Part 28 (2/2)

_Nizami_.

The Judas trees were in full blossom. But a day or two before they had been dry branches, brown, wrinkled, to all appearances dead. Now, with a swiftness nigh miraculous they had flushed, every inch of finest twig, to rosy red under their mantle of sweet-scented bloom. The ground underneath them was already carpeted with fallen flowers, their five-petalled cups, like those of a regal geranium, still perfect utterly.

”'Tis like the blossoming of love in the heart, is it not, little one?” said Babar idly, as, lying amid the spent blossoms he raised one to perch it coquettishly on the goldy-brown curls that rested on his breast.

He had been married five months to little Cousin Ma'asuma but it seemed to him like five days. Aye! though happenings stern and sad had filled the interval, Kasim had been right. Herat had been plundered by the arch-enemy Shaibani. His cousins had fled, leaving wives and children to fall into the hands of the conquerors.

At another time Babar's hot anger might have led him to attempt reprisals, though he knew it would be but an attempt. But in these first months of marriage he could not find it in his heart to leave little Ma'asuma for any time--if, indeed she would have allowed him to do so. For small, young, delicate as she was, those violet eyes of hers could set hard as sapphires. Aye! and have a gleam in them too, like any gem.

The first time Babar saw it, he caught her in his arms and half smothered her with kisses until she bade him peremptorily put her down. And then they had both laughed, and Babar had vowed in his heart, that never had lover been so fortunate as he. His mistress was--what was she not? Briefly, she was all things to him. He had never been in love with a woman before, and his self-surrender was complete.

Small wonder, indeed, if it were; for there was something almost uncanny in the beauty of the face which looked up at him, love in its eyes.

”Put it on thine own rough head, man,” she said superbly, ”thou needest ornament more than I.”

And it was true. From the tiny silvern and golden slipper she had kicked off, to the light, gold-spangled veil which just touched her curly head, she was ornament personified. The dainty heart-shaped opening of the violet-tinted gauze bodice she wore over a pale green corselet was all set with seed-pearls and turquoises, hung on cunning little silvern tendrils. And the corselet itself! all veined with golden threads and pale moonstones. So with the flimsy, full, almost transparent muslin petticoat, pale pale green, that lay in shrouding folds over the violet-tinted under garment. All edged and embroidered, all scent-sodden with the perfume of violets--his favourite flower then; to be his favourite flower till his death. Truly a marvellous small person from head to foot!

”Have a care, man,” she said sternly, as he crushed her closer to him, ”or we shall quarrel; and 'tis not good for me to quarrel--now.”

He released her quickly, yet cautiously; gentle as he was, he was always forgetting, he told himself, that she was doubly precious to him--now.

”Lo! dear heart!” he said penitently, ”we have not quarrelled these five days.”

”Not since I was angry because the tire-woman overdyed my hands with henna,” she replied mischievously. ”And thou didst tell me there were worse evils for tears. As if I cared; so long as my hands were not pretty ... for thee.” She held them up for him to admire. And they were pretty. Delicate, and curved, and pink, like rose-petals. He kissed them dutifully; so much he knew was expected of him, and he loved the task.

”And as penance for rudeness, man,” she went on, her face all dimples, ”thou wert to write me a love ode on the subject. Hast done it, sirrah?”

”That have I,” a.s.sented her lover husband gladly. ”Dost know, little one, I string more pearls now than ever; but thou--thou hast not written one line since we were married; yet thou hadst the prettiest art.”

Ma'asuma lay back on her resting-place and laughed softly. ”Someday, stupid, I will tell thee why. But now for thy verses.”

Babar caught up his lute and sat tuning it, his eyes wandering away to the girdle of snows that clipped the blue hill-horizon. They were in the garden of the New Year; alone, save for that dear grave yonder where the jasmine flowers were drooping their scented waxen stars.

Dear mother! How glad she would have been to see Ma'asuma, to think of the grandson who was so soon to make life absolutely perfect. Yes! the cup of life, the Crystal Bowl could hold no more. He lost himself in dreams, to be roused by an impatient, ”Well! I listen.”

Then he turned and smiled at her as he began with exaggerated expression.

”Oh, fair impa.s.sioned, whom G.o.d hath fas.h.i.+oned My love to be, Thy hands so tender, thy fingers slender Rosy I see.

Be they flower-tinted or blood-imprinted From my poor heart?

Torn by thy smiling, tears and beguiling Feminine art.

Yet, sweet calamity! dwell we in amity Each perfect day.

Yea! in the bright time. Yea! in the night time, Lovers alway.”

”Sweet calamity!” she echoed, pouting her lips and trying hard to frown, as the song finished. ”Couldst find no other t.i.tle for thy lawful wife? And yet--” here smiles overcame her--”Lo! Babar! 'tis a beautiful name and I am thy sweet calamity alway, alway!” Then suddenly, to his dismay, she began to cry softly, the big tears running down her pretty cheeks in easy childish fas.h.i.+on. ”Nay!” she went on, half-smiles again at his solicitude, ”I am not ill,--there is naught wrong. 'Tis only that I am lonely when thou art doing King's work, which must be done. If only foster-sister would come, I should not be so frightened.”

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