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  HIS HONOUR, AND A LADY

  BOOKS BY MRS. EVERARD COTES

  (SARA JEANNETTE DUNCAN).

  ----------

  =His Honour, and a Lady.=

  Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

  =The Story of Sonny Sahib.=

  Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

  =Vernon’s Aunt.=

  With many Illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

  =A Daughter of To-Day.=

  A Novel. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

  =A Social Departure.=

  HOW ORTHODOCIA AND I WENT ROUND THE WORLD BY OURSELVES. With 111 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 12mo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.75.

  =An American Girl in London.=

  With 80 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 12mo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50.

  =The Simple Adventures of a Memsahib.=

  With 37 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

  ------------------

  New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.

  The situation made its voiceless demand. (See page 33.)]

  HIS HONOUR, AND A LADY

  BY

  MRS. EVERARD COTES

  (SARA JEANNETTE DUNCAN)

  AUTHOR OF A SOCIAL DEPARTURE, AN AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON, A DAUGHTER OF TO-DAY, VERNON’S AUNT, THE STORY OF SONNY SAHIB, ETC.

  NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1896

  COPYRIGHT, 1895, 1896, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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  FACING PAGE

  The situation made its voiceless demand _Frontispiece_

  “She seems to be sufficiently entertained” 21

  There was a moment’s pause 83

  Notwithstanding, it was gay enough 150

  “What do I know about the speech”! 215

  She drove back 305

  HIS HONOUR, AND A LADY.

  CHAPTER I.

  “The Sahib _walks_!” said Ram Prasannad, who dusted the office books andpapers, to Bundal Singh the messenger, who wore a long red coat with abadge of office, and went about the business of the Queen-Empress on histwo lean brown legs.

  “What talk is that?” Bundal Singh shifted his betel quid to the othercheek and lunged upon his feet. This in itself was something. When onesits habitually upon one’s heels the process of getting up is notundertaken lightly. The men looked out together between the whitewashedstucco pillars of the long verandah that interposed between theCommissioner’s clerks and the glare and publicity of the outer world ofHassimabad. Overhead, in a pipal tree that threw sharp-cut patterns ofits heart-shaped leaves about their feet, a crow stretched itsgrey-black throat in strenuous caws, since it was ten o’clock in themorning and there was no reason to keep silence. Farther away a chorusof other crows smote the sunlight, and from the direction of the bazarcame a murmur of the life there, borne higher now and then in thewailing voice of some hawker of sweetmeats. Nevertheless there was aboundless stillness, a stillness that might have been commanded. Theprodigal sun intensified it, and the trees stood in it, a red and dustyroad wound through it, and the figure of a man, walking quickly down theroad, seemed to be a concentration of it.

  “That signifies,” continued Ram Prasannad, without emotion, “news thatis either very good or very bad. The Government _lât_ had but arrived,the sahib opened one letter only—which is now with him—and in a breathhe was gone, walking, though the horse was still fast between theshafts. Myself, I think the news is good, for my cousin—he is a writingbaboo in the Home Office, dost thou understand, thou, runner oferrands!—has sent word to me that the sahib is much in favour with the_Burra Lat_, and that it would be well to be faithful to him.”

  “I will go swiftly after with an umbrella, and from his countenance itwill appear,” remarked Bundal Singh; “and look thou, worthy one, if thatson of mud, Lal Beg, the grain dealer, comes again in my absence to tryto make petition to the sahib, and brings a pice less than one rupee tome, do thou refuse him admission.”

  Bundal Singh ran after his master, as he said. As John Church walkedrapidly, and the habitual pace of a Queen’s messenger in red and gold isa dignified walk, the umbrella was tendered with a devoted loss of wind.

  “It may be that your honour will take harm from the sun,” Bundal Singhsuggested, with the privilege all the Commissioner’s people feltpermitted to use. The Commissioner liked it—could be depended upon toappreciate any little savour of personal devotion to him, even if ittook the form of a liberty. He had not a servant who was unaware of thisor failed to presume upon it, in his place and degree. This one got anod of acknowledgment as his master took the opened umbrella, andobserved, as he fell behind, that the sahib was too much preoccupied tocarry it straight. He went meditatively back to Ram Prasannad in theverandah, who said, “Well?”

  “Simply it does not appear. The sahib’s forehead had twenty wrinkles,and his mind was a thousand miles hence. Yet it was as if he had latelysmiled and would smile again. What will be, will be. Lal Beg has notbeen here?”

  John Church walked steadily on, with his near-sighted eyes fixed alwaysupon the wide space of sunlit road, its red dust thick-printed with barefeet and hoofs, that lay in front of him—seeing nothing, literally, butthe way home. He met no one who knew him except people from the bazar,who regarded their vizier with serious wonder as they salaamed, the menwho sat upon low bamboo carts and urged, hand upon flank, thepeaceful-eyed cattle yoked to them, turning to stare as they joggedindolently past. A brown pariah, curled up in the middle of the road,lifted his long snout in lazy apology as Church stepped round him,trusting the sense that told him it would not be necessary to get out ofthe way. As he passed the last low wall, mossy and discoloured, thatdivided its brilliantly tangled garden from the highway, and turned inat its own gate, he caught himself out of his abstraction and threw uphis head. He entered his wife’s drawing-room considerately, and a ray oflight, slipping through the curtains and past the azaleas and across thecool duskness of the place, fell on his spectacles and exaggerated thetriumph in his face.

  The lady, who sat at the other end of the room writing, rose as herhusband came into it, and stepped forward softly to meet him. If you hadknown her you would have noticed a slight
elation in her step that wasnot usual, and made it more graceful, if anything, than it commonly was.

  “I think I know what you have come to tell me,” she said. Her voicematched her personality so perfectly that it might have suggested her,to a few people, in her darkened drawing-room, as its perfume wouldbetray some sweet-smelling thing in the evening. Not to John Church. “Ithink I know,” she said, as he hesitated for words that would not showextravagant or undignified gratification. “But tell me yourself. It willbe a pleasure.”

  “That Sir Griffiths Spence goes on eighteen months’ sick leave, and——”

  “And that you are appointed to officiate for him. Yes.”

  “Somebody has written?”

  “Yes—Mr. Ancram.”

  His wife had come close to him, and he noticed that she was holding outher hands in her impulse of congratulation. He took one of them—it wasall he felt the occasion required—and shook it lamely. She dropped theother with a little quick turn of her head and a dash of amusement ather own expense in the gentle gravity of her expression. “Do sit down,”she said, almost as if he had been a visitor, “and tell me all aboutit.” She dragged a comfortable chair forward out of its relation with aBurmese carved table, some pots of ferns and a screen, and sat downherself opposite, leaning forward in a little pose of expectancy. Churchplaced himself on the edge of it, grasping his hat with both handsbetween his knees.

  “I must apologise for my boots,” he said, looking down: “I walked over.I am very dusty.”

  “What does it matter? You are King of Bengal!”

  “Acting King.”

  “It is the same thing—or it will be. Sir Griffiths retires altogether intwo years—Lord Scansleigh evidently intends you to succeed him.” Thelady spoke with obvious repression, but her gray eyes and the warmwhiteness of her oval face seemed to have caught into themselves all thelight and shadow of the room.

  “Perhaps—perhaps. You always invest in the future at a premium, Judith.I don’t intend to think about that.”

  Such an anticipation, based on his own worth, seemed to himunwarrantable, almost indecent.

  “I do,” she said, wilfully ignoring the clouding of his face. “There isso much to think about. First the pay—almost ten thousand rupees amonth—and we are poor. It may be a material consideration, but I don’tmind confessing that the prospect of never having to cut the khansamahappeals to me. We shall have a palace and a park to live in, with aguard at the gates, and two outriders with swords to follow ourcarriage. We shall live in Calcutta, where there are trams and theatresand shops and people. The place carries knighthood if you are confirmedin it, and you will be Sir John Church—that gratifies the snob that islatent in me because I am a woman, John.” (She paused and glanced at hisface, which had grown almost morose.) “Best of all,” she added lightly,“as Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal you will be practically sole ruler ofeighty millions of people. You will be free to carry out your owntheories, and to undertake reforms—any number of reforms! Mr. Ancramsays,” she went on, after a moment’s hesitation, “that the man and theopportunity have come together.”

  John Church blushed, through his beard which was gray, and over the topof his head which was bald, but his look lightened.

  “Ancram will be one of my secretaries,” he said. “Does he speak atall—does he mention the way it has been taken in Calcutta?”

  Mrs. Church went to her writing-table and came back with the letter. Itwas luxuriously written, in a rapid hand as full of curves and angles asa woman’s, and covered, from “Dear Lady” to “Always yours sincerely,”several broad-margined sheets.

  “I think he does,” she said, deliberately searching the pages. “Yes:‘Church was not thought precisely in the running—you are so remote inHassimabad, and his work has always been so unostentatious—and there wassome surprise when the news came, but no cavil. It is known that theViceroy has been looking almost with tears for a man who would be strongenough to redeem a few of Sir Griffiths’ mistakes if possible while heis away—he has been, as you know, ludicrously weak with the natives—andChurch’s handling of that religious uproar you had a year ago has notbeen forgotten. I need not expatiate upon the pleasure your friendsfeel, but it may gratify you to know that the official mob is less readywith criticism of His Excellency’s choice than usual.’”

  John Church listened with the look of putting his satisfaction underconstraint. He listened in the official manner, as one who has manythings to hear, with his head bent forward and toward his wife, and hiseyes consideringly upon the floor.

  “I am glad of that,” he said nervously when she had finished—“I am gladof that. There is a great deal to be done in Bengal, and matters will besimplified if they recognise it.“

  “I think you would find a great deal to do anywhere, John,” remarkedMrs. Church. It could almost be said that she spoke kindly, and asensitive observer with a proper estimate of her husband might havefound this irritating. During the little while that followed, however,as they talked, in the warmth of this unexpected gratification, of whathis work had been as a Commissioner, and what it might be as aLieutenant-Governor, it would have been evident even to an observer whowas not sensitive, that here they touched a high-water mark of theirintercourse, a climax in the cordiality of their mutual understanding.

  “By the way,” said John Church, getting up to go, “when is Ancram to bemarried?”

  “I don’t know!” Mrs. Church threw some interest into the words. Herinflection said that she was surprised that she didn’t know. “He onlymentions Miss Daye to call her a ‘study in femininity,’ which looks asif he might be submitting to a protracted process of education at herhands. Certainly not soon, I should think.”

  “Ancram must be close on forty, with good pay, good position, goodprospects. He shouldn’t put it off any longer: a man has no business togrow old alone in this country. He deteriorates.”

  Church pulled himself together with a shake—he was a loose-hungcreature—and put a nervous hand up to his necktie. Then he pulled downhis cuffs, considered his hat with the effect of making quite sure thatthere was nothing more to say, and turned to go.

  “You might send me over something,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Iwon’t be able to come back to breakfast. Already I’ve lostthree-quarters of an hour from work. Government doesn’t pay me for that.You are pleased, then?” he added, looking round at her in a halfshamefaced way from the door.

  Mrs. Church had returned to the writing-table, and had again taken upher pen. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her delicate chin witha smile that had custom and patience in it.

  “Very pleased indeed,” she said; and he went away. The intelligentobserver, again, would have wondered how he refrained from going backand kissing her. Perhaps the custom and the patience in her smile wouldhave lent themselves to the explanation. At all events, he went away.

  He was forty-two, exactly double her age, when he married JudithStrange, eight years before, in Stoneborough, a small manufacturing townin the north of England, where her father was a Nonconformist minister.He was her opportunity, and she had taken him, with privatecongratulation that she could respect him and private qualms as towhether her respect was her crucial test of him—considered in the lightof an opportunity. Not in any sordid sense; she would be more inclinedperhaps to apologise for herself than I am to apologise for her. Butwith an inordinately hungry capacity for life she had the narrowestconditions to live in. She knew by intuition that the world was full ofcolour and passion, and when one is tormented with this sort ofknowledge it becomes more than ever grievous to inhabit one of itssmall, dull, grimy blind alleys, with the single anticipation ofenduring to a smoke-blackened old age, like one of Stoneborough’s lesserchimneys. There was nothing ideal about John Church except hishonesty,—already he stooped, already he was grey, sallow and serious,with the slenderest interest in questions that could not express theirutility in unquestionable facts,—but when he asked her to marry him, thewal
l at the end of the alley fell down, and a breeze stole in from thefar East, with a vision of palms and pomegranates. She accepted him forthe sake of her imagination, wishing profoundly that he was not so muchlike her father, with what her mother thought almost improperpromptitude; and for a long time, although he still stood outside it,her imagination loyally rewarded her. She felt the East to herfingertips, and her mere physical life there became a thing of vividexperience, to be valued for itself. If her husband confounded this joyin her expansion with the orthodox happiness of a devoted wife, itcannot be said that he was particularly to blame for his mistake, fornumbers of other people made it also. And when, after eight years of hiscompanionship, and that of the sunburned policeman, the anæmicmagistrate, the agreeable doctor, their wives, the odd colonel, and thestray subalterns that constituted society in the stations they lived in,she began to show a little lassitude of spirit, he put it down notunnaturally to the climate, and wished he could conscientiously take afew months’ leave, since nothing would induce her to go to Englandwithout him. By this time India had become a resource, India that layall about her, glowing, profuse, mysterious, fascinating, a place inwhich she felt that she had no part, could never have any part, but thatof a spectator. The gesture of a fakir, the red masses of the gold-mohurtrees against the blue intensity of the sky, the heavy sweetness of theevening wind, the soft colour and curves of the homeward driven cattle,the little naked babies with their jingling anklets in the bazar—she hadbegun to turn to these things seeking their gift of pleasure jealously,consciously thankful that, in spite of the Amusement Club, she couldnever be altogether bored.

  John Church went back to work with his satisfaction sweetened by thefact that his wife had told him that she was very pleased indeed, whileMrs. Church answered the Honourable Mr. Lewis Ancram’s letter.

  “I have been making my own acquaintance this morning,” she said amongother things, “as an ambitious woman. It is intoxicating, after thisidle, sun-filled, wondering life, with the single supreme care that Johndoes not wear ragged collars to church—as a Commissioner he ought to beextravagant in collars—to be confronted with something to assume andcarry out, a part to play, with all India looking on. Don’t imagine alofty intention on my part to inspire my husband’s Resolutions. I assureyou I see myself differently. Perhaps, after all, it is the foolishanticipation of my state and splendour that has excited my vainimagination as much as anything. Already, prospectively, I murmur lamenothings into the ear of the Viceroy as he takes me down to dinner! ButI am preposterously delighted. To-morrow is Sunday—I have an irreverentdesire for the prayers of all the churches.”