An Uncrowned King Chapter 1 Part 1

“After question-time, the First Lord of the Treasury rose to make a statement with regard to the course of public business, the salient feature of which was the announcement that the Government found themselves compelled to appropriate all the time of private members during the remainder of the session. We understand that this action on the part of the Ministry has aroused strong feeling on both sides of the House, particularly among those members who have charge of private bills. One of the supporters of the Government who has been very hardly treated is Viscount Usk, whose bill for permitting peers to become candidates for seats in the Lower House, on relinquishing their right to a seat in the House of Lords, had obtained the first place in the ballot for Tuesday next.”

Thus far the ‘Fleet Street Gazette,’ but “strong feeling” was a mild term to apply to the sentiment evoked in the minds of honourable members by the Government statement. That a portion of their time would be confiscated they had guessed only too well, but such a drastic measure as this was quite unexpected. Rage, disappointment, and disgust were depicted on face after face along the back benches, and the popular Minister to whose task it fell to make the announcement was allowed to resume his seat without a single expression of approval. Among the most wrathful of the malcontents was Lord Usk, whose cup had been dashed from his lips in the peculiarly cruel manner noticed sympathetically by the ‘Fleet Street,’ and who sat moodily in his place, gnawing the end of his moustache, his forehead drawn into a heavy frown. Mr Forfar, the First Lord, lounging delicately from the House after hurling his thunderbolt, with his short-sighted eyes fixed on space, on the paper in his hand, on anything but the scowling faces of his supporters, encountered his gaze without intending to do so, and leaned over the benches to speak to him.

“Rather rough on you, Usk. Better luck next time!”

“It’s all very well for you to laugh——” began Lord Usk, savagely, and then stopped short, finding that he was making rather a weak remark, whereas he had meant to say something cutting. Mr Forfar waved his hand soothingly, and passed on with a smile.

“If it had been any one but Usk,” he said to his colleague, Sir James Morrell, when they were outside the House, “I should have thought he meant ratting, but he is quite safe. He gets excited now and then, but he will sulk to-night and be all right to-morrow.”

After a time Lord Usk also quitted the House, and went to the library to see whether there were any letters for him. There were none of any interest, and he was toying somewhat aimlessly with the magazines on one of the tables, when he descried looming in the distance the form of the party Whip, intent on beating up recruits for the dinner-hour. The sight roused him again to fierce resentment. On ordinary occasions Usk was the mildest of men, and one of the Whip’s pattern members, not only voting safely with the party in important divisions (with the exception of occasional outbursts on the question of Temperance and kindred subjects, which were dealt with tenderly as the eccentricities of youth), but proving himself almost always ready to dine in the precincts, in case of a call during the dinner-hour. But now his forbearance had been strained too far, and he rebelled. He was not going to help to keep a house for a Government which valued his services as little as did this one, and he evaded the Whip with some difficulty, for his height rendered him conspicuous among the other members, and slipped out into Palace Yard.

“I’ll take a night off, and drop in at Mrs Sadleir’s,” he thought, his resentment already beginning to give way under the soothing recollection of his revenge on the Whip.

Mrs Sadleir’s was one of the few houses at which Usk was at all a constant guest, for he hated society with an almost anarchist hatred quite at variance with his political opinions generally. Very quickly, on his first introduction into the world of London, he had learnt by bitter experience to divide the women he met into two categories. There were those who were anxious to marry him, either personally, or vicariously to some relation, and those who were not. It was in vain that he tried by turns to gain the reputation of a student, a cynic, and a misogynist; the young ladies and their mothers still thought that a man in his present position, to say nothing of his prospect of succeeding to the Marquisate of Caerleon at no very distant date, ought not to be judged too harshly, even for such unamiable peculiarities as these. This led him to forswear almost entirely the company of the fair sex, for the young ladies who did not want to marry him made the fact so conspicuous, and were so anxious to force it upon his notice, that he resented their aggressive prudery as strongly as he did their sisters’ too evident wiles. Hence he was wont, now that his experience was gained, sternly to resist all attempts to allure him into general society, and he had become known to the party leaders as a young man who devoted himself to the study of sociological and political problems, and affected the company of his elders. But he was content to visit at Mrs Sadleir’s house, and under her wing to confront the hordes of society girls who thirsted for his prospective coronet, since he knew that she had neither daughter nor niece to recommend him as a wife, and that she had a most unfeminine aversion to match-making. Mrs Sadleir had been a dear friend of his mother’s, and on Lady Caerleon’s death had done much to supply her place to Usk and his brother Cyril. Ill-natured persons said that she was trying to achieve a social success by becoming the second Lady Caerleon, but better-informed people scouted the idea, knowing well that she had refused Lord Caerleon very decidedly two years after his wife’s death, although without any diminution of the friendship which had always existed between them.

For a rising young politician of pronounced imperialist views, like Usk, Mrs Sadleir’s house was emphatically one to visit. Her husband, who had held an important permanent post in the Foreign Office, had gathered around him in his leisure hours men of all nations with whom he came in contact in the course of his duties, and after his death his widow found herself unable to dispense with the excitement of the brilliant society to which she had grown accustomed. It was a commonplace among her friends that, in most cases, she could, if she liked, announce forthcoming diplomatic changes before the ministers who arranged them, and some said that a good deal of the political history of Europe had been made at different times in her drawing-room. Yet she was not an intriguer, far less a conspirator, but simply a cultivated, tactful woman, with a talent for bringing together at the right time the right people, or, at any rate, the people who it was desirable should meet one another. She came forward now to greet Lord Usk, as he mounted her staircase, and made him a sign to wait until she had got rid of a voluble Italian secretary of embassy, who was impressing some fact upon her with a good deal of gesticulation. Mrs Sadleir’s gracious and striking personality was reflected in her dress. Her gown was black, made in a severe yet fanciful style that was unlike any one else’s. On her head she wore an arrangement of black lace, which was no more to be called a cap than a veil, and was the despair of her maid, but which, taken in conjunction with her bright dark eyes and the silver hair rolled smoothly back from her forehead, gave her the look of a great lady of the old régime. Having disposed of the Italian, she turned to Usk.

“I am very glad indeed that you have come in to-night, Usk, for I have some one here whom you will enjoy meeting. I was almost inclined to send a message to you at the House by Dr Egerton, who was going on there; but I thought you might come, and therefore I waited. It is M. Drakovics to whom I want to introduce you.”

“What! the Kossuth of the Balkans—the Thracian premier?” asked Usk, much interested.

“Yes, the great history-maker of to-day. It is a liberal education (pray don’t think I intend a pun) to hear him talk. Come and I will take you to him.”

She did not lead him into the crowded drawing-room, full of light and laughter, but into a smaller room near at hand, where a solitary gentleman in evening dress was dimly visible by the rays of a Moorish lamp hanging in a window-recess. He was a small shrunken man, with a large bald head and a massive brow; and as Usk’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw in the bronzed face and heavy grey moustache the hint of a likeness to another and a more successful statesman than the Hungarian patriot, a likeness which was, moreover, not altogether distasteful to M. Drakovics himself.

“Lord Usk—M. Drakovics,” said Mrs Sadleir, briskly. “Now I am going to leave you to have a good talk, for I want you to know one another. If you will sit here in the recess, the curtains will hide you, and you will not be seized upon by any troublesome acquaintances.”

“Milord,” said M. Drakovics, bowing formally, but scanning Usk from head to foot in a way which made the younger man feel that he was being reckoned up and his measure taken, “I am much honoured in meeting you. Your name, and your father’s name also, are very well known to us in Thracia.”

“You are very kind,” said Usk, in the embarrassed way in which the average Englishman receives a compliment. “I’m sure I am delighted to have the chance of meeting you here. I never expected to be able to hear about the Thracian revolution from one who was in it.”

“From one who may be said to have been at the head of it,” corrected M. Drakovics, gravely. “You are interested in Eastern Europe, milord?”

“Naturally, since no one who takes any interest whatever in international politics can well avoid keeping his eye on the Balkan States,” said Usk; “and Thracia has always seemed to me the most promising of them all, if only she got a chance. Your long struggle against Roum, and the way in which you won your freedom, have shown what your people are made of.”

“Yes, indeed,” responded M. Drakovics, his eyes lighting up, “Thracia is the nation of the future in Eastern Europe. We are the only truly European race south of the Carpathians. The Mœsians are Slavs, the Dardanians half Roumis. Our blood is chiefly Latin, with a large Teutonic admixture. Our very language is far more nearly akin to the Italian than to the Slavonic.”

“And yet your own name is Slavonic?” suggested Usk.

“Most of our names are, just as in religion we belong to the Orthodox Church. It is the result of our isolation, hemmed in as we are by Slav races. But our aspirations are wholly Western, and the national hatred of Scythia, our great Slav neighbour, is a perfect passion.”

“That was the cause of your revolution, wasn’t it?” asked Usk. “We are generally rather misty about your politics here, I’m afraid, but that seems to have penetrated into most people’s minds.”

“It was the cause,” returned M. Drakovics. “You are aware, milord, that when we threw off the Roumi yoke, many years ago, we did so with the assistance—the moral support—of Scythia. For this assistance we have been paying dearly ever since, while our country has groaned under the rule of the House of Franza. No doubt the simplest plan would have been to place a Scythian grand-duke at once upon the throne, but it was more politic to allow us to elect a national sovereign, and then to make him a Scythian tributary. Our first king, Alexander Franza, the patriot who had conducted the struggle for freedom to a successful issue, saw the danger, and tried to avert it, straining every nerve to pay off the loans advanced by Scythia for various purposes; but he died before he could effect this object, and his successors, instead of following his example, borrowed more largely still, thus placing the kingdom completely in the hands of Scythia. You know what our history has been since our independence was guaranteed; how, with one of the finest countries in Europe, the resources of which are as yet scarcely touched, we have been constantly on the verge of bankruptcy. So it was when the late king, Peter II., ascended the throne, and our masters appeared to think that the time had come to complete their conquest. Of course he was a pensioner of Scythia, like his predecessors, but he was also a man of pleasure. When the country had been drained of money to supply his whims, he was forced to turn to Scythia once more. Money was granted him, but only for a consideration. One by one the highest posts in the army and Court were filled with Scythians, and it was of no use for the Thracians to complain. The Sertchaieff Ministry was in power, and as matters grew worse, its members clung the more closely to their places, fearing the result of any change for themselves. Then a chance incident caused an explosion——”