Part 27 (1/2)

JAHaNGIR AND NURJAHaN

A.D. 1605 TO A.D. 1627

These names, ”Conqueror of the World” and ”Light of the World,” are inseparable.

It is as well they should be so, for they supply us with the only excuse which Prince Salim could put forward for the curious animosity that for many years went hand in hand with his undoubted affection and respect for his great father, Akbar; the excuse being that he had been crossed in love, real, genuine love, by that father's absurd sense of justice.

The story will bear telling.

There was a poor Persian called Mirza or ”Prince” Ghia.s.s, of good family but abjectly poverty-stricken, who, finding it impossible to live in his own country, determined to emigrate to India with his family. On the way thither, his wife, Bibi Azizan, somewhat of a f.e.c.kless fas.h.i.+onable, was delivered of another daughter. Already in dire distress, the parents felt unable to cope with this fresh misfortune. So they left the child by the wayside. The chief merchant of the caravan by which they were travelling, happening to come along the same road a few hours afterwards, found the baby, and being struck by its beauty, determined to rear it as his own.

Now in a travelling caravan wet-nurses are rare. Small wonder, then, that the infant, whom the merchant had instantly called the ”Queen of Women” (_Mihr-un-nissa_), should find its way back to its mother. This led to explanations. The merchant, discovering the father to be much above his present position, employed him in various ways, and became interested in his future.

This led to his being brought to Akbar's notice, who, finding him straightforward and capable, advanced him until he rose to be Lord High Treasurer of the Empire. A fine position, truly, especially for Bibi Azizan, who, amongst the ladies of the court, was noted for the _dernier cri_ of fas.h.i.+on both in dress and perfume. It was she, briefly, who invented the attar of rose, which at first sold for its weight in gold.

Now Bibi Azizan was a matchmaking mamma, and in little Mihr-un-nissa she had a pretty piece of goods to bring to market. A thousand pities, indeed, that husband Ghia.s.s, honest man, had already allowed talk of betrothal with young Sher-Afkan of the King's Light Horse. All the more pity because there was Prince Salim giving his father trouble despite the Rajput wife they had given him.

That Bibi Azizan cast nets is fairly certain; but it was Fate which sent the bird into them.

It was after one of Akbar's favourite diversions, a Paradise Bazaar, when the lords and ladies of the court had been playing pranks, that Salim first saw the girl who was, long years afterwards, to be his good genius. The tale may be fully told in verse of how--

”Long ago, so runs the story, in the days of King Akbar, 'Mid the pearly-tinted splendours of the Paradise Bazaar, Young Jahangir, boyish-hearted, playing idly with his dove, Lost his boyhood, lost his favourite, lost his heart, and found his love.

By a fretted marble fountain, set in 'broidery of flowers, Sat a girl, half-child, half-maiden, dreaming o'er her coming hours.

Wondering vaguely, yet half guessing, what the harem women mean When they call her fair, and whisper, 'You are born to be a queen'.

Curving her small palms, like petals, for their store of glistening spray, Gazing in the sunny water where in rippling shadow lay Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of budding grace, Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval, ivory face.

Arched and fringed with velvet blackness from their shady depths her eyes s.h.i.+ne as summer lightning flashes in the dusky evening skies.

Mihr-un-nissa, Queen of Women, so they call the little maid Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday she played.

Heavy sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished orange groves, Through their shade comes Prince Jehangir, on his wrist two fluttering doves.

'Hold my birds, child!' cries the stripling, 'I am tired of their play', Thrusts them in her hands, unwilling, careless saunters on his way.

Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers rich and rare, Heedless that the fairest blossom 'mid the blaze of blossom there Is the little dreaming maiden by the fountain-side at rest With the orange-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love upon her breast.

Flowers fade and perfume pa.s.ses; nothing pleases long to-day; Back toward his feathered fav'rites soon the Prince's footsteps stray.

Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her listless hold Only one vain-struggling captive does the lad, surprised, behold.

'Only one?' he queries sharply. 'Sire', she falters, 'one has flown!'

'Stupid! How?' The maiden flushes at his quick imperious tone.

'So! my lord!' she says defiant, with a curving lip, and straight From her unclasped hands the other circling flies to join its mate.

Heavy sweet the creamy blossom gems the burnished orange tree, Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their new-found liberty.

Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank surprise, Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening eyes At the small rebellious figure, with its slender arms outspread, Face half frowns, half laughter, royal right of maidenhead.

Slowly dies the flush of anger as the flush of evening dies, Slowly grow his eyes to brightness as the stars in evening skies.