My happy home life continued undisturbed until I was thirteen. Indian girls of that age are more advanced than their Western sisters, but I was still very much a child, thanks to my parents.

My father’s name is for ever associated with the Civil Marriage Act, as it was entirely owing to his exertions that the Government passed this wise measure fixing the marriageable age of men and girls at eighteen and fourteen respectively.

The fairy prince in my romance was the young Nripendra Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, who had been a ward of the Government since his infancy, and carefully educated to be a model ruler. Colonel Haughton wrote: “Ever since I have become Commissioner for Cooch Behar, the honour of the young Maharajah, his future happiness, and the welfare of the State have been my anxious care.”

This Indian prince’s family records show that he was descended from one of the oldest ruling families in the country. According to popular tradition his race had been founded by the love of a god and a maiden, and through successive ages strife and love have been associated with the dynasty of Cooch Behar, whose chiefs are always great rulers, great lovers, and great fighters.

The first wish of the Government was to prevent any palace interference with the baby Maharajah’s upbringing. When his father, the late Maharajah, was a ward of the Government, the Maharanis had been very hostile to the idea of a foreign education, and similar opposition was what the Government now wanted to avoid. Therefore, for this and other private reasons which can easily be understood when it is remembered that the late Maharajah left many wives, the Maharajah was removed, when he was five years old, to the Wards’ institution at Benares, near which the members of the Cooch Behar Raj family lived in several houses known as the Cooch Behar Palace.

When he was eleven, the Government removed him from Benares to Patna, where he became a student at Government College, and Colonel Haughton’s anxious instructions to Babu Kasi Kanto Mukerji, who was in charge of the boy, were “to watch over his conduct and the management of the household: to see that strangers and unauthorised persons have no access to them: and generally to discharge such duties with regard to him as a good parent is bound to do.”

In 1872 Mr. St. John Kneller became his tutor and guardian. The Maharajah remained in Patna for five years, during which time he and Mr. Kneller visited the North-Western Provinces, Oudh, and the Punjab, and in 1877 the Maharajah attended the Durbar at Delhi, when the Queen was proclaimed Empress of India. The Viceroy, the late Lord Lytton, received the young ruler most cordially, and presented him with the Kaisar-i-Hind medal. Now for the first time the Maharajah was saluted with thirteen guns, and had a European guard of honour to attend him.

So far the experiment of training the ideal ruler for the ideal state had succeeded beyond the highest expectations of the Government. The Maharajah had become a clever young man and a keen sportsman and, as Mr. Dalton remarked at the Chaurakaran ceremony at Cooch Behar in 1876, “His Highness is fond of his native soil and the people, and enjoys himself thoroughly, taking an interest in everything.”

But now arose the question of the future. To ensure final success for the Government’s scheme, it was necessary that the young ruler should marry an equally advanced girl, who would second him in his (and incidentally the Government’s) efforts for Cooch Behar.

The difficult problem then arose as to whether an educated wife would agree to the polygamy hitherto customary with Maharajahs, and to adopt the many old-fashioned ideas and ways of a Hindu Court. The Government was keenly alive to the fact that marriage might make or mar their experiment, and they were determined to do all they could to prevent failure.

But as it is a principle of the British not to interfere with the marriage question in India, it was necessary for them to be very discreet in their plans, which required great tact to carry out with success.

Mr. Jadab Chandra Chuckerbutty, the Magistrate of Cooch Behar, was deputed to make confidential investigations and find if possible the enlightened girl whom the Government could approve as the Maharani of Cooch Behar. He carried out his mission with discretion; but none of the girls whom he found came up to the required standard.

It was absolutely necessary for the question of the Maharajah’s marriage to be settled without further delay, as his visit to England was in contemplation. This journey was a very sore point with the Palace ladies, and Sir Richard Temple, then the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, had discussed it rather heatedly.

“During my interview with the Rajah’s mother and grandmother,” wrote Sir Richard, “these ladies expressed anxiety regarding the Rajah’s visiting England, which they deprecated on the grounds that after seeing Europe he would never care for such a place as Cooch Behar nor for such quiet, homely people as his relatives. I explained that it had not been decided whether the Rajah should visit England; but that, if he did, it would only be for a short time, enough indeed to enlarge and strengthen his mind, but not enough to make him forget his home and kindred; and that, while giving him the benefit of an English education, we should take every pains to train and prepare him for the duties he would hereafter have to discharge as the head of a Hindu State.”

These arguments somewhat pacified the ladies, but they maintained that only as a married man could the Maharajah go away from India with any degree of security. At that time they had not realised that the hope of the Government was that the Maharajah would take one wife only when the time for his marriage came.

The party from Cooch Behar in search of a bride at last arrived at Calcutta, and Mr. Chuckerbutty went direct to Prosonna Babu, one of my father’s missionaries, for advice and help. After several interviews and discussions Jadab Babu spoke of me. But Mr. Chuckerbutty said: “It is too much to expect that the Minister’s daughter will be our Maharani;” still they thought they would try.

When the marriage was first suggested my father was very surprised. He never gave a thought to worldly or family affairs; his mind was too full of his religious work; and he refused the offer. But the Government and the representatives of the State would not be discouraged. They continued writing to my father, interviewing him, and sending messages urging that the marriage of the young Prince and myself was most desirable. My father repeatedly refused. In one of his letters he said that I was neither very pretty nor highly educated, and therefore I was not a suitable bride for the young Maharajah.

This unexpected opposition was a set-back to the plans of the Government, and they determined it must be overcome at any cost. Those in authority were clever enough to understand that they must discover my father’s weak point and work upon it, as it was evident the worldly advantages of the match made no appeal to him.

The messenger went backwards and forwards several times, for Jadab Babu and others would not hear of any refusal. My father with a troubled mind prayed and prayed until at last he obtained light from above and realised that the marriage would be for the spiritual good of the country. Thus he became in the end persuaded that such a union was a Divine command, and if he allowed me to marry this young ruler he would be fulfilling the will of God.

Of course the matter was not mentioned to me, but one day my second sister Bino remarked confidentially: “Father and mother are talking about marriage, aren’t they?” “Oh no,” I answered; “it’s nothing particular, probably one of the young missionaries is going to be married.” “Well, let me tell you, it’s no missionary, but some one far more important.” “It doesn’t matter to me,” I said, and I thought no more of it.

Later one of the missionaries remarked with meaning in his voice: “You will be surprised in a day or two, Sunity. Some very important people are coming to see the school.”

“So much the better,” I assured him, “for now you have told me I can study hard and tell the others to do the same.”

The day before the officials arrived from Cooch Behar, I fell ill with fever. After a restless night, I awoke to find my father and mother standing by my bedside.

They looked at each other. “Have you told Sunity?” asked my father.

“No,” replied mother, “it is better you should.”

“Listen, Sunity,” said my father. “Has Prosonna Babu mentioned some visitors who are expected to-day?”

“Yes, he said that some Englishmen are coming to see the school; and, father,” I faltered, “I can’t get up.”

“Sunity,” answered my father in that loving voice which always made us children thrill with affection, “it is not the school. These gentlemen are coming to see you.”

“To see me!” I cried. “Why?” “Sunity,” said my father in a gentle voice, “these people are coming to see you, and if we all agree, perhaps some day you will marry a handsome young Maharajah.”

I hid my face in my pillow. I could not speak. Marriage was to me an undiscussed subject. I had never considered it. I felt so shy I became quite red in the face.

After a few hours I was told to get ready. Mother gave me some lovely jewels which looked beautiful on my mauve and gold sari. My hair was dressed. We drove over to dear Miss Pigot’s school-house, where I usually had lessons. I was very nervous, and through fear and ague combined I trembled like a leaf.

I rested a little while on the verandah. While I was there I was given a strong dose of quinine. I shall never forget the unpleasant taste of that special draught.

Then I was taken to the drawing-room, where Mr. Dalton and the Bengali officials awaited me. Mr. Dalton looked kind but critical.

“Won’t you play to me?” he asked.

I obediently seated myself at the piano and played a simple piece of music. Mr. Dalton watched me up to the piano and back to my seat and as I talked to him; and wrote a full description to the young Maharajah afterwards. “Very nice,” he said, in such a charming way that I did not think he was examining me. He seemed favourably impressed, and so it proved, for in one of his letters to my father he wrote: “I thought your daughter a very charming young lady, and in every way a suitable bride for the Maharajah.”

Letters passed and repassed between Cooch Behar and Calcutta, but nothing was settled until the 27th of January, 1878, when Mr. Dalton wrote as follows:—

Observe how in this letter Government smoothed away all my father’s objections. The marriage was to be merely a “solemn betrothal,” and hey presto! the age difficulty vanished. Concessions were certain so far as his religious scruples were concerned, but the words “now or never” throw a curious side-light upon the Government policy. The Cooch Behar-Sen alliance was necessary to them, and my father was to be finally “rushed” into giving his consent. That such was the case is shown by the following telegram from the Dewan to Babu Chuckerbutty:—

Then the delight of Babu Chuckerbutty found expression in this letter to Prosonna Babu:—

The Maharajah wrote to my father as follows:—