Part 4 (2/2)
Babar whittled away with his knife at the arrow he was making--for he was ever useful with his hands--ere he replied slowly:
”Baisanghar will never make a king. Wherefore I know not; but there it is. He is not fit for it.”
Dearest-One was aflame in a second. ”Not fit for it?” she echoed.
”That is not true. He is as fit for it really as--as thou art, brother. Only he will belittle himself! He will talk of himself as a shadow--an unsubstantial shadow! It is not true, it is not right, it is not fair, and so I told him the other night.”
Babar put down his knife and stared.
”Thou didst tell him so--but when?”
Dearest-One hung her head, though a faint smile showed on her face.
She had given herself away; but she was not in the least afraid of her brother. Many youngsters of his age might, from their own experiences in love affairs, have been seriously disturbed at the idea of their sister speaking to a young man on a dark stair; but Babar was an innocent child. To him it would be but a slight breach of decorum. Yet something made her breath short as she replied coolly:
”I met him on the stairs. It was dark, so he could not see me, brother; and I spoke to him as--as a mother to her son.” The head went down a little more over the last words; true as they were in one sense, she knew better in her heart-of-hearts.
”And he--what said he?” asked Babar alertly, taking his sister completely by surprise. With the memory of that cry ”Beloved!
beloved!” in her mind--it had lingered there day and night--she faltered.
”Dearest-One!” said the boy, grave, open-eyed, after a pause, ”did he kiss thee?”
The girl looked up indignantly, a dark flush under her wheat-coloured skin. ”Kiss me?” she echoed--”he did not even really touch me--”
And then, suddenly, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. True--he had not touched her--he had shrunk from her eager body. Why? oh, why?--
Babar was full of concern. He laid down his knife and arrow, and went over to his sister. ”Then there is nothing to weep about, see you,” he said stoutly, ”save lack of manners, and for that thou art sorry. Is it not so, dearest?”
The girl's sobs changed to a half-hysterical giggle. ”So sorry--” she a.s.sented, ”and thou wilt not tell Grandmother--”
”The prophet forbid!” cried her brother aghast; ”I should never hear the last of it.”
And Dearest-One's tears changed to real laughter.
”Brother,” she cried, ”thou art the dearest darling of all! I would do aught in the whole world for thee.”
”Nay,” replied Babar gravely, ”that will I never ask of thee. My womenkind shall have no task to do that my hands cannot compa.s.s alone.”
He felt virtuous as he spoke; rather uplifted, too, by that same virtue. He did not know what Fate held in store for him. He did not dream that he would have to ask of her the greatest sacrifice a woman can make, and that she would make it willingly.
Meanwhile it was gorgeous summer tide, and Hussan played forward in the King's game of polo, down in the river meadows. He was the best of forwards; the best of men consequently to the boy-King.
”Thou art a young fool, child!” said old Isan-daulet who never minced her words, ”as thou wilt surely find out ere long unless G.o.d made thee stupid blind. Luckily mine eyes are open; so go thy way and knock b.a.l.l.s about after the manner of men.”
Thus it was early autumn ere Babar's eyes opened; but then what he saw made his young blood surge through him from head to foot. The meanness, the deceit of it! To conspire with the amba.s.sador from wicked Uncle Mahmud at Samarkand who had come ostensibly to present an offering of silver almonds and golden pistachio nuts, to depose him, Babar, and put ”the brat” Jahangir on the throne. And all the while to be playing forward in the King's game! It was too much! It was not fair! It was emphatically _not_ the game!
”Throw away bad b.u.t.ter while it's melted,” said Isan-daulet firmly; ”Send Kasim-Beg and other trustworthy friends to strangle him with a bow string! Then wilt thou be quit of such devils' sp.a.w.n.”
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