Part 21 (1/2)
'In a good man's house a cross-grained wife Makes h.e.l.l upon earth with ill-tempered strife.'
Mayhap if we part we may come together again in better fas.h.i.+on; and sure I pray G.o.d that such a thing as a shrew be not left in the world.”
He would not acknowledge any fault on his side. Perhaps there was none. Anyhow he was determined this year of good fortune should not be marred by silly domestic squabbles. So, with affectionate farewells to his mother, whom he left determined to bring her choice to reason, he set off in light-hearted fas.h.i.+on to make that irruption into Hindustan which he had threatened when he had marked his forehead with pollen dust. He was not strong enough as yet, his army was not yet sufficiently disciplined for any attempt at real conquest; but he meant at least to cross the river Sind and set foot on Indian soil.
The expedition, however, fizzled out into a mere plundering raid along the western bank of the Indus. But Babar at least saw India, getting his first glimpse of it across the wide waters and sandbanks of that great stream. He was deeply impressed by the sight. At some places the water seemed to join the sky; at others the farther bank lay reflected in inverted fas.h.i.+on like a _mirage_. And he saw other strange and beautiful things also. Once between this water and the heavens something of a red appearance like a crepuscule cloud was seen, which by and by vanished, and so continued s.h.i.+fting till he came near.
And then with a whirr of thousands--nay! not ten thousand nor twenty thousand wings, but of wings absolutely beyond computation and innumerable--an immense flock of flamingoes rose into the air, and as they flew, sometimes their red plumes showed and sometimes they were hidden.
So, with his mind stocked with endless new ideas, for he had been struck by astonishment--and indeed there was room for wonder in this new world where the gra.s.s was different, the trees different, the wild animals of a different sort, the birds of a different plumage, the very manners of the men different--he returned in early summer to Kabul.
But here he once more found trouble. There was an epidemic of measles in the town and one of the first victims was his cousin-wife. He was vaguely distressed; mostly it is to be feared because of his mother who had nursed her daughter-in-law devotedly. Partly also from a remembrance of his own parting wish. Yes! it was distinctly wrong to say such ill-advised things, for if anything did happen one always regretted one's own words. And yet one had meant nothing.
”I will marry again, motherling! I will indeed; but this time let me choose for myself,” he said consolingly as the fond woman clung to him in mingled joy at seeing him again, and grief at the failure of her schemes. Not that they would have come to much, likely, even had the cousin-wife not died; for she had been a handful doubtless, all those months.
”Lo! motherling,” said her son once more, ”let us forget the mistake for a time. Thy hands are hot, thou art outwearied. Lie so among the cus.h.i.+ons, and I will sing to thee.”
She loved to hear him sing, and even in the old Turkhoman ballads, she did not--like old Isan-daulet--claim to have them fairly bawled. This new soft fas.h.i.+on was utterly sweet. So was her son's close-shaven chin. He had gone far from the wild Turkhoman tents; far ahead of her; G.o.d only knew how much farther he was to go.
”Motherling! Thou art not so well to-night,” he said with solicitude as he noticed how fever-bright were her kind, worn eyes. ”I will bid the Court physician send for him of Khorasan. He will likely know all methods; for I cannot have thee ill, my motherling.”
The Khanum held him fast with her hot hands. ”I care not, sonling,”
she sobbed suddenly; ”so long as thou art here to the last--the best--the bravest son--
”But I?” he said in tender raillery, though a sudden fear gripped at his heart. ”Whom have I in the wide world but thee, mother? Lo! thou art the one thing feminine left to me after all these years.” And his eyes grew stern as he thought of that dearest Dearest-One away in far Samarkand. Thank G.o.d she had a child.
”Have I not always said so?” wailed his mother. ”Have I not bid thee have children? Ah, Babar! if I live, promise thou wilt marry.”
”I will marry either way, motherling,” he said. ”Lo! I promise that; so cease thy tears and try to sleep. Thou wilt be better by morn.”
But morning found the palace hushed with the hush of mortal sickness.
There was no longer any doubt that the Khanum had contracted measles in its worst repressed form, and regret, vague almost unreasonable regret, seized on Babar. He was responsible. It was his fault. His mother had nursed his wife. The Khorasan physician came and ordered water-melons; he of Kabul let blood. And Babar sat dry-eyed beside his mother, holding her hot hand. She did not know him. Those words of hers, begging him to marry had been her last to him. His to her his promise that he would marry. Even amid his dazed grief he remembered this; remembered it keenly as, when the end came in quiet unconsciousness, he bent over her to give the last caress before Death claimed the body and it lay soulless, impure. But she? She was received into the Mercy of G.o.d.
He said that over and over again to himself as, on the Sunday morning, he put his strong shoulder under the light bier and carried it to the Garden of the New Year. It was summer-time now, the roses were beginning to blow, the tulips were nigh over, but the wild pansies were in full blossom. They had dug a grave under the plane trees and here, after the committal prayers had been said and flowers strewn, Babar, holding the head and Kasim, his foster brother, the feet, laid the light, muslin-swathed, tinsel-bound corpse in the long, low niche, cut coffin-wise in the side. His voice scarcely trembled at all as he laid a handful of earth upon the breast with the solemn words of admonition and hope.
”Out of the dust I made you, and to dust I return you, to raise you yet once more out of the dust upon the Day of Resurrection.”
But his eyes brimmed with tears as, with lavish hand, he scattered pansy blossoms till the white shroud was hidden by them.
Then without one word he drew himself up from the grave, and taking a shovel worked his hardest to fill in the earth.
Afterwards he sat down and looked out over the valley.
When his time came, he, also, would lie here. One could not desire a more peaceful, a more beautiful spot. But he would have no tomb built over him to blot out the blue sky. No! He and his mother should rest together till the Resurrection morn out in the open, among the birds and flowers.
CHAPTER II
I set Death's Door wide open for thee, Friend, That thou might'st go.