The Daughter of Brahma

The Daughter of Brahma
By I. A. R. Wylie
Author of "The Rajah's People," "My German Year"

FIFTH EDITION MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.
Published 1912

BOOK I
CHAPTER I
UNDER THE CURSE
"You have read enough," Mrs. Hurst said. "I am tired, and the light
troubles me. Put it out -- it will seem cooler in the darkness."
"Very well -- or shall I screen it? Then if you should want anything--"
Mrs. Hurst turned a little and measured her companion from head to
foot.
"You are afraid," she said, a faint note of amusement creeping into her
tired voice. "I wonder why. Do you expect that a cobra will take the
opportunity to do away with you, or that there is a Thug under the bed?
Pray look and see. You will perhaps feel easier in your mind."
The English nurse bit her lip.
"I am not afraid, Mrs. Hurst," she said resentfully. "I only thought it

would be more convenient. But of course--"
She made a movement as though to turn out the small lamp which
stood by the bedside, but her mistress stretched out a detaining hand.
"Wait!" she said. "I thought I heard something--horses' hoofs--listen!"
The invalid half lifted herself on her elbow, her head raised in an
attitude of tense concentration, her brows contracted with the effort.
The nurse turned towards the open window sharply, as one expecting a
sudden attack.
"It was nothing," she said in a dry voice. "I heard nothing."
Mrs. Hurst smiled. She let herself sink back, and her hair hung about
her face like a black curtain.
"He will be here in five minutes," she said decidedly. "You have not
learnt to distinguish sounds." Then she raised her tired eyes again to the
nurse's face. "Why are you so afraid?" she asked.
Nurse Campden shrugged her shoulders. The movement was rude, and
in her own country she had been noted for the suavity of her manners;
but her nerve was gone, and the offspring of a cheap London suburb
broke through the hard layer of acquired polish. She looked back
fearfully at the window.
"I should think there was cause enough, Mrs. Hurst," she said, almost
in a whisper. "Last week a house was broken into and the owner
murdered. And only yesterday poor Mr. Harris--who knows whose turn
it will be next!"
The smile deepened about Mrs. Hurst's firm mouth.
"You have been listening to the ayahs," she said. "There is nothing to
fear--" a subtle change of expression passed over her young face, which
seemed to make it old and hard "--and if there were, we should not be
afraid," she finished quietly.

Nurse Campden said nothing. She was gazing about her with
wide-open, straining eyes, trying to penetrate the shadows that shifted
noiselessly in the farthest corners of the room. The silence oppressed
her. Whilst she had read aloud her own voice, breaking in upon the
absolute hush, had sounded strangely threatening, but this silence was
more terrible. It was full of inaudible movement. If she looked towards
the open window she knew that, every now and again, something white
would flit across the darkness. It should have comforted, but instead it
added to her terror. She knew that it was one of the Commissioner's
levies on his way round the compound, but he too seemed unreal a
ghostly, intangible something which was all part of the shadows and
movements.
She tried to concentrate her attention on familiar objects. Everything
was in its place. The silver ornaments blinked at her from the
dressing-table; close at hand a small pile of white, delicate linen lay in
readiness; a general atmosphere of refinement, almost of luxury,
pervaded the low-built room. On the surface quiet; and beneath, the
constant noiseless activity. Nurse Campden had little imagination, but
she heard it. Suddenly she cried out, with that sharpness which
betokens long self-repression. Mrs. Hurst turned her head.
"Who is there?" she asked quietly. The curtains hanging over the
doorway parted. A woman's dark face peered through the opening.
"Tea for the Mem-Sahib--Mem-Sahib like tea?"
"It is well, Sita. Bring it here. I am thirsty." Nurse Campden drew back.
The native woman glided over the uncarpeted floor and placed the tray
on the table by the bedside. There was a soft, musical jingle of silver
ornaments.
"Pour out for Mem-Sahib?"
"Yes, pour out."
The brown, shapely hands performed their task. Nurse Campden
watched them, and her trembling lips were drawn back in

uncontrollable abhorrence. The ayah caught the expression, and for an
instant her eyes narrowed, then flashed back to the pale face against the
pillow.
"Mem-Sahib better soon--little Sahib come," she said softly, and
withdrew, the curtains falling with a faint rustle behind her.
Nurse Campden shuddered.