It was a foregone conclusion in Calcutta that the name of the Chief
Commissioner of Assam should figure prominently in the Birthday Honours
of the season. On the 24th of that very hot May people sat in their
verandahs in early morning dishabille, and consumed tea and toast and
plantains, and read in the local extras that a Knight Commandership of
the Star of India had fluttered down upon the head of Mr. Lewis Ancram,
without surprise. Doubtless the “Modern Influence of the Vedic Books”
was to be reckoned with to some extent in the decorative result, but the
general public gave it less importance than Sir Walter Besant, for
example, would be disposed to do. The general public reflected rather
upon the Chief Commissioner’s conspicuous usefulness in Assam,
especially the dexterity with which he had trapped border raids upon
tea-plantations. The general public remembered how often it had seen Mr.
Lewis Ancram’s name in the newspapers, and in what invariably approved
connections. So the men in pyjamas on the verandahs languidly regarded
the wide flat spreading red-and-yellow bouquets of the gold mohur trees
where the crows were gasping and swearing on the Maidan, and declared,
with unanimous yawns, that Ancram was “just the fellow to get it.”
The Supreme Government at Simla was even better acquainted with Lewis
Ancram’s achievements and potentialities than the general public,
however. There had been occasions, when Mr. Ancram was a modest Chief
Secretary only, upon which the Supreme Government had cause to
congratulate itself privately as to Mr. Ancram’s extraordinary
adroitness in political moves affecting the “advanced” Bengali. Since
his triumph over the College Grants Notification the advanced Bengali
had become increasingly outrageous. An idea in this connection so far
emerged from official representations at headquarters as to become
almost obvious, as to leave no alternative—which is a very remarkable
thing in the business of the Government of India. It was to the effect
that the capacity to outwit the Bengali should be the single
indispensable qualification of the next Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal.
“No merely straightforward chap will do,” said Lord Scansleigh, with a
sigh, “however able he may be. Of course,” he added, “I don’t mean to
say that we want a crooked fellow, but our man must understand
crookedness and be equal to it. That, poor Church never was.”
The Viceroy delivered himself thus because Sir Griffiths Spence’s
retirement was imminent, and he had his choice for Bengal to make over
again. Simplicity and directness apparently disqualified a number of
gentleman of seniority and distinction, for ten days later it was
announced that the appointment had fallen to Sir Lewis Ancram, K.C.S.I.
Again the little world of Calcutta declined to be surprised: nothing,
apparently, exceeded the popular ambition for the Chief Commissioner of
Assam. Hawkins, of the Board of Revenue, was commiserated for a day or
two, but it was very generally admitted that men like Hawkins of the
Board of Revenue, solid, unpretentious fellows like that, were extremely
apt, somehow, to be overlooked. People said generally that Scansleigh
had done the right thing—that Ancram would know how to manage the
natives. It was perceived that the new King of Bengal would bring a
certain picturesqueness to the sceptre, he was so comparatively young
and so superlatively clever. In view of this the feelings of Hawkins of
the Board of Revenue were lost sight of. And nothing could have been
more signal than the approbation of the native newspapers. Mohendra Lal
Chuckerbutty, in the _Bengal Free Press_, wept tears of joy in leading
articles every day for a week. “Bengal,” said Mohendra, editorially,
“has been given a man after her own heart.” By which Sir Lewis Ancram
was ungrateful enough to be annoyed.
Judith grew very white over the letter which brought her the news,
remembering many things. It was a careful letter, but there was a throb
of triumph in it—a suggestion, just perceptible, of the dramatic value
of the situation. She told herself that this was inevitable and natural,
just as inevitable and natural as all the rest; but at the same time she
felt that her philosophy was not quite equal to the remarkable
completeness of Ancram’s succession. With all her pride in him, in her
heart of hearts she would infinitely have preferred to share some
degradation with him rather than this; she would have liked the taste of
any bitterness of his misfortune better than this perpetual savour of
his usurpation. It was a mere phase of feeling, which presently she put
aside, but for the moment her mind dwelt with curious insistence upon
one or two little pictorial memories of the other master of Belvedere,
while tears stood in her eyes and a foolish resentment at this fortunate
turn of destiny tugged at her heart-strings. In a little while she found
herself able to rejoice for Ancram with sincerity, but all day she
involuntarily recurred, with deep, gentle irritation, to the association
of the living idea and the dead one.
Perhaps the liveliest pang inflicted by Sir Lewis Ancram’s appointment
was experienced by Mrs. Daye. Mrs. Daye confided to her husband that she
never saw the Belvedere carriage, with its guard of Bengal cavalry
trotting behind, without thinking that if things had turned out
differently she might be sitting in it, with His Honour her son-in-law.
From which the constancy and keenness of Mrs. Daye’s regrets may be in a
measure inferred. She said to privileged intimate friends that she knew
she was a silly, worldly thing, but really it did bring out one’s
silliness and worldliness to have one’s daughter jilt a
Lieutenant-Governor, in a way that nobody could understand whose
daughter hadn’t done it. Mrs. Daye took what comfort she could out of
the fact that this limitation excluded every woman she knew. She would
add, with her brow raised in three little wrinkles of deprecation, that
of course they were immensely pleased with Rhoda’s ultimate choice: Mr.
Doyle was a dear, sweet man, but she, Mrs. Daye, could not help having a
sort of sisterly regard for him, which towards one’s son-in-law was
ridiculous. He certainly had charming manners—the very man to appreciate
a cup of tea and one’s poor little efforts at conversation—if he didn’t
happen to be married to one’s daughter. It was ludicrously impossible to
have a seriously enjoyable _tête-à-tête_ with a man who was married to
one’s daughter!