Part 47 (1/2)

So Babar blessed her for her kind heart, and sent off a special messenger to Kabul for Hindal, a boy of nigh ten years old who had been left behind with his tutor to complete his education.

The Emperor felt happier when this was done; perhaps because in his kind heart of hearts he had never been quite sure of the righteousness of giving Hindal over to another woman. It was the only action of his in regard to his womenkind which he could not have conscientiously upheld against all comers at the bar of his own judgment.

It was great gain, therefore, to find his Dearest-dear of a mind with himself. For all that he felt--as strong men so often do when limited by feminine outlook--rather battered and worn.

In no fit state therefore for the bad news which came to him by special runner as he sat by the Water-lily tank at Dholpur.

Humayon, wrote the Court Physician, in Delhi, was very ill of fever.

It would be best if his mother were to come at once, as the Prince was much prostrated.

Humayon! First, Alwar, his youngest; then his eldest son! Was he to lose them both? Babar was in his essence very man. Trouble came to him overwhelmingly. He might face it bravely; but he always faced the worst. It was Humayon, bested in his fight for life that he saw; whereas Maham with the eternal hopefulness of woman, which springs from her eternal motherhood, would not let herself even think of defeat. Upset as she was by the dreadful news, she yet spoke quietly of how she would bring her invalid son back, and how his father had best return to Agra and have everything ready to receive their darling.

”I would fain come, too, dear-heart,” said Babar pitifully.

But Maham would not hear of it. Even so much would be to admit danger, and there was none--there could be none. Nathless, let urgent orders be sent along the route so that there should not be an instant's delay.

She was quite calm and collected to him; but she broke down a little to the Blessed-Damozel who somehow or another--why, folk never knew--was ever the recipient of confidences.

”Thou wilt look after him, lady,” she said quite tearfully, ”and see that he wearies himself not with over-anxiety?”

”All shall be as if thou wast here, sister, so far as in me lies,” was the quiet reply, and Maham was satisfied. What Mubarika-Begum said she would do, would be done. Maham knew that; for she knew (what Babar did not) that Mubarika's life had been one long self-denial.

Years and years younger than her husband, she had left a young lover behind her in her father's palace when she had come as a bride to make peace between her clan and the King of Kabul. She had chosen her part, she had respected and admired, in a way she had loved Babar; but pa.s.sionate romance had never clouded her eyes.

”Yea! I will guard him as thou wouldst,” she said again, ”and mayhap in thy absence, and with this common grief and anxiety to soften memory, Dildar also will learn how good, how kind thou art, thou Star-of-the-Emperor's life.”

But even Mubarika, so calm, so gracious, so tactful, could not prevent the mental strain from telling on Babar's bodily health. Prolonged anxiety, great grief had always prostrated him for a time, even as a young man; and now illness and hard work had aged him before his years.

”Would to G.o.d he could but drink a bit--he need not get drunk,” wailed Tardi-Beg who, being tainted with Sufi doctrines, would orate for hours concerning cups divine, and ruby wines. But Babar had never broken a promise in his life, and was not going to begin now.

Besides, Maham had been right. Humayon was brought to Agra alive. That was much. In the first fulness of his joy at seeing his son once more, Babar almost forgot anxiety.

”He will soon be well, dear-heart,” he said cheerfully; ”he does not look so very bad. When the fever leaves him--”

But it was Maham's turn to be despondent. ”It does not leave him,” she said.

That was true; as yet the crisis had not come, and it was long in coming. Day after day he grew weaker; day after day the brain, weary of fighting at long-odds for life, grew more and more drowsy.

”My sisters! I want to see my sisters!” would come the low muttering voice, reft of almost all its youth, its tone. And those three, Gulchihra, Gulrang, and Gulbadan, Rose-face, Rose-blush, Rose-body, Babar's three rose-named daughters, would creep in with tears and kiss him. A pathetic little picture. The girlish faces all blurred with tears, the tinkling of bracelets, jewelled earrings, head ornaments, what not, the rustling of scent-sodden silks and satins, and that poor head on the pillow turning from side to side, rhythmically restless.

Even Babar himself, had to see after a while that the Shadow-of-Death lay on his son.

”Maham!” he said pitifully,--”the boy, the boy--”

Poor mother! For nigh on four-and-twenty years she had been this man's stay and stand-by. He had come to her consoling arms as a child comes to its mother. She had given him in pa.s.sionate devotion more than he perhaps realised, for they had been faithful friends always, and the friends.h.i.+p had overlaid the love; but she failed him now, for she was at the end of her tether. So she stood dry-eyed, almost cold.

”Why should my lord grieve,” she said, ”because of my son? There is no necessity. He is King. He has other sons--I have but this one!--therefore _I_ grieve.”