by John Buchan
CHAPTER VII
THE MAKERS OF EMPIRE
The day before the events just recorded two men had entered the door ofa certain London club and made their way to a remote little smoking-roomon the first floor. It was not a handsome building, nor had it anyparticular outlook or position. It was a small, old-fashioned place ina side street, in style obviously of last century, and the fittingswithin were far from magnificent. Yet no club carried more distinctionin its membership. Its hundred possible inmates were the cream of thehigher professions, the chef and the cellar were things to wonder at,and the man who could write himself a member of the Rota Club hadobtained one of the rare social honours which men confer on one another.Thither came all manner of people--the distinguished foreigner travellingincognito, and eager to talk with some Minister unofficially on mattersof import, the diplomat on a secret errand, the traveller home for abrief season, the soldier, the thinker, the lawyer. It was a catholicassembly, but exclusive--very. Each man bore the stamp of competence onhis face, and there was no cheap talk of the "well-informed" variety.When the members spoke seriously they spoke like experts; otherwise theywere apt to joke very much like schoolboys let loose. The Right Hon.Mr. M---- was not above twitting Lord S---- with gunroom stories, andsuffering in turn good-natured libel.
Of the two men lighting their pipes in the little room one was to thefirst glance a remarkable figure. About the middle height, with asquare head and magnificent shoulders, he looked from the back notunlike some professional strong man. But his face betrayed him, for itwas clearly the face of the intellectual worker, the man of characterand mind. His jaw was massive and broad, saved from hardness only by aquaintly humorous mouth; he had, too, a pair of very sharp blue eyeslooking from under shaggy eyebrows. His age was scarcely beyond thirty,but one would have put it ten years later, for there were lines on hisbrow and threads of grey in his hair. His companion was slim and, to ahasty glance, insignificant. He wore a peaked grey beard whichlengthened his long, thin face, and he had a nervous trick of drummingalways with his fingers on whatever piece of furniture was near. But ifyou looked closer and marked the high brow, the keen eyes, and the veryresolute mouth, the thought of insignificance disappeared. He lookednot unlike a fighting Yankee colonel who had had a Puritan upbringing,and the impression was aided by his simplicity in dress. He was, infact, a very great man, the Foreign Secretary of the time, formerlyknown to fame as Lord Malham, and at the moment, by his father's death,Lord Beauregard, and, for his sins, an exile to the Upper House. Hiscompanion, whose name was Wratislaw, was a younger Member of Parliamentwho was credited with peculiar knowledge and insight on the matterswhich formed his lordship's province. They were close friends andallies of some years' standing, and colloquies between the two in thisvery place were not unknown to the club annals.
Lord Beauregard looked at his companion's anxious face. "Do you knowthe news?" he said.
"What news?" asked Wratislaw. "That your family position is changed, orthat the dissolution will be a week earlier, or that Marka is busyagain?"
"I mean the last. How did you know? Did you see the telegrams?"
"No, I saw it in the papers."
"Good Heavens!" said the great man. "Let me see the thing," and hesnatched a newspaper cutting from Wratislaw's hand, returning it thenext moment with a laugh. It ran thus: "Telegrams from the Punjabdeclare that an expedition, the personnel of which is not yet revealed,is about to start for the town of Bardur in N. Kashmir, to penetrate thewastes beyond the frontier. It is rumoured that the expedition has asemi-official character."
"That's our friend," said Wratislaw, putting the paper into his pocket.
Lord Beauregard wrinkled his brow and stared at the bowl of his pipe."I see the motive clearly, but I am hanged if I understand why anevening paper should print it. Who in this country knows of theexistence of Bardur?"
"Many people since Haystoun's book," said the other.
"I have just glanced at it. Is there anything important in it?"
"Nothing that we did not know before. But things are put in a freshlight. He covered ground himself of which we had only a second-handaccount."
"And he talks of this Bardur?"
"A good deal. He is an expert in his way on the matter and uncommonlyclever. He kept the best things out of the book, and it would be worthyour while meeting him. Do you happen to know him?"
"No--o," said the great man doubtfully. "Oh, stop a moment. I haveheard my young brother talk of somebody of the same name. Rather afigure at Oxford, wasn't he?"
Wratislaw nodded. "But to talk of Marka," he added.
"His mission is, of course, official, and he has abundant resources."
"So much I gathered," said Wratislaw. "But his designs?
"He knows the tribes in the North better than any living man, butwithout a base at hand he is comparatively harmless. The devil in thething is that we do not know how close that base may be. Fifty thousandmen may be massed within fifty miles, and we are in ignorance."
"It is the lack of a secret service," said the other. "Had we that,there are a hundred young men who would have risked their necks thereand kept us abreast of our enemies. As it is, we have to wait till newscomes by some roundabout channel, while that cheerful being, Marka,keeps the public easy by news of hypothetical private expeditious."
"And meantime there is that thousand-mile piece of desert of which weknow nothing, and where our friends may be playing pranks as theyplease. Well, well, we must wait on developments. It is the lastrefuge of the ill-informed. What about the dissolution? You are safe,I suppose?"
Wratislaw nodded.
"I have been asked my forecast fifty times to-day, and I steadily refuseto speak. But I may as well give it to you. We shall come back with amajority of from fifty to eighty, and you, my dear fellow, will not beforgotten."
"You mean the Under-Secretaryship," said the other. "Well, I don't mindit."
"I should think not. Why, you will get that chance your friends havehoped so long for, and then it is only a matter of time till you climbthe last steps. You are a youngish man for a Minister, for all yourelderly manners."
Wratislaw smiled the pleased smile of the man who hears kind words fromone whom he admires. "It won't be a bed of roses, you know. I am veryunpopular, and I have the grace to know it."
The elder man looked on the younger with an air of kindly wisdom. "Yourpride may have a fall, my dear fellow. You are young and confident, Iam old and humble. Some day you will be glad to hope that you are notwithout this despised popularity."
Wratislaw looked grave. "God forbid that I should despise it. When itcomes my way I shall think that my work is done, and rest in peace. Butyou and I are not the sort of people who can court it with comfort. Weare old sticks and very full of angles, but it would be a pity to rubthem off if the shape were to be spoiled."
Lord Beauregard nodded. "Tell me more about your friend Haystoun."
Wratislaw's face relaxed, and he became communicative.
"He is a Scots laird, rather well off, and, as I have said, uncommonlyclever. He lives at a place called Etterick in the Gled valley."
"I saw Merkland to-day, and he spoke his farewell to politics. TheWhips told me about it yesterday."
"Merkland! But he always raised that scare!"
"He is serious this time. He has sold his town house."
"Then that settles it. Lewis shall stand in his place."
"Good," said the great man. "We want experts. He would strengthen yourfeeble hands and confirm your tottering knees, Tommy."
"If he gets in; but he will have a fight for it. Our dear friend AlbertStocks has been nursing the seat, and the Manorwaters and scores ofLewie's friends will help him. That young man has a knack of confininghis affections to members of the opposite party."
"What was Merkland's majority? Two-fifty or something like that?"
"There or about. But he was an old and well-liked country laird,whereas Lewie is a very young gentleman with noth
ing to his creditexcept an Oxford reputation and a book of travels, neither of which willappeal to the Gledsmuir weavers."
"But he is popular?"
"Where he is known--adored. But his name does not carry confidence tothose who do not know the man, for his family were weak-kneed gentry."
"Yes, I knew his father. Able, but crotchety and impossible! Tommy,this young man must get the seat, for we cannot afford to throw away asingle chance. You say he knows the place," and he jerked his head toindicate that East to which his thoughts were ever turning. "Some timein the next two years there will be the devil's own mess in that happyland. Then your troubles will begin, my friend, and I can wish nothingbetter for you than the support of some man in the Commons who knowsthat Bardur is not quite so pastoral as Hampshire. He may relieve youof some of the popular odium you are courting, and at the worst he canbe sent out."
Wratislaw whistled long and low. "I think not," he said. "He is toogood to throw away. But he must get in, and as there is nothing in theworld for me to do I shall go up to Etterick tomorrow and talk to him.He will do as I tell him, and we can put our back into the fight.Besides, I want to see Stocks again. That man is the joy of my heart!"
"Lucky beggar!" said the Minister. "Oh, go by all means and enjoyyourself, while I swelter here for another three weeks over meaninglesstelegrams enlivened by the idiot diplomatist. Good-bye and good luck,and bring the young man to a sense of his own value."
