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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

  [Illustration]

  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