His Honour, and a Lady

by Sara Jeannette Duncan

Ancram looked at his watch. The afternoon was mellowing. If Mohendra Lall Chuckerbutty had come for the purpose of discussing His Honour the Lieutenant-Governor’s intentions towards the University Colleges, he had better begin. Mr. Ancram was aware that in so far as so joyous and auspicious an event as a visit to a Chief Secretary could be dominated by a purpose, Mohendra’s was dominated by this one; and he had been for some time reflecting upon the extent to which he would allow himself to be drawn. He was at variance with John Church’s administration—now that three months had made its direction manifest—at almost every point. He was at variance with John Church himself—that he admitted to be a matter of temperament. But Church had involved the Government of Bengal in blunders from which the advice of his Chief Secretary, if he had taken it, would have saved him. He had not merely ignored the advice: he had rejected it somewhat pointedly, being a candid man and no diplomat. If he had acknowledged his mistakes ever so privately, his Chief Secretary would have taken a fine ethical pleasure in forgiving them; but the Lieutenant-Governor appeared to think that where principle was concerned the consideration of expediency was wholly superfluous, and continued to defend them instead, even after he could plainly see, in the Bengal Free Press and elsewhere, that they had begun to make him unpopular. Ancram’s vanity had never troubled him till now. It had grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength, under the happiest circumstances, and he had been as little aware of it as of his arterial system. John Church had made him unpleasantly conscious of it, and he was as deeply resentful as if John Church had invested him with it. The Honourable Mr. Ancram had never been discounted before, and that this experience should come to him through an official superior whom he did not consider his equal in many points of administrative sagacity, was a circumstance that had its peculiar irritation. Mohendra Lall Chuckerbutty was very well aware of this; and yet he did not feel confident in approaching the matter of His Honour and the higher culture. It was a magnificent grievance. Mohendra had it very much at heart, the Free Press would have it very much at heart, and nothing was more important than the private probing of the Chief Secretary’s sentiment regarding it; yet Mohendra hesitated. He wished very much that there were some tangible reason why Ancram should take sides against the Lieutenant-Governor, some reason that could be expressed in rupees: then he would have had more confidence in hoping for an adverse criticism. But for a mere dislike, a mere personal antagonism, it would be so foolish. Thus Mohendra vacillated, stroking his fat cheek with his fingers, and looking at the matting. Ancram saw that his visitor would end by abandoning his intention, and became aware that he would prefer that this should not happen.

“And what do you think,” he said casually, “of our proposal to make you all pay for your Greek?”

Mohendra beamed. “I think, sir, that it cannot be your proposal.”

“It isn’t,” said Ancram sententiously.

“If it becomes law, it will be the signal for a great disturbance. I mean, off course,” the Baboo hastened to add, “of a pacific kind. No violence, of course! Morally speaking the community is already up in arms—morally speaking! It is destructive legislation, sir; we must protest.”

“I don’t blame you for that.”

“Then you do not yourself approve off it?”

“I think it’s a mistake. Well-intentioned, but a mistake.”

“Oh, the intention, that iss good! But impracticable,” Mohendra ventured vaguely: “a bubble in the air—that is all; but the question i—iz,” he went on, “will it become law? Yesterday only I first heard offitt. Mentally I said, ‘I will go to my noble friend and find out for myself the rights offitt!’ Then I will act.”

“Oh, His Honour intends to put it through. If you mean to do anything there’s no time to lose.” Ancram assured himself afterwards that between his duty as an administrator and his private sentiment toward his chief there could be no choice.