Each man has his gift; to one a cup of wine, to another the heart's blood; so ask not life from the picture on the wall.
The man of wit, of intelligence beyond most, stood looking at the picture in silence. Then he bent to pick up a scrap of crushed paper which lay before it.
As he smoothed it out his face was a study in distaste which grew to quick sympathy as he read. It contained but a few words from Sa'adi:
Wide is the space 'twixt him who clasps his loveAnd he who watches for her door to move.
Wide is the space 'twixt him who clasps his loveAnd he who watches for her door to move.
And below this in flowing curves:
"Watch no longer, cripple! Gulamâr hath consolation if 'tis needed."
Birbal crushed it in his hand again and walking straight to the corbeilled balcony looked out. In the dawn light a confused, dark bundle as of clothes lay on the angled steps of the Arch of Victory. The distaste vanished from Birbal's face. He stood looking down, infinite pity in his eyes, as he quoted softly:
Yea! He who made me from the clayAnd set my soul within it and alway.Pities and pardons, and enfolds me everIn His beneficence. Shall I not layMy heart back in His Hand?
Yea! He who made me from the clayAnd set my soul within it and alway.Pities and pardons, and enfolds me everIn His beneficence. Shall I not layMy heart back in His Hand?
"He--he hath killed himself," cried William Leedes, who had followed to look also.
"Nay, she hath killed him--he painted her in his heart's blood," replied Birbal grimly, stooping for a closer look at the nigh empty bowl, the incarnadined brush.
"Yet I fail to see," began the jeweller, when his companion swept him into silence with a rush of contemptuous irritation.
"Fail to see? How shouldst thou see, strange-bred as thou art from the uttermost guile of India--this old, old India that was guileful long ages before thy island came into being? What canst thou or thy kind know of the bottomless deceits, the dregs of many years, the sediment of many men which must underlay the smooth levels of India? But I, Brâhmin, Indian bred, I see all; and I see here the wagging beards of Mahommedan doctors, virtuous, tradition-bound; I see the lawless desires of libertines like Ibrahîm, the deep designs of Khodadâd--misnamed mayhap! But under all I see the ancient harlotry of womankind. Aye! even what they call Love--misnamed again! Yea, I see the scented balcony in Satanstown where this----"
He pulled himself up and laid his hand compellingly on the jeweller's arm. "But of that hereafter. For the present keep council if thou lovest life. To you and to me only is that gem no diamond. Cut an hundred facets on it an thou wilt; but if its falseness be found out, ereIwill it, thou diest. Dost hear?"
Then his tone softened a little. "Stay! this scrawling must not stand to tell its tale. Water and this brush, sir jeweller, will send it flying--do this for me--and forthyself."
He paused, to give another look at the lad's last work. "Lo! there is genius in it, for 'tis the jade herself. Poor fool! pity he had not read the master to better purpose."
So he passed out with studied carelessness humming as he went another bit of the wisdom of Hafiz:
Wisdom is wearisome--very!Bring the noose of wine for its neck,Let us drink, my friend, and be merry,There's nothing to fear or to reck.The sun is wine and the Moon's the cup;Pour the Sun to the Moon and we'll drink it up. And be merry--be merry--very!
Wisdom is wearisome--very!Bring the noose of wine for its neck,Let us drink, my friend, and be merry,There's nothing to fear or to reck.The sun is wine and the Moon's the cup;Pour the Sun to the Moon and we'll drink it up. And be merry--be merry--very!
I have oft said it, and again I sayThat I, poor soul, did never choose my way,But like taught birds, in hooded darkness heardWhat was the Master's will, the Master's wordBramble or rose whate'er His order givesI take in joy--knowing the Gardener lives.--Jami.
I have oft said it, and again I sayThat I, poor soul, did never choose my way,But like taught birds, in hooded darkness heardWhat was the Master's will, the Master's wordBramble or rose whate'er His order givesI take in joy--knowing the Gardener lives.
--Jami.
Auntie Rosebody's face showed pale above her wadded pink wrapper in the light of the little cresset that was set upon the floor. Her small hand shook as she reached it out mechanically and took something that was held out to her by one of the two women who, close-wrapped in theirburkaveils, squatted opposite to her. She did not look at this something, she simply held it fast in her closed palm.
What else could she do at two o'clock in the morning, when she had been aroused from innocent slumber to decide, in an instant, the part she would play in a conspiracy to preserve her nephew the King's Luck, and increase that of her beloved grand-nephew the Prince Salîm.
Decide it! When she could scarcely gather her senses together sufficiently to understand what the woman told her: the woman with the polished Persian periods, the persuasive voice, which stamped her, what she was, courtesan. The other voice she vaguely recognised, so, after a time she challenged it.
"Thou art Âtma Devi, the mad fortune teller," she said, catching at any straw of reality in this whirlpool of dreams.
"I am the King's Châran" came the reply. "Therefore, as the Most Beneficent knows, his honour stands for my life."
True! There was reassurance in the thought, besides that which came from the glib list of respected and respectable names that fell from the other glib mouth. Khodadâd's was not amongst them, neither was Mirza Ibrahîm's; for Siyah Yamin knew her company. She was too wise even to betray her own identity and strove to keep the polish from her periods as much as she could as she talked on and on of the safety of the King, of bewitchments, of the immense value it might be to the Prince in the coming Audience of Nobility if luck and favour might be assured to him by the secret wearing of the talisman.
Even so much she protested, should be sufficient reason for the Most Benificent assuming custody of the great diamond, even if she returned it afterward. It would be as easy to replace the false gem with the true one, as it had been to replace the true with the false. But once the bewitchment of the foreigner was broken, the King himself would likely give thanks to God and to his great-aunt. Here was her opportunity!
Poor Auntie Rosebody's eyes wandered helplessly from oneburka-edform to the other. She could not even think what "Dearest Lady" would have said. Her mind held nothing but the fact that she, the Lady Hamida, and the whole harem had, but that very afternoon, discussed with tears the question of this cutting of the King's Luck, and that even Hamida had applauded her impulsive assertion that to steal the gem would be allowable under the circumstances. And now, here it was stolen, and in her very hand. It was like the Day of Resurrection!
"And the Prince will need fortune," came the glib voice, "since for these two nights passed, he hath undoubtedly been in Satanstown with Siyah Yamin. And that angers the King. So, those who send us, say 'twere better if the King, his Royal Father, were to give him some distant post of honour--as indeed is but his right. But this can be compassed but by favour, and for this purpose the wearing of such a talisman is potent."
Aunt Rosebody groaned. Did she not know it! Were there not instances without number even in her own family of such influences? If she could only consult someone--even Hamida. But the women were urgent. Except in the safe keeping of the Beneficent Ladies, and under promise, the diamond could not be left.
Then it was that the little lady reached out her hand and took what was held out to her. After that there was but a short whispered conference, and then Aunt Rosebody was left feeling as if the whole round world was tight clasped in her small hand, while the women stole back, as they had come, protected by the Lord Chamberlain's order.
"Well!" asked Siyah Yamin, when, safe beyond the walls, speech was possible. "Art satisfied, Âto, now that thou hast seen the King's Luck out of my evil hands? Ah! Fie on thee sister, for thy threats, thy unkind thoughts of poor little Siyâla, who, heaven knows, has had more curses than cowries out of the business. Yet but for me and my pet thief Pâhlu, who between ourselves nigh starved waiting in the empty workshop while Diswunt was making up his mind--the King's Luck would still be--where it ought to be!"
Âtma's face grew troubled. Ever since the deed had been done, she had, woman like, become afraid of it. It was this vague fear which had made her insist on accompanying Siyah Yamin, so that she might see for herself that the gem had been given into the hands of the Beneficent Ladies. "Think'st thou so in truth, Siyâl----?" she asked reproachfully, "and yet thou hast not ceased to assure me" She broke off, then added "And but for me, sister, Diswunt's mind would never have been made up. It was I----"
Siyah Yamin burst into a low laugh as she disappeared between the curtains of her waiting dhooli. "Give him good reward, then, sister, after woman's fashion. Lo! I have given him mine already."
Something in her tone made Âtma stoop and hurriedly open those closed curtains that were heavy with stale scents. A glimmer of gray dawn--for it had taken time to persuade Aunt Rosebody to action--showed faintly the courtesan's face set in the white folds of theburkashe had thrown upward for more air. Perhaps it was a memory of the portrait thus framed which made Âtma repeat herself. "I wonder thou canst be so unkind to a poor lad who loves thee."
"Unkind?" echoed the courtesan with the zest of a child who kills flies. "Death is no unkindness, and they will give it him, doubtless, if he hath been unwise. For he will not blab--that I know--he loves too much!"
She was right. Even as she spoke Diswunt was seeking the Great Silence.
The wind of dawn which found his face as he fell, found her soft babyish face also; but it brought no message, told no secret.
Âtma stood watching the dhooli as it swung off toward Satanstown with a rising dread at her heart. And yet she had acted for the best, and when all was said and done the King's Luck was in good hands.
Siyah Yamin said the same thing to the two conspirators Mirza Ibrahîm and Khodadâd, whom she found waiting for her return anxiously.
"Yea! Yea! Yea!" she answered yawning. "Lord! how we apples swim! She will put it as talisman in the Prince's turban. The rest is not for me. Lo! I have done my work."
"And more!" spoke up Khodadâd after a vain look at his companion to urge him to the task. "Why hast thou taken the woman Âtma into thy confidence? It may spoil all. Why hast thou done it, I say? For that we will have answer now, will we not Ibrahîm? Thou hadst no right----"
Siyah Yamin yawned again.
"Because, fool! without her I could not work!" Then she smiled suddenly. "Lo! there is something betwixt me and old Âto which mankind wist not of, and which I--understand not. But see you, gentlemen, if I need a scapegoat she is ready to hand. And if that please you not, go! But quarrel not over such trifles in the making of plans, my friends. Time runs short and as the proverb says,
One can hear snakes bickering,By the long tongues flickering.
One can hear snakes bickering,By the long tongues flickering.
So this advice I give--silence."
As usual she had the last word.
Poor Auntie Rosebody was at the same moment giving herself the same advice. Sleep had of course, been effectually banished from her eyes, and she was still sitting with the little packet she had received from the women close clasped in her hand. She had held it for so many minutes--nay, surely hours!--that it seemed to have become part of herself, and her thoughts had long since left even the question as to whether she ought not at once to summon the King and give it back to its rightful owner. The only point with her now was how she could manage her part without help. She had made up her mind not speak to Hamida. One never quite knew what she might think or say. But was there no one else? Aunt Rosebody felt as if she must burst without speech; but it must be speech with silence. And except at night time, it was almost impossible for any one to have a private interview with any one else in the woman's house. It was full to the brim with idle hussies, eunuchs, actual spies! Naturally if she wanted audience of Hamida Begum, she could claim a private one; or even of Râkiya--here the blood flew to Auntie Rosebody's face. No! it should never be old Râkiya, with her hemistitches, her girding tongue, her ill-bred remarks about dead saints! Gulbadan Begum was a good hater and the mere thought of confiding in her enemy quite flustered her. Yet she could not wait for discreet nightfall. What was to be done must be done at once, that very morning; since the festivities that were to commence the six weeks revelling in honour of Salîm's coming marriage were to begin that afternoon. And then, suddenly, a thought struck her. Umm Kulsum! Little Umm Kulsum who was such a tower of good sense and sympathy! She would tell her. Yes! she would tell her, not in the dhooli going to the bathing steps. There they might be overheard by the duennas who walked beside it. That was the worst of being a woman--there were spies everywhere, even upon the bathing steps. But out on the water, right away in the tank, under the azure-silk sky of heaven--there she could ensure solitude!
Aunt Rosebody heaved a sigh of relief. Ah! it was very well of Râkiya Khânum to jibe at indecent youth, but it was something to be able to swim and so get away from old cats!
And so it came to pass that Umm Kulsum coming up to shake her head like a wet spaniel after her dive through the arches, nearly went to the bottom from sheer affright of what she saw in Auntie Rosebody's face.
"Don't" cried the little lady, catching her by the hand and thus largely adding to her imminence of sinking. "Now do listen, Ummu. But I think, my dear, you had better turn on your back and float, for what I've got to tell will make your liver melt, for sure."
So side by side, hand in hand, they floated in the warm, morn-lit water, Auntie Rosebody's gray hair mingling in snaky fashion with Umm Kulsum's black locks while the former told her tale. And more than once the elder woman had to adjure the younger one to keep a straight back and float decently, since some of Aunt Rosebody's revelations were disturbing.
"And now O Umm Kulsum, pilgrimess, mind you, to holy Mecca, save my soul from sin--if thou canst--and tell me, above all, if I be asleep or awake."
The confused appeal brought silence for a moment whilst those two brave, superstitious, affectionate women's faces stared into the azure blue.
Then Umm Kulsum said softly, "It is God's will. He has sent us to do this thing, and we must do it. Yea! Auntie, even if they kill us we must save the King's Luck, and buy favour to Salîm."
"Oh Ummu!" sobbed Auntie Rosebody. "How glad I am I told thee! Thou art wisdom itself and thinkest even as I do. We are two splits to one pea."
And so two set, determined, and in their exaltation, supremely happy, faces showed ducking and bobbing as they swam and made plans. Ummu was to set to work at once and make a seed-pearled and gold-embroidered brocade bag for the stone, which should deftly disguise its shape, and Aunt Rosebody was to say it contained a precious relic from Mecca, and insist on the scapegrace wearing it concealed in his turban for the day. After that? Why ... why...? After that all would depend upon the fortune of the Prince.
So little Umm Kulsum retired to her violet garden in hot haste to dry her hair as usual, and then, having dismissed her maids, began work in the solitude of the secluded spot set round with low walls and orange trees.
She had thought it all out, had seen that time pressed, and so without remorse cut a bold snippet out of the pearl-edged embroidered hem of her very best overcoat which she had told her tirewomen she meant to wear. The damage would not be seen if she wore a thick veil, and a very little sewing, but a few pearls deftly applied, would make of the precious piece a relic holder as good as any in the palace. So her round simple face grew absorbed in her task, when a rustle in the orange tree above her made her look up.
She saw another laughing face looking down; a face that with its orange-coloured veil showed like a ripe fruit amongst the burnished green leaves. The next instant Mihr-un-nissa's lithe, still-childish figure had swung itself to the ground and her forefinger was wagging roguishly at Umm Kulsum's hasty and futile effort to conceal her work.
"Oh fie! Ummu. What! secrets?" came the mocking voice. "Dost not know," here it took on a ludicrous likeness to her mother's, "that only ill-bred young women degrade themselves by duplicity." Then she cuddled close and looked at Umm Kulsum with a perfectly ravishing smile. "Say, sweetheart! is it a love letter?"
Umm Kulsum gave a little shriek of horror. "Go to! thou art a bad girl, Mihru! How didst come here? And how darest thou even mention love letters?"
Mihr-un-nissa cuddled closer. "How? Because I needed to see thee, Ummu--Auntie Ummu I shall call thee, dearest. So when they denied me, I crept out by the window and along the wall. Mother is at the reception, but I needed thee. And as for love--Ah! Ummu! Ihave seen him!"
"Seen whom?" asked Umm Kulsum stolidly. Her mind was busy with likely lies, for she knew the penetrating wit, the cold clear-sightedness, of this child-girl.
"Why!--my man, of course," came the reply with sage noddings of the pretty head.
Everything save horrified outrage flew from Umm Kulsum's mind. "Thou--thou shameless one!--thou canst not mean it. And if thou hadst--by chance--to dare to say it. Mihr-un-nissa Begum, say it is not true!"
The pretty head nodded again cheerfully. "But it is true, Auntie Ummu, and it was not by chance. I climbed into a tree--thou knowest I can climb trees--and saw him over the wall as he came to sup with father. And I like him. He hath a kind, strong face. And--lo! Ummu, one can be queen of a man's heart."
As she sate there, her small slender hands closed on each other as if she held something very precious, a mysterious smile came to her eyes, her mouth. Years younger than her companion, in all things of womanhood she outpassed her utterly. So, as she paused, sudden shame came to her.
"And dost know, Ummu," she went on, a fine blush invading her cheeks that were the colour of ripe wheat, her hands unloosing themselves to plait and replait in her confusion the fold of Umm Kulsum's best overcoat which lay beside her, "I--I think he saw me for--for he smiled--though he walked on sedately as a gentleman should. But I am not sure his eyes----"
She paused abruptly, gave a little shriek, "Oh! Ummu! thou hast cut it--thy beautiful overcoat----"
She held up the accusing gap in the hem, and her young face took on swift, keen interest. "So--thy secret! Come out with it, Auntie!" She snatched at Umm Kulsum's work and held it out derisively. "An amulet--nay! a relic holder!" she cried gaily. "Lo! Umm Kulsum Khânum! it must be for thy lover to wear--in his turban likely."
Umm Kulsum gasped, and leant back against the orange bole helplessly. "Truly, Mihru! thou--thou art a witch!" she murmured feebly.
The expression on the girlish face intensified into absolute cunning. "So--then it is for some one's turban--Prince Salîm's I dare swear--to bring him luck with his father. Ohí Ummu! I have hit it! Tell me, sweetheart, what goes in it? Come! let me have a look at thy face"--for Umm Kulsum in sheer dread of those piercing inquisitive eyes had swaddled herself hastily in her veil. "What thou willst not. Then it is something worth knowing. I will find out--but la! that scent of ambergris portends my mother's passing. I must begone, Auntie Ummu, ere they seek for me. Farewell--and--and good luck go with thy Prince. He needs it!"
She had swung herself into the orange tree once more and was gone, leaving Umm Kulsum with a beating heart. It was an ill chance, and the girl was as a wizard with her guesses; but seeing that the Audience of Nobility was to be held that night, there was small chance for Mihr-un-nissa's wit to do harm. And the Prince would be under solemn promise to bring the talisman back next morning without fail.
Whether he intended to keep the promise or not, certain it is that he made it, while Auntie Rosebody's voice shook over the oath she administered, and little Umm Kulsum stood by trembling in her very marrow. And when the young man had gone off, all duly dressed for his part in the festivities, sulkily carrying with him the well wishes of every woman in the harem in addition to that mighty talisman which they all looked at from a distance with awe, those two poor conspirators retired together and wept on each other's neck.
"I will fast to-night O child!" said the old woman ruefully. "God knows it may be my last; but he may spare thee, being young."
Umm Kulsum only sobbed the more. Why should she add to Aunt Rosebody's anxieties by telling her of Mihr-un-nissa's visit? And after all, the girl had wished the Prince good luck! Something at least should come of that.
And ere many hours were over something did; for, as Prince Salîm walked back through the Palace Gardens, Fate beckoned to him, and from that time forth until his death he never forgot the call.
It happened on this wise. Vaguely disturbed, he dismissed his retinue in an ill temper, and despite the heat of the early afternoon sun sought solitude. Wherefore, who knows?
Had the conspirators gone so far as to tell him that he carried with him the King's Luck, and that he had but to declare himself to find following sufficient to give him the sceptre? Or had they merely begun to prepare the way for such telling in the future? Certain it is that he was moody, thoughtful beyond his wont. In half an hour or so the festival would begin by a grand illumination; the festival which would bring him marriage, if his father ...
That break in his thoughts seemed to end every subject for thought.
If his father--if his father...?
The noise of the firework makers and lamp sellers who were at work in the principal paths, annoyed him, so he wandered off into the more private ones, amusing himself idly, almost unconsciously, with a pair of doves he had taken, as the only silent companions--he had said bitterly, in the court.
If his father--if his father...? The question obsessed him.
Whether he knew actually that he carried kingship with him, certain it is that his thoughts were with himself, as king. What he would do, what he would say, what he would think.
If--this thing--were to happen,now, would he marry this Râjpûtni? Not--by all the twelve Imams--if she were ugly! And, as his friends said--they were all Mahommedans--the first wife should be of Islâm.
He had wandered farther than he knew, and without realising it had entered the garden belonging to the women's apartments. But it was empty; the hour was early and every one busy dressing for the festival. So he went on unhindered. It was cooler here in the pleached alleys, and perfumed too. Out yonder in the sunlight the very scent of the flowers seemed burnt up.
Yes! If he married----
The onyx-eyed birds of love he was carrying fluttered and fretted. Were they too, dreaming of liberty. Curse the brutes! Why could they not keep quiet, and give him a chance of making up his mind.
His eye caught someone, a slip of a child it looked, wrapped close in a creamy veil sitting beside a fountain. Some coolie's daughter, no doubt, waiting for her father to finish work.
"Here, hold these birds, child," he cried peremptorily. The figure did not move and with another curse on its stupidity he strode up to it, thrust the pigeons into its lap and with a brief order to hold them fast till his return, strode off again. Something he must settle, he felt, before he met his father in the Audience of Nobility.
Vague, instinctive affection and loyalty had to war with passionate desires for power, with the thousand and one poisoned thoughts which, day and night, were put into his mind diligently by those who sought him as their tool.
When he had disappeared into the thickets of pomegranate and orange, there came a sudden little laugh.
"Oh! birdies! birdies! What a stupid stripling!"
The shrouding veil which she had hastily drawn round her on the appearance of the Prince, slipped back, and Mihr-un-nissa's dimpling face was buried in the opalescent feathers of her captives. "Nay! no struggling! Sure thou art better here than with your sulky, fatling Prince--though see you, my birds, he is not so ill-looking when he is seen close, as the squirrel said of the spider when he had dismembered him! But he is not a patch on Sher Afkân. La! how Ummu squirmed when I spoke of him. What sillies women be, as if one might not use one's eyes. Ohí! Now I have it! 'Tis the talisman in his turban gives the Prince his air. Have a care! Mihr-un-nissa, lest thou fall in love with him and desert true friend. And yet----"
She paused, looked down at her own face mirrored in the water and what she saw there held her.
It was true what the woman told her. That was no mere wife's face--it was the face of a queen--a real queen----
The birds of love fluttered in her listless hold. Lost in her dreams she scarcely noticed that one, eluding her slack grasp fled joyfully to coo his pæan of liberty from an orange tree hard by.
Was it worth it? Was it worth it? What was all the power in the world worth to a woman, as she--the girl upon its verge--imagined womanhood?
"My birds?" The Prince had returned. The imperious voice roused her; roused her temper also.
"Here, my lord," she replied curtly.
"What? Only one?" The voice was angry now; almost ready for a curse.
She set, as it were, soul and body into cold ice.
"Sire!" she answered, with chill courtesy, "one has flown."
In the shade of the trees, her face, averted, was unseen, and of her figure, crouched in upon itself instinctively, the Prince saw nothing but childish outlines.
"Stupid fool," he cried roughly. "How? Damn you! Tell me how."
She was on her feet in a second, facing his anger fearlessly, her own blazing hot in defiance of all things. Aye! even this fading Prince who dared to call her fool!
"So! my lord!" she cried defiantly and from her outstretched hands the second dove flew circling to join its mate.
Salîm stood startled into silence. From the orange tree the doves were cooing. The perfumes of the garden rose up around them. Overhead blazed the brazen sky.
But the Heir-Apparent of India saw nothing save that first glimpse of the woman who as Mihr-un-nissa, Queen of Women, Nurmabal, the Light of Palaces, and finally as Nur-jahan, the Light of the World, was to play so large a part in his life.
He was too much taken up with the love which, like the doves, had flitted from the listless hand of Fate even to attempt to detain the girl, when with a sudden sweeping salaam, a soft sweet, "Your servant, Mihr-un-nissa" she turned and fled.
At least, she felt, he might as well know who she was.
A thousand ships have foundered here beforeSo lost, no chip of them came back to shore.I, too, on those waves wandered many a night,Till terror plucked my sleeve, and cried "No More!Back to the land! God's wide horizon ringsThee and the worlds. Thinkst thou the King of kingsTo compare by conjecture? Ah! poor wight,Wisdom itself, wists not His hidden things."--Sa'adi.
A thousand ships have foundered here beforeSo lost, no chip of them came back to shore.I, too, on those waves wandered many a night,Till terror plucked my sleeve, and cried "No More!Back to the land! God's wide horizon ringsThee and the worlds. Thinkst thou the King of kingsTo compare by conjecture? Ah! poor wight,Wisdom itself, wists not His hidden things."
--Sa'adi.
When Mihr-un-nissa fled from the Prince in the garden, she did not fly far. Just round the corner waiting for her return, stood her covered palanquin, her dutiful duenna. For Mussumât Fâtima had long since given up attempting to control her young mistress. To begin with, she had found out that Mihr-un-nissa was not as other girls. She was wild as a young hawk, but there it ended. Except in so far as uttermost mischief went, she was to be trusted; there never was any fear of love letters or any improprieties of that sort. So, if she chose to fancy sitting beside a fountain by herself in the women's garden, where was the harm? She was a mound of sense; so much so, that on this hot afternoon (heaven knows why the child had insisted on coming out--to ruin her complexion, doubtless, if she could--but she couldn't--from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot there wasn't a speck or a freckle) no one could blame a body for dozing in the dhooli and dreaming.
"La! child! How thou didst frighten me," gasped Fâtima, as a tornado of yellow and purple draperies flung itself breezily on the top of her fat person.
"Oh! Futtu! Futtu!" panted the girl, half laughter, half tears. "I have seen him!"
"What, again!" shrilled the duenna, waking instantly to a sense of her responsibilities. "Impudence! knowest thou not that paper boats don't float for ever, and that who lacks modesty lacks conscience?"
"Oh! have done with second-hand wisdom," said the girl, superbly. "And it was not him--It was the Prince--Prince Salîm."
Fâtima let loose a shriek. "Oh! my liver! An' thou darest to tell me! 'Tis bread and water for a week, miss----"
"And I spoke to him and he spoke to me," continued the culprit, calmly; out of sheer perversity, reversing the order of events.
Fâtima let loose a louder shriek. "What! Lo! the noose is round thy neck, and mine too! May the devil be deaf! If folk hear----"
But the girl who had drawn aside with distaste and was now seated half in and half out of the palanquin, interrupted the duenna contemptuously. "Futtu, thou art a full-weight fool. Why dost not remember it needs skill to do wrong instead of making thy nose red with wrath?"
Suddenly she stood up, a curiously defiant figure. "Lo! I am sick of saws and sayings. I want to know at first hand! And I will know. Call the carriers. I go to Âtma Devi. Lo! I have tried, as thou knowest, to see in the ink again; but it comes not. I lack the charm she said; she shall teach it me. Nay!" she continued stemming Fâtima's rising flood of denials, "See here, fool. If thou deniest me I go straight home, and tell--notmymother, she would be pleased--but Sher Afkân's, and then----" She clasped the old woman's neck with both hands and squeezed it tight. "Does it feel nice, Futtu?" she asked solicitously.
So it came to pass that just as the sun was setting, its last rays sparkled on Mihr-un-nissa's jewelled hair, as she sate on the Châran's roof waiting for the drop of ink to fall into her palm. She was more woman than child now, since she had watched the birth of desire, and of something more than desire, in Prince Salîm's eyes. So that was love! A queer thing, at best, it must be to feel as he must have felt, before he could look so poor a slave. If that was love, she could not give it back. What! give homage to a lout of a lad? And yet the Queenship! Oh! if it had been Akbar himself, then she would have known what to do, for he was King indeed! Or if--yes! if it had been "him," for he was a man indeed!
Drop ink and hide my flesh,Cover my worldly ways.Then let God's light afreshMirror God's praise.Drop ink, drop deep,Cover in sleepMy night of nights and bring the day of days.
Drop ink and hide my flesh,Cover my worldly ways.Then let God's light afreshMirror God's praise.Drop ink, drop deep,Cover in sleep
My night of nights and bring the day of days.
This time the chanted words thrilled little Mihr-un-nissa through and through. For once--and perhaps for the first time in her young life she was in deadly earnest. But, once again poor Âtma's mind was far from her spell. Ever since Deena that morning had brought her word of Diswunt's death, regret, remorse had warred with her defiance. It was strange. What did it mean? Had he regretted? And wherefore? At times absorbed with fear lest she should have betrayed the King, she had been ready to seek out Birbal and tell him the truth, risking her own life. But there was her promise, her sisters-troth with Siyah Yamin. That cut both ways. It forced her to silence, so long as the courtezan kept troth. And had she not? Had not Âtma Devi seen with her own eyes Aunt Rosebody's hand close on the diamond? Could it be in better keeping?
"If the gracious child will complete the circle of magic," she began, when Mihr-un-nissa's laugh rang out disdainfully.
"What! to see what thou thinkest? Not so! What I shall see, what I shall do, is of my own gift. Stand back woman!--touch me not!"
Drop ink, drop deep,Cover in sleepMy night of nights and bring the day of days.
Drop ink, drop deep,Cover in sleep
My night of nights and bring the day of days.
She chanted the words lingeringly and for an instant there was silence while those two women, the fat, worldly duenna, and the passion-distraught denier of her sex, listened and looked with long-drawn tense breathings. It was deadly earnest to them also. Would she see? Could she see? Such things were, they knew, beyond the magic frauds of fortune-tellers.
And then suddenly the sweet round voice rose eagerly.
"I see! Holy prophet! I see--It is the Prince; but Lord! how fat he hath grown and how old--I think he is the King----"
Fâtima under her breath muttered "An old King's better than a young Prince."
Mihr-un-nissa flashed round on her. "'An egg to-day's better than a hen to-morrow,' so there! saw-sayer!" Then she looked again. "Sher Afkân this time. He hath a scar upon his face that suits him well, and a drawn sword."
"'The soldier gains his bread, by the risking of his head,'" murmured the irrepressible Fâtima.
"'Lie you must, or your belly will bust,'" quoted Mihr-un-nissa shamelessly, too interested, really, to do more than fling a reply in this war of wise sayings. "Lo! clouds--clouds--nothing but clouds again. What's this? Crossed swords and someone fighting for his life. Holy Prophet! save him! save him! Clouds again. That is my face grown old--and I am all in white," the girl's voice seemed to shrink in on itself; her eyes, startled, looked indeed as if across the chasm of the years she saw herself as she would be. "Surely I am widow--and there's the King once more." She drew back from her own hand as she might have drawn back from fate. "Thenhewas not killed," she muttered in a low whisper. "It must have been the--the other. Oh help! help! help!"
She started to her feet, and as if in answer to her scarce audible cry, a violent knocking shook the door.
"Open! Open! in the King's name, open!"
The command reduced even Mihr-un-nissa to the conventional quiet which on such occasions sinks on an Indian woman's house, when those are within who should not be seen.
You might have heard a pin drop.
"Âtma Devi, Châran of the King, open to his demand," came Birbal's voice, clear, unmistakeable, followed quickly by the order--"Break open the door, slaves, I must see if she be within ere seeking elsewhere."
There was no time to lose. Instinctively Fâtima, holding fast to her charge and dragging her with her, fled noiselessly to the closed door of the slip of a room where Zarîfa lay sleeping, and Mihr-un-nissa herself seeing no other way out of theimpasse, allowed herself to be dragged, as stealthily, as noiselessly.
None too soon, for as the latter motioning her duenna arbitrarily to the farther corner of the darkness was limply closing the door so as to allow a crack for hearing, a crash told that one bolt of the outer one had given way, and Âtma Devi's voice rang out--
"Hold! I will open to my Lord Birbal."
His voice in return came through from without. "So thou wouldst spare thy lock, widow! See that thou spare thy life also! Slaves--get you gone--await me on the landing below, and if I call, come."
A moment after he was facing Âtma Devi, his face pale with contemptuous passion.
"No lies, widow," he began at once. "I have come for the truth. Old Deena, the drumbanger, hath blabbed somewhat! I have gathered more in the bazaars. Thou art in this plot of the King's Luck, or thou knowest something of Siyah Yamin's part in it. Speak or----"
The flash of the poniard he held met an answering flash, as Âtma slipped forward, the death-dagger of her race ready on the instant, her passion roused instinctively at the sight of his.
"The King's Châran," she replied haughtily, "knows how to die--knows how to protect the King's Luck; and as for Siyah Yamin she is my sister of the veil. Between us lies troth--to death."
That had been her chief thought during the past few hours. It had indeed been her consolation in the vague regrets which had assailed her. Siyah Yamin was hand-fast to her. The courtesan had repeated the oath solemnly when Âtma Devi in restless anxiety had gone to her again; what is more she had given words of warning against Birbal, against the faction which he and Abulfazl represented. She had stigmatised them as self-seeking, as those who led the King astray. And had he not gone astray? Was there not, to begin with, this new edict forbidding widows to burn with their husbands? Would not the next step--if these two remained his advisers--be the forbidding of women to be widows indeed?
Every atom of womanhood in her, all tangled and torn apart by the plucking fingers of natural instinct and inherited ethics, rose up in revolt against herself, against everybody, everything in the world save that one thing--the King's honour, the King's Luck.
She stood surging in uttermost rebellion, and Birbal realised that a deftless word, almost a deftless look, would send the dagger of her race to her woman's heart.
So, realising also his mistake in having thus driven his last chance of discovery into such sharp antagonism, he shrugged his shoulders, strolled over to the parapet, and sate dangling his legs in his usual debonair fashion. But his keen eyes were on hers.
"Thy pardon, sister," he said. "Who can doubt that the King's Châran has his luck at heart, and it is for this, that I have come to thee. Now listen."
He paused and but for his intentness those keen eyes of his might have seen the faintest quiver of the door opposite him, as if someone behind it wished to hear better.
"The King's Luck, given to the stranger to be cut, hath been stolen from the lathe, and a false gem put in its place. Shall I tell thee how?" his questioning eyes found hers with a baffling stare in them and he went on. "A thief--Pâhlu, prince of thieves most likely, but I have naught against him as yet--managed entry to the empty workshop next to the diamond by scarce-seen clamps in the outer brick wall. He must have worked hard, and risked his life many dark, midnight hours; but he did it. The clamps remain. And doubtless he had a silken rope. Then Diswunt, the King's painter, beguiled the foreign jeweller out of his cell for a second or two. So the deed was done. But who beguiled Diswunt? Siyah Yamin doubtless. I have proof of that--but the boy was loyal. It would need some sense of duty, of devotion, to beguile him; that I know. Now, thou didst go to his house, not once but twice--of that, also, I have found proof. Wherefore? That is what, in the King's name, I ask?"
He paused for a reply, but none came, and his face hardened.
"Now listen further," he went on again. "Of another thing I have but too much proof. The court is astir. But now, I passed that hell-doomed cur Khodadâd, and he smiled at me--at me, his bitterest enemy! So he is content. Some plot is afoot, and the foundation of all plots is the Prince Salîm--they seek to oust Akbar and place the drunken lout, slave to his own passions and so slave to theirs, upon the King's throne."
Âtma laughed scornfully. "That will they never do--my Lord the King hath too many friends."
"And too many enemies, also," retorted Birbal. "Fool thou dost not see, thou dost not understand--thou art but a woman of whom men expect naught!"
It was growing dusk rapidly so a faint widening in the door-chink passed unnoticed.
"Now listen again!" he went on yet once more. "Thou hast been often to Siyah Yamin's of late, and Deena hath a tale of two veiled women at the Palace last night----"
There was the faintest flicker of a flinch in Âtma's eyes, and he was on his feet in a second, stretching out an accusing hand toward her.
"Thou wast there--thou and that accursed harlot--deny it not!"
She withdrew a pace and set her back to the wall. "I deny nothing, and I affirm nothing, my lord," she replied coolly, obstinately, though she felt torn in two by the conflict of her doubts.
"Fool!" he blazed out again. "I tell thee every second may be precious! Listen--if thou canst listen, being but woman! Not only the court, but within the last hour or so the soldiery, the people, show unrest also, and we may be undone this night! I myself can scarce understand.--It has come in a second like a miracle--as of some talisman----" his quick wit caught at his own words--"I have it!--The King's Luck! the Prince hath it."
In a second he had gripped both Âtma's wrists with his lithe hands and held her pinned to the wall. "Tell me, fool! All things rest on it mayhap--all things for which we have worked and hoped--for which he hath worked and hoped--the peace, the unity of India. Say! woman! Didst give it to the Prince?" Then seeing the utter obstinacy of her face, he realised the futility of wasting time with her, when he had found a cue which might lead to much elsewhere, and throwing her hands from him with a curse on all womanhood, he turned to go relying on his own keen wit.
But another keen wit joined to a mind capable of comprehension had been at work behind the chink. There was a faint scuffle, a muffled shriek, as Fâtima, who had heard nothing, made a dive at her little mistress's dress as she flung the door wide, and stepped out. Fate forced the duenna to grip the veil, so she only made matters worse; for Mihr-un-nissa stood bare-headed before the strange man.
Birbal, however, even in his hurry to seek help elsewhere, did not need such trivialities as veils to make him pause with instant consideration for the dignity of the slim young figure which barred his way.
"My lord," came the full rich young voice, "need not rail at all womankind. Here is one who will tell him the truth for the sake of Kingship. Peace! Âtma!" continued the girl, turning hotly on the Châran who would have interrupted, "thou understandest not, so be silent! My lord! I judge the talisman of the King's luck to be at this moment in Prince Salîm's turban. For at the palace this morning, I saw Khânzada Umm Kulsum sewing somewhat into a relic bag for this purpose, and she denied me knowledge. Nay! I am sure of it----."
She paused and Birbal asked quickly:
"Will the Queen-of-Women give reason?"
The girl's face suddenly dimpled into smiles, a mischievous twinkle took her eyes captive.
"Because the Most-Excellent the Heir-Apparent straightway came out of the Palace and fell in love with me."
A shriek of horror from Fâtima who was employed in attempting to re-enshroud the young girl's beauty emphasised the absolute impropriety of the remark, but Birbal bowed to the very ground.
"That is Luck beyond the Luck of Kings, madam," he said, "and reason beyond question. This Speck of Dust in the Court of Intellect gives thanks for the Truth, and withdraws his earthly clay"--he paused, for as he turned to go he saw therebeckplayer standing on the threshold. "Back slave!" he cried at once impetuously--"this roof is sacred to a Queen."
But the musician's pale face lit up suddenly. "A Queen suffers no ill from the eyes of a King," he replied, fixing his gaze on Mihr-un-nissa. So for an instant they stood, measuring one another; then the man turned quickly to Birbal, "Come, my lord," he said, "the Sufi from Isphahân desires to see the Most Excellent!--when he can withdraw his earthly clay from the presence of the Queen of Queens."
Mihr-un-nissa stood looking after them as they disappeared, nodding her head with a superior air. Then, in sudden change, she clapped her hands together joyfully like a child. "That is good," she cried. "It is lovely to be called that. Lo! I would do most things for that--except marry the Prince! Yea! most things so that it was the Luck of a real King!" Something in her own words made her pause. "That must be safeguarded," she murmured, as if to herself. Then she wheeled round and caught the fat duenna by both hands and tried to force her to her knees.
"Kneel, Fâtima, or I will hurt thee! Kneel, dost hear? What! thou disobeyest me!" A stamp of her foot emphasised her order, and brought the fat duenna down in a hurry.
"Say! didst hear aught?" asked the girl superbly. "In the room, I mean, not here."
"Highness, not a word!" protested Fâtima; "but what I heard here--what I saw here--have made me deaf and blind for ever."
"So much the better, Futtu, so much the better," nodded Mihr-un-nissa wisely. "Still 'tis always best to be on the safe side. So put thy mouth in the dust and say after me:
"May crows pick out mine eyes.
"Say! dost hear?
"May crows pick out mine eyes."
An ineffectual murmur came from the dust.
"May pigs devour my thighs."
The dust had evidently got into the speaker's mouth, for the words became more and more inaudible, as the stern young teacher went on: