A LETTER FOR HOME.
WE will now pass over a considerable space of time, and look over
Alicia’s shoulder as, on the third anniversary of her wedding-day, she
is penning a letter to her sister.
“I can hardly believe, dear Lizzie, that I have really been three years
married, though that darling, golden-haired Robin, who is trying at this
moment to climb upon my knee, serves as a charming reminder. He is
like—oh, so like!—his father, only his merry laugh is Robin’s.
“You ask how the work in the fort goes on. Just to our heart’s desire.
We are full of gratitude to Him from whom all goodness flows. The best
room in the fort has been fitted up as a church; we have service there
every day, and thrice on Sundays. A grand gift for our wedding-day has
arrived—a harmonium, on which I shall play the hymns. There is a nice
room for the boys’ school, with a large veranda in which the brown
urchins squat at their lessons. To enter that school is like going near
a hive of bees, there is such a humming of voices.
“We—Miranda and I—have a nice girls’ school of our own in quite a
different part of the fort. It is in that very gallery where I first saw
poor Premi pounding away at the rice. I can scarcely recognize that
unhappy young Hindu widow in the tall, graceful, beautiful Christian
lady who is to me as the sweetest of sisters. You write, ‘I suppose that
Miss Macfinnis has quite cast off all her old Hindu ways, and is quite
the English demoiselle now?’ No, not exactly. Miranda is not, I think
never will be, just like one who has always trodden a drawing-room
carpet; she is more like Shakespeare’s Miranda—a beautiful blossom
reared under Indian skies, not in a conservatory at home. Miranda always
by preference wears the chaddar when she is engaged in the mission work
which she loves, but when we are at home her luxuriant hair is braided
just like my own. She reads and converses well in English, but with a
slight accent which to our ears makes her language more sweet. We all
love her dearly, and her native pupils are ready to kiss her feet.
Miranda’s influence over them is much greater than mine.
“We had an absurd little scene a few days ago; I laugh at the
recollection. The bara Sahib, Mr. Thole, paid us a visit. I suspect that
his curiosity drew him here, for he had never seen Premi since that
strange day when, shrinking and trembling, bruised and bleeding, a poor
oppressed Hindu widow was brought before the commissioner, whose verdict
would decide her fate. Miranda entered our sitting-room without knowing
that a guest was there; her chaddar was off, her hands filled with
flowers from the garden which Robin has made. She looked herself like a
rose. The commissioner rose, with his stiff, formal politeness, and
said, ‘This is, I presume, Miss Miranda Macfinnis.’ Miranda started like
a frightened fawn, dropped her flowers, and vanished out of the room. I
could scarcely keep my countenance when I apologized for my young
cousin’s unintentional rudeness. ‘A little jungly,’ said Mr. Thole, with
a condescending smile. ‘You should send her to a school in the hills.’
“I must add that poor Miranda was very penitent for having treated the
commissioner thus. ‘I was so startled,’ she said; ‘the unexpected sight
of Mr. Thole called back such strange and terrible recollections. But I
should have rather thanked him on my knees for what he did; he was one
means of delivering me from bondage to freedom, of changing ignorance
and misery to this light and love and joy.’
“Miranda used at first to be a little afraid of Harold’s father; but
that feeling has long since passed away, and she looks upon him with the
deepest reverence, something, I fancy, resembling that with which the
Panjabis regard their gurus (religious teachers). She would, I am
certain, think it a privilege to wash his feet. Our father’s health is
now so much broken that he cannot itinerate at all, and we often fear
that his day is drawing near to its close. But what a calm, peaceful,
glorious sunset is his! I always think of him when I look at the picture
which hangs on our wall, representing a weary reaper falling asleep with
his head resting on one of the golden sheaves around him. The rich warm
light is falling on his face, so full of peaceful repose. Death to our
father will be but sinking to sleep.
‘Oh, how calm will that rest appear!
Oh, how sweet will the waking be!’
But I do not like to anticipate losing one so dear, so I will turn to
another subject.
“I have often told you of Robin, the brother of my loved Harold, and his
unfailing fund of good-humour and fun. During the last few months Robin
has greatly altered: he is no longer the merry, boyish youth, but seems,
almost suddenly, to have developed into the thoughtful man. Perhaps this
comes of his having become a now well-known author, whose brain must be
ever at work, as well as an evangelist, teacher, and general aid in the
mission. My brother often sits dreamily, and scarcely hears a question
when it is put to him; sometimes the colour suddenly flushes his cheek
without any visible cause. Perhaps Robin overworks; sometimes I
fancy—Oh, what a blot! Mischievous baby has upset my ink. I shall have
to punish the little rogue by—putting down my pen and having a romp.”
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