THE WELCOME RAIN.
FIERY June had run more than half its course when it came, the
longed-for, the prayed-for blessing, the copious welcome rain. The
heavens were overshadowed with clouds, veiling completely the dreaded
sun. The sound of the heavy, ceaseless downpour was to the almost
exhausted dwellers in the plains sweeter than music. It was delightful
to watch the brown water streaming from each spout above, rushing along
each gutter below. It was pleasant to see the earth first dotted over
with big drops, then transformed into pools covered with dancing
bubbles, while frogs croaked their monotonous song of joy, and a
delicious coolness pervaded the air, which had been like the breath of
an oven. “The rain! the blessed rain! God be thanked for the rain!” was
the exclamation intuitively uttered.
Robin came out into the veranda of “Paradise” to enjoy the scent of the
wet earth, the sight of Nature reviving under the heavy rainfall, and
the sound of plashing water. Miranda was there; she had come for the
same purpose. The air had slightly blown back the chaddar of the fair
girl, and with the rose-tint which the comparative coolness had brought
to her cheek, and the brightness which pleasure gave to her eyes,
Miranda looked beautiful in the mellowed light from a cloudy sky. The
young girl did not retreat when Robin appeared; she was not shy with her
bhai and tutor, for during Alicia’s attacks of fever Robin had adopted
her pupil. Miranda had under his tuition made great progress, being
eager to surprise her beloved sister with her acquirements in English as
well as Gurmuki. She could even put short English words together, and
read Panjabi with fluent ease.
The conversion of his fair pupil was the daily subject of Robin’s
prayers, as of those of the other missionaries of Talwandi. As the youth
looked now on Miranda’s lovely form and face, his whole heart rose in
fervent supplication for her who had been so wonderfully brought to
share Alicia’s home. Robin then, advancing towards Miranda, said, “What
are you looking at, my little sister?”
“The rain—the good rain. See how the thirsty ground is drinking it in!”
“Who sends the good rain, little sister?”
Miranda folded her hands and looked upwards.
“Should we not thank God for the rain?” asked Robin.
“All thank God—trees, birds, earth,” was the reply.
“But we have more reason to thank God than have the trees, the birds,
and the earth. Do you not remember what you have heard so often about
the best, the greatest of gifts?”
Miranda looked down and did not reply.
Robin suddenly changed the conversation, while keeping the one point at
which he was aiming in view.
“Miranda, I heard from your Kashmiri bhai yesterday.” A slight smile
came to the girl’s lips, and she raised her head to listen. “Kripá Dé
asked me to tell his sister that he never forgets that she saved his
life by her timely warning.”
“Premi is glad,” said Miranda softly.
“When you called out to Kripá Dé not to drink from the poisoned cup, did
you think that your giving such a warning would bring you into trouble
and danger?”
“I thought that I should be beaten, and I was so,” Miranda replied.
“You did a brave and kind action,” said Robin, “and I am sure that Kripá
Dé is not ungrateful.” Miranda blushed like a rose at the praise. “But
suppose,” continued Robin, “that you could only have saved your bhai by
drinking the poison yourself, Miranda, would you have drunk it?”
A strange expression flitted over the lovely face. Miranda did not reply
at once; then she said, in a hesitating tone, avoiding meeting the
questioner’s gaze, “I think that I should have drunk it.”
“And you would in dying have expected, and justly expected, to be ever
gratefully remembered by him for whom you had sacrificed life?”
Miranda slightly inclined her graceful head in assent.
“And yet how coldly you seem to regard the greatest sacrifice that ever
was made! Many who thank God for rain, which descends at His simple
command, never thank Him for the unspeakably greater gift of His only
Son. There are those who read, or hear without interest, without love,
that Christ tasted death for every man. Do you understand what that
means?”
“I suppose that it was like drinking poison,” said the girl.
“Yes, like drinking poison, the deadliest poison, for every believer. I
should think that for each individual there was a separate pang to be
borne. I believe that when Christ hung on the cross He was drinking the
deadly cup instead of me, instead of you, till the whole terrible
draught of poison was finished, the cup drained of the last deadly
drop.”
“And I have never loved Him, never thanked Him,” murmured Miranda, the
soft tears rising to her eyes.
“Do you love Him, do you thank Him now?” exclaimed Robin.
The brimming eyes overflowed; Miranda covered her face with both her
hands, and Robin, with delight, caught the whispered words, “I do! I
do!”
Oh, blessed rain that comes at last! Thank God for the blessed rain—that
which maketh the heart to blossom and bud, that which brings life to the
dead in sin! Thank God for the rain which drops from heaven—the dew of
His Holy Spirit!
Robin was too full of joyful hopes not to hurry into “Paradise” to let
Alicia share them. Harold’s young wife was still a prisoner to her sofa
after an attack of fever, but she was rejoicing, like every one else, in
the beginning of the season of rain.
“Robin, is not this change delightful?” said Alicia.
“Most delightful!” echoed her brother; but he was not thinking of the
weather.
Robin was beginning to tell his deeply-sympathizing listener of the
impression which at last had been made on the heart of Miranda, when
Harold entered, with a packet of letters in his hand which he had just
taken from the dripping postman.
“Two English letters for me, one Indian one for my wife, and a
registered despatch for you, Robin,” said Harold, distributing his
little budget. “The postman is waiting in the veranda for your signature
to the paper.”
Robin sprang forward, in his eagerness almost snatched the letter from
the hand of his brother, and was out of the room in a moment.
“A registered letter is a novelty to Robin,” observed Alicia, smiling,
as she broke open the envelope in her hand; “I never knew him to receive
one before.”
“Nor dart away in such a hurry when the English mail was about to be
opened,” said Harold. “This is Clarence’s handwriting, this Ida’s neat
little hand; their letters will be interesting, as telling us what
success they have had in collecting money for the purchase of the fort.”
Harold and Alicia were engaged in reading their letters, when Robin
returned to the room, his face radiant with pleasure.
“I hope, Robin, that your despatch has been as cheering as ours,” said
Harold.
“First, let me tell you of mine,” cried Alicia. “Here’s a cheque for
fifty rupees for our work; you will never guess who sent it.”
“Tell me; I am in no mood for riddles,” said Robin gaily.
“Would you think it? the cheque is from Mr. Thole, with a nice little
note besides.”
“And so much money has been collected by friends in England,” said
Harold, “that we have almost enough to purchase the fort; only about a
hundred rupees are wanting.”
“Then take the fort at once, and plant on it the red-cross banner,”
cried Robin gaily: “here is the powder and shot which is lacking,” and
with the joyousness of a boy he tossed to Harold a currency note for a
hundred rupees.
So Robin’s secret was out. He had entered the literary arena, and with a
success that surprised himself.
“I did but write a simple account of our adventures in Arabia,” said he,
in reply to a question from Harold. “I thought that when it was too hot
to dig in the garden, go out to shoot a pheasant, or come home to cook
it, I might earn a trifle by my pen. I am astonished to receive a
hundred rupees, and mightily pleased by the publisher’s note: ‘We shall
be glad to have further contributions from R. H.’”
“And do you wish to give the whole of this to the mission?” asked
Harold, glancing at the currency note which he held in his hand.
“Of course,” replied Robin simply; “the first-fruits are always the
Lord’s.”
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