THE WHITE BROTHER.
THE heat continued to increase; to Alicia it seemed to be terrific. The
accommodation in the two bungalows was small. Mr. Hartley and his
daughter-in-law had repeated attacks of fever, though not of an alarming
nature. Miranda was the most gentle and loving of nurses, and became
increasingly dear in the mission circle. “If Gilbert send for his
sister, I know not how we shall bear to part with her,” said Alicia.
“Miranda is opening out like a flower, and such a lovely sweet one!”
Robin Hartley was by far the merriest of the circle, and during the
trying season helped to keep every one’s spirits alive. He was naturally
of a joyous nature, and he had now found a new fountain of pleasure.
Little cared Robin for the heat, even when it shut him up in his little
room in semi-darkness with the musquitoes, for he had his pen and paper
with him. Robin had taken to composing, and found great delight in the
occupation. No one knew whether he was writing a Panjabi vocabulary, a
journal, or an epic poem; Robin kept his own secret, like a child bent
on giving some one a surprise. He himself carried a thick roll of paper
to the post, and he watched as eagerly for a reply as did Alicia for an
answer to her letter to her cousin Gilbert.
The looked-for mail-day arrived. Harold brought in to his wife three
letters bearing the English post-mark. Alicia singled out the one which
was _not_ in a familiar hand; these sprawling characters she guessed to
be traced by her cousin, from whom she had never before had a letter.
Miranda—seated on the ground, her favourite position still, though she
had always a chair at meals—watched with anxiety in her fine dark eyes
the face of her cousin. She seemed to know, as by instinct, that the
letter which Alicia was perusing related to her own fate. The letter,
which was read aloud, ran as follows:—
“MY DEAR COZ,—I am sure that you have shown wonderful ingenuity
in ferreting out this sister of mine. I was never so astonished
in my life as when I found that I had one. The whole story is
like a sensation novel or a transformation scene in a pantomime.
But when the novel is closed, or the curtain falls on Columbine,
the whole thing is over, and nothing remains to be done. This
affair of Miranda is a different and much more difficult matter.
You ask me if I wish to have my sister home to be educated in
England; you give me to understand that she is a kind of raw
material (silk in the cocoon, I suppose) which her friends are
to work up into satin. The girl can’t read, write, or spell,
cannot yet use a knife and fork, does not know a word of
English, and prefers squatting on the floor to lolling on a sofa
like a lady! What on earth could I do with such a heathenish
sister?”
“I should like to punch that fellows head!” exclaimed Robin, his eyes
flashing with indignation. “He may have a head to be punched, but he
certainly has not a heart.”
Miranda looked at her angry bhai with alarm. “There must be something
very dreadful indeed in that letter,” thought the poor girl. “I am
afraid that I have a cruel white brother in England.”
“Let’s hear the rest of the letter,” said Harold; and Alicia resumed her
reading:—
“I could not introduce to my wife and her acquaintance a girl—a _widow_,
you say—who might startle us by plunging her hand into a fricassee, or
whooping like a Red Indian.”
“What does the fellow mean by that?” fiercely interrupted Robin.
“Oh, I suppose that Gilbert classes all sorts of Indians together,”
laughed Alicia: “he was always a thoughtless boy. I daresay that he
thinks that our Premi wears a coronet of feathers, and perhaps a chaplet
of human teeth.” Again the lady read on,—
“Then if any respectable school would admit this wild widow, there are
no funds to support her there. Government has agreed to do something in
consideration of what was lost in the Mutiny; but what is fifteen pounds
per annum in England? hardly enough to pay a dancing-master’s fees. No,
no; the wild widow had far better keep where she is. Perhaps you could
find another black husband to suit her.”
Robin struck his clenched fist on the table with such violence that he
threw over a tumbler, and smashed a plate, and filled Miranda’s young
heart with vague apprehensions.
“Oh, have pity on my crockery, Robin!” exclaimed Alicia; “I cannot
replace it here.”
“I am very sorry that I have done mischief,” said Robin, as he picked up
the broken pieces. “It is not your fault that you have such a cousin,
nor Miranda’s that she has such a brother.”
The sound of the name which she had been taught to recognize as her own
increased the uneasiness of poor Premi. The letter which had made her
bhai so very angry certainly related to herself. A vague fear that
suttees might be thought the correct thing in England, and that her
white brother might wish to burn her alive, flitted across the poor
girl’s mind; however, she was somewhat reassured by the smile on the
lips of Alicia.
“It seems as if we should never get to the end of this letter,” said
Harold, taking the paper from the hand of his wife. “Where were we—oh,
here;” and he went on with the reading aloud:—
“Or you might make a missionary of her, perhaps. I leave all
arrangements to you; I am sure that the best will be made for the poor
little waif by you and your husband.”
“He wants to wash his hands of the care of his own, his only sister,”
muttered Robin. “This Gilbert is unworthy of the name of a brother!”
Alicia caught sight of the look of anxious, almost agonizing inquiry in
the eyes of Miranda, and hastened to relieve her at once.
“We have heard from your brother in England,” she said in reply to the
mute appeal.
Miranda flushed and visibly trembled; her lips moved, but uttered no
sound.
“Your white brother wishes you to remain with us in India.”
Miranda sprang to her feet with a cry of delight, then sank sobbing into
the arms of Alicia, clinging to her as a frightened child might have
done. “Then He _did_ hear me!” was her almost inaudible exclamation.
“Who heard you, dear Miranda?” asked Alicia.
“God,” was the reverently murmured reply. “I did ask Him, I did beseech
Him to save me from being sent away from Talwandi.”
This was the first indication which Miranda had given of understanding
the nature of prayer.
“Then you are willing to stay with us, dear one?” said Alicia.
Miranda’s reply was a fervent, passionate embrace; then, ashamed of
having given such outward expression to her joy in the presence of men,
Miranda retreated hastily into the adjoining dwelling.
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