Dawson Munro, Governor and Commander-in-Chief of the scattered group of possessions known as the Outward Islands, was the last of a long line of colonial administrators. His forebears—hard, thrusting Empire-builders for the most part—had believed in the Divine Right of the Munros to administer, and Dawson had inherited the doctrine so completely as to be unconscious of the fact. He was, however, superficially aware of the requirements of a changing world and practised a benevolent paternalism where his ancestors would have relied on a sharp kick in the pants. His liberalism—with a small “l”, for it was from the Labour Government that he had received his rapid advancement—took the form of a rather patronising goodwill towards all his fellow-men and an often-expressed belief that even the most murderous of his coloured subjects were “not bad chaps at heart.” He was erudite, conscientious, and up to a point able, but he suffered from a monumental complacency and a limitless capacity for self-deception. Scurrilous attacks on him in the vernacular Press of Port Sargasso had not shaken his conviction that he enjoyed the goodwill of the underdog, nor had recent developments in the Outward Islands undermined his certainty that he knew what was best in all circumstances. He was the sort of man who blandly refuses to believe that he has any enemies, and in fact has few friends.
Munro had accepted Ede’s invitation to lunch at the Morning Call more as a magnanimous return for the useful editorial backing the paper had given him in a critical hour than because he had any nostalgic desire to revisit the scene of his early literary labours. Now that he held a responsible public position his former association with what was, after all, a rather sensational popular daily was slightly embarrassing. Indeed, if the subject of his early career ever arose in the course of conversation—and as he enjoyed talking about himself it quite often did—he usually managed to convey the impression that his scholastic triumphs at Harrow and Trinity had been followed almost at once by membership of the House of Commons and a successful Under-Secretaryship. To-day, as he strode behind a somewhat grubby urchin on his way to the Editor’s room, there was nothing in his expression of benevolent interest to indicate that he was familiar with every inch of the place. Nor would his greeting to Miss Timmins, amiable though it was, have revealed to a stranger that they had once been troupers in the same company.
The Editor poured sherry at a small cocktail cabinet in his room and smilingly handed Munro his glass. The Governor was a tall man with a large frame that had not as yet filled out—he was barely forty. To remedy this defect—for he already thought of himself as an elder statesman—he had a habit of thrusting out his stomach, which with his stooping donnish shoulders, gave his figure the shape of an elongated letter S. He boomed in cultured accents, his head patronisingly inclined from long habit, his mild gaze focused to shrewdness by thick lenses. In a surprisingly short time he was embarked on a recital of his recent activities.
Ede sipped his sherry, observed his man closely, and politely waited for an opportunity to get a word in. He was no sycophant, and a Governor qua Governor meant nothing to him, but it was almost a physical impossibility for him to be rude to anyone.
“By the way,” he managed to say at last, “I thought I’d ask Iredale to join us for lunch, as you assured me you had no objection. You’re certain that’s all right?”
“Quite all right, my dear fellow,” said Munro heartily. “I shall be delighted to see him again. Some people might find him a bit abrupt, perhaps, but I know he’s a good chap at heart. He seemed to me to have ability, too.” The Governor fingered the heavy gold chain—a family heirloom—that lay across his waistcoat. “At the same time, Ede, I think you were wise not to use those articles of his. He showed them to me, you know—very properly, in the circumstances. They exhibited rather more heat than light, I thought. I didn’t object to the personal criticism in the least—in my position you get a good deal of that from the less well-informed section of the Press—but I felt it wasn’t quite the moment to rock the boat.”
“I dare say not.” Ede was slightly annoyed by Munro’s tone. It was one thing to make his own decision on a matter of policy—though he wasn’t so sure of the soundness of that decision now that he had had an opportunity to reflect on what Iredale had said—but quite another to have it so loftily approved by an interested party. “I gather,” he said, “that you and Iredale had one or two rather heated encounters.”
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” said Munro with the good-humoured tolerance of a headmaster discussing a boy’s minor peccadillo with a parent. “Personally I like to see a newspaperman taking his assignment so seriously. So many of them, unfortunately, are far too frivolous. How is Iredale feeling about it all now?”
“Still ruffled, but cooling down. If you happen to feel like talking shop after lunch—and I frankly hope you will—I think I can promise you there’ll be no broken heads. By the way, how long are you staying in England?” The Editor’s tone was casual. He knew perfectly well that the answer depended on what the Secretary of State had had to say to Munro that morning.
“I expect to fly back on Tuesday,” said the Governor complacently.
“Ah! Speculations disproved, in fact?”
“They were always groundless, my dear fellow. I really don’t know why the Press always has to take a melodramatic view whenever a Governor is recalled for consultations. As a matter of fact, this whole business has been exaggerated out of all proportion. It’s been very unfortunate, of course—very unfortunate indeed—and shocking bad luck for the Clintons.” He gave a reminiscent shake of his head. “The family was wiped out, you know. Still, these things do happen in the best-regulated colonies, and between ourselves there was a certain amount of provocation. The Clintons were not the most liberal planters in the colony.”
“Would it have made any difference if they had been?” Ede’s feelings towards the absent Iredale were growing friendlier every moment.
Munro appeared to bend his whole judicial capacity to the question. “M’m—yes, I think it might have done. Mind you, I’m not blaming the planters—at least, not altogether. They have their difficulties—one has to admit that. But they don’t move with the times, and I must say some of them are extremely headstrong. They give me a great deal of trouble.”
“Iredale tells me a few of them actually threatened you.”
“Yes, that is so, but I can’t feel they meant what they said. Probably their nerves were a little frayed. Two or three of them called at Government House—a sort of unofficial deputation—demanding what they called ‘strong measures’. Naturally I wasn’t prepared to give them assurances under pressure. Then one of them made the very improper observation that if I wasn’t careful my body would be found floating in the lagoon! I know him well—he’s a hot-tempered chap with a very trying wife, but he’s a good fellow really. He’ll probably ask me over for a drink as soon as I get back.”
“I can’t say I envy you your job,” said Ede. “It almost sounds as though you’re conducting a war on two fronts.”
“I have to hold the balance. Naturally, a job like mine has its dangers, but someone has to carry on the public service. Three of my ancestors were assassinated, you know …” Munro mentioned the fact as though it were the first time in his life he had told anyone. “But then, I daresay they deserved it. Getting on with people is an art. My rule is to try to see the good points of the other fellow, and always to shake hands when the row’s over.”
Ede smiled. “Admirable counsel! If you ever get tired of your islands, Munro, you might come back and do a little peacemaking here. I assure you that planters have nothing on newspapermen when it comes to temperament.” He glanced at the clock. “Well, let’s go upstairs, shall we, and see if the restaurant has improved at all since your time. Lionel Cardew will be joining us—he’s our new Foreign Editor from to-day. You’ll find him very well-informed.
I’ve asked Joe Hind, too—he’s always good company. You remember him, I expect?”
“The Falstaff of the Morning Call? Yes, I remember Joe. A capital fellow. Is he drinking as hard as ever? I’m afraid that’s a thing I can’t agree with …” As Munro followed the Editor to the lift, the echoes of his voice boomed round the lower corridors.