturday night, and ready to be filled up again
for all the nights in the week.... He looked round the carriage at the
faces of those who were travelling with him. Five boisterous young
people were making themselves a noisy nuisance at one end of the
carriage. Opposite him, in the seat lately occupied by Harlem, a
working man was staring ahead of him with an empty wide stare as
if, in a moment of absent-mindedness, his actual self had slipped
away, and left a hulk of shabbily-clothed body, without a spark of
intelligence. Others were nodding, half asleep, and there was one
man, with closed eyes, and parted lips, breathing stertorously,
whose head bobbled from side to side with the rocking of the
train.... He woke up, suddenly, as the train stopped with a jerk, and
the conductor called out "'Perd's Bush."
Tommy Pride always gave his papers to the lift-man. They waited for
the last passenger, who came lurching round the corner with his
head still bobbling and his eyes half lost below the drooping eyelids.
He steadied himself against the wall—and his hand spread over
another of those glorious posters. What a picture for Cannock!...
Somehow, Pride rejoiced to think that he was not Cannock.
He went past the Green to one of the small houses in a turning off
the Uxbridge Road. The moon shone out of the wintry sky, white and
placid, above his home. He let himself in, and turned out the flicker
of gas in the hall. He walked on tiptoe into the sitting-room, and
having taken off his boots went to the fireplace. Here on a trivet he
found a cup of cocoa, and his slippers warming before the fire.
There were three slices of thin bread and butter on the table. He
never went to bed without his bread and butter. During his meal he
saw a copy of The Day on a chair, and he read bits of it
mechanically, for he had read it all before. The clock struck one, and
he bolted the front door and went softly upstairs. As he turned on
the light his wife stirred uneasily, and he came to the bedside. She
opened her eyes at his kiss, and smiled tenderly at him.
"Is it very late, dear?" she asked.
"One o'clock."
"Poor sweetheart!" she murmured. "Did you have your cocoa?"
"Yes," he said.
"Tired?"
He laughed. "Not very. I'm a bit cheerful, to tell you the truth. Tell
you about it in the morning. Ferrol spoke to me to-day. He's a fine
chap."
 II
That was the magic of it! Ferrol had spoken to him. The
conversation had been quite ordinary. "Well, Pride, I hope things are
going all right?" And Ferrol had nodded cheerfully and smiled as he
passed into his room. Perhaps, he had asked Pride to come and see
him.... It was not what Ferrol said that mattered: it was the Idea
behind it—that Ferrol knew and remembered his men individually.
Out of the insensate tangle of machines and lives, high above the
thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, the rolling of heavy vans
stacked high with cylinders of paper, the ringing of telephone bells,
the ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of the great
grey building in which they all lived, Ferrol rises with his masterful
personality and calm voice, carving the chaos of it all into discipline
and order. He looms, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent,
making his desires felt in the far corners of the continents.
Ferrol whispered, and Berlin, Vienna or San Francisco gave him his
needs. He was the brain and the heart of the body he had created,
and his nerves and his arteries were spread over the earth. He
placed his fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what was
ailing—knew what it wanted, and found the specialist to attend to it.
His influence lay over the narrow street of tall buildings, urging men
onwards and upwards with the gospel of great endeavour. Some
men, as their pagan ancestors worshipped the Sun as the God of
Light, placed him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed down to
him as the God of Success, for the energy of his spirit was
everywhere. If you searched behind the ponderous double octuple
machines, rattling and thudding, and driving the work of their world
forward, you would have found it there—the motive power of the
whole. It lurked in the tap-tap of the telegraph transmitter, in the
quick click of the type in the slots of the linotype machines as the
aproned operators touched the keyboard; it was in the heart of the
reporter groping through the day for facts, and writing them with
the shadow of Ferrol falling across the paper. The clerks in the
counting-house, the advertising men, the grimy printers' boys in the
basement, the type-setters and the block-makers on the top floors
near the skylights, messengers, typists—they were all bricks in the
edifice which was built up for the men who wrote the paper—the
edifice of which Ferrol was the keystone.
His enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw him, an inhuman,
incredible monster, with neither soul nor heart, grimly eager for one
end—the making of money. They wrote of him as an evil thing,
brooding over sensationalism.... One must see him as Tommy Pride
and all those who worked for him on The Day saw him, eager, keen,
and large-hearted, a wonderful blend of sentiment and business,
torn, sometimes, between expediency and the hidden desires of his
heart. One must see him reckless and, since he was only human,
making mistakes, creating, destroying, living only for what the day
brought forth....
The spirit of Fleet Street, itself.

Like a silver thread woven into the texture of his character, in which
good and evil were patterned as they are in most men, a streak of
the sentimental was there, shining untarnished, a survival of his
days of young romance. Very few people knew of this trait; Ferrol
hugged it to himself secretly, as though it were a weakness of which
he was ashamed. It came upon him at odd, unexpected moments
when he was hemmed in by the gross materialism of every day, this
passionate, sudden yearning for poetry and ideals. He would try to
lift the latch of the door that had locked the world of beauty and art
from him. Swift desires would seize him to be carried away in his
motor-car, as if it were a magic carpet, to some Arcadia of dreaming
shadows, with the sunlight splashing through the green roofs of the
forests.
The sentimental in him would, at such times, find expression in
many ways. He made extravagant gifts to people; he would take a
sudden interest in the career of one man, and bring all that man's
longings to realization by lifting him up and making his name. How
glorious that power was to Ferrol! The power of singling men out,
finding the spark of genius that he could raise to a steady flame,
fanning it with opportunity; he could make a man suddenly rich with
a stroke of his pen; pack him off to Arabia or South America and bid
him write his best. Sometimes they failed, because it was not in
them to succeed, and Ferrol was as merciless to failures as he was
generous to those who won through.
The men he made!...
Sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over him, he would
try and materialize his ideals for a time. He would commission a
great poet to contribute to The Day; he would open his columns to
the cult of the beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway
disaster would happen, crushing Ferrol's sentiment. Away with the
ideal, for, after all, the world does not want it! Three columns of the
murder or the railway disaster, with photographs, leaders, special
articles, all turning round the news itself. That was how it was done.
And now the fit was on Ferrol as he sat in his room with the crimson
carpet and the dark red walls, hung with contents bills of The Day.
He had been going over the morning letters with his secretary,
listening to the applications for employment. He made a point of
hearing them, now and again. There was one letter there that
suddenly awoke his interest; the name touched a chord in his
memory, a chord that responded with a low, tender note.... And, his
mind marched back through the corridors of the past, until he came
out upon the old, quiet, cathedral town of the days of his youth.
He saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, long before his
dreams of greatness came to pass, yet feeling in his heart that the
plans he was making would be followed. A young Ferrol plotting
within himself to wrest spoils from the world, longing intolerably for
power and the wealth that could give it. Well did he know, even in
those far-off days, that destiny was holding out her hands, laden
with roses and prizes for him.... Those were the days of the young
heart; the days of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, scarce
understood, that comes to us, mysterious and beautiful. He saw a
very different Ferrol then. The lip unshaven, that was now hidden
with a bushy moustache turning grey; the hair, now also grey under
the touch of Time, silky and black. He saw this boy walking the lanes
that led out of Easterham town, in the spring-time, with a girl at his
side.
Over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned to him, and Ferrol
looked back on a yesterday of thirty years. Her name was Margaret,
and she was for him the beginning of things. From her he learned
much of the tenderness of life, and the love of Nature that had
remained with him. He was a clerk in an auctioneer's office then,
with most of his dreams still undreamt. He and Margaret had been
children together. They were children now, laughing, and walking
over the fields with the spire of the cathedral, pointing like a finger
to the skies, in the distant haze of the afternoon.
There was more purity in that first romance of his than in anything
he had found in after years. Oh! wonderful days of young unsullied
hearts, and the white innocence of life. The memory of evenings
came to him, of kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible
emotions surged through him, vague imaginings of what life must
really be, and the torture of unrest, of something that he did not
understand. Her eyes were tearful, and yet she smiled, and at her
smile they both laughed. And so the spell was broken, and they
trudged, side by side, homeward in the silent night.
She inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled her destiny. She
sowed the seeds of ambition in his soul: he would dare anything for
her, yea, reach his hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from
Heaven to lay at her feet. And, very gradually, a dreadful nausea of
Easterham came over him. His desk was by the window that looked
upon the High Street: he almost remembered, now, the day when it
first dawned on him that the place was no longer tolerable. It was
mid-day and the heat quivered above the cobble-stones: two dogs
were fighting with jarring yelps that could be heard all down the
street; the baker's cart went by with an empty rattle, and Miss
Martin of Willow Hall drove in as usual to the bank next door. An old
man was herding a flock of sheep towards the market-place, and the
sheep-dog ran this way and that way, barking as he ran. Three
sandwich-men, grotesquely hidden in boards, slouched past in
frayed clothes and battered hats, with pipes in their mouths. He read
their boards mechanically.... "Sale at Wilcox's.... Ladies'
Undergarments.... Ribbons." He had read the same thing every day
in the week; he had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it
seemed; the dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd
passed and repassed like a never-ending silent dream; grocer, and
baker, and banker, and Hargrave, the farmer ... there he was again
touching his hat to Miss Martin as she stepped from her trap.... O
God! the heavy monotony of it all fell like a weight on his heart.
The nostalgia grew. The chimes of the cathedral lost their music, the
stillness of the town became more unbearable than the turmoil and
clatter of cities. There was something to be wrought for and fought
for in the world outside. This was not life; this was a mausoleum!
The arguments with his father—his mother was dead—and the long
time it took to persuade him.... The parting with Margaret, and the
whispered vows and promises, spoken breathlessly from their
earnest young hearts. It seemed they could never be broken.
He came to London. It was in the late seventies, at the beginning of
the spread of education that has resulted in the amazing flood of
periodicals: it was a flood that led Ferrol on to fortune. His scope
widened; he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to
power indeed. He shone like a new star over London, gathering
lesser lights around him, developing that marvellous power of
organization, that astonishing personality that drew men to him,
until he seized his opportunity and bought the moribund Day when it
was a penny paper on its last legs. In ten years' time he had become
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