A Prince of Dreamers. Flora Annie Webster Steel
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girls and sodden revellers; but she, raising herself from her cushions on her elbow, greeted him instantly with shrill jest.
"The King himself! Oh! the honour! Nay, 'tis not the King, but the King's Counsellor. Sir! I would rise," she continued pointing and making a graceful wriggle of apparent effort, "but that my treasure, my lover, my husband, lies dead-drunk at my feet."
Birbal gave a quick glance at the prostrate figure among the cushions.
"Yea!" she continued, her baby face at strange variance with her words, which came, clipped hard and fast with defiance, from her soft-parted lips. "'Tis Syed Jamâl-ud-din, of Bârha, sure enough. A good soldier to the King though at this present somewhat overcome with love for poor me and liquor; as indeed is the Prince of Proprieties yonder. Ah! Most Revered! Oh! Most Excellent of Heirs Apparents! rouse thee to greet this Select Emissary of a Fateful Father."
Prince Salîm, a big, heavy looking lad, stared stupidly at the newcomer, his cup arrested at his lips.
"What'sh devil he coming here for?" he muttered fiercely. "That's what I wan'ter know. What'sh a devil----" Then his ferocity subsided amid a titter from Siyah Yamin.
"Heed him not, Birbal, Prince of Jesters. Slaves, bring a cushion! Sit thee down, so, beside me--we be the only two sober ones. Cupbearer, the cup! And bring the snow from holy Himâlya to cleanse it; for see you most Brahman Birbal, Siyah Yamin is fast Mahommedan since she married! La-illaha-il-ullaho."
"Madam," said Birbal interrupting her mocking creed impatiently, "if you would play your part as the wife of a Syed of Bârha----"
Siyah Yamin gave a little shriek of dismay. "My veil! Here! women, my veil! lo! I was forgetting."
"A truce to jesting, madam," said Birbal sternly. "Time will show if what thou sayest be true; meanwhile----" he glanced round, hastily taking in the company. "So! Meean Khodadâd! Hide not thyself behind the Prince as ever! God! if I could kill thee 'twere better for us all!"
Khodadâd, on whose face sate enthroned all the evil which in the younger revellers showed as yet fleetingly, roused himself to laugh insultingly.
"What! Kill a Tarkhân? Lo! Brahman, even thy caste in that case would not save thee from the hangman's noose. None can punish me, fool, I am Khodadâd--'God given.'"
"God given!" echoed Birbal passionately. "That brings one balm--no man need shrink calling thee son! And as for thou, Lâlla!--go! accursed by thy father!"
"What'sh all this," murmured Prince Salîm rising unsteadily. "What'sh all this fush?"
"My Prince," said Birbal, restraining his voice to respect, "this is no place for you--no place for the Heir to India--no place for one who will be King when his great father----"
Prince Salîm dashed his cup down with a curse.
"Let be a shay! I tell you I am King here! Am I not King, and the Shadow of God? Am I not a shay?"
He looked round on his company triumphantly; but Birbal, utterly exasperated, bowed.
"No, my Prince," he replied politely, "thou art drunk, boy, and the substance of a fool!"
Siyah Yamin's tinkling laughter led the chorus of mirth in which for the time even Birbal's anger passed.
CHAPTER IV
Beauty is no bond maiden; Lot it holds The veil which hides it from all earthly lovers But to holy-hearted noble-souled Unveils and all its loveliness discovers.
There was another, and very different tinkle of soft laughter, a rustle of silks and satins which in their stirring gave out multi-scented perfumes of orange and rose, musk, and ambergris; for Auntie Rosebody was in full swing of one of her recitals, and all the harem knew that they were as good as cornelian-water for raising the spirits.
Not that spirits required raising on this day of days, on which the accession of the Most Auspicious, the Most Excellent, the King-of-Kings was commemorated! Pleasurable excitement simmered through the whole women's apartments. For weeks past, preparations for the feast had been going on, and to-day would bring full fruition to all their labours. Dressed in their best, the harem waited for the ceremonials to begin.
"Ha! la! la!" went on Aunt Rosebody, enjoying her own tale of past glories. "That was a feasting, for sure A Mystic Palace, and three Houses; one of dominion, one of good fortune, one of pleasure. So my brother Jahânbâni-jinat Ashyâni--on whom be peace--chose pleasure. And he took three plates full of gold coins. 'There is no need to count,' said he, 'let each lady take a fistful.' So we scattered them in the empty tank, and the guests scrambled for them.
"Then the King, my brother, seeing this, said to our Dearest Lady"--here the little speaker's little hands fluttered faintly as if in blessing--"on whom be God's uttermost peace for ever, 'If you permit, why not let the water in?' At first 'Dearest Lady,' out of the gentleness of her heart said no, but afterward she climbed out and sate on the top steps! Ha! la! la! la! It was like the Day of Resurrection! When the water came, everyone tumbled about and got so excited, but the King called 'No harm done! Come out and eat aniseed candy!' So to end my story everyone came out, everyone ate candy, and none got cold! Bis-millah!"
The little lady hitched her veil straight--it had fallen from her abundant gray hair during her vivacious gesticulations--and beamed round on the audience seated about her on cushions.
"Bis-millah!" echoed their laughing voices. To look at Aunt Rosebody was enough for laughter. Despite her years, nothing damped the keen enjoyment of life which was hers by right of descent. Her nephew Akbar had it at times also; but the cares of life crept in at others. Not so with Aunt Rosebody. Even her recent pilgrimage to Mekka had not aged her, though Salîma Begum her daughter looked years older, and her daughter the little "Mother of Plumpness" had come out of the five years journeying quite thin.
But one thing disturbed Auntie Rosebody's equanimity, and that was the misdeeds of her darling grand-nephew, the Heir Apparent. These she would weep over, scold over, and finally condone.
So the smiles died from her puckered face as Lady Hamida Begum, the boy's grandmother, swept into the arcade her face pale with proud vexation.
"Say not so! sister-in-law!" exclaimed the little lady, tears in her voice already. "Say not he hath been drunk again? Oh! my life! What is to be done?"
Lady Hamida set her lips. "It is true," she replied, "and my son--his father--is deeply angered. And what wonder, though in truth"--she sighed--"this setting aside of all loose livers in Satanstown----"
"Oh! 'tis a premium on discovery," moaned Aunt Rosebody. "Why cannot my nephew let folk go to the devil discreetly, and none be the wiser save Providence? Oh! my life! what is to be done?"
"Pray for him," suggested Salîma Begum nervously.
"Yes! Pray for him!" assented an older Salîma who, being related in cross-road fashion to half the harem had lost all individuality.
"Prayers!" whimpered the little lady wrathfully. "Have I not already given up my pilgrimage to the scapegrace, and if that avails not, what are prayers? How was it, know you, Hamida?"
"The tale is not for virtuous ears," replied the Lady Hamida icily. "It is sufficient that my grandson has once more been brought home in a state unbecoming the heir to my son."
"Tra-a-a!" said an elderly woman dryly, as she looked up from the tarikh or numerical hemstitch she was laboriously composing in a corner. Then she took a pinch of scented snuff and removed her spectacles; for Râkiya Begum, as the political wife of Akbar's boyhood, was titular head of the Mahommedan harem as the mother of the Heir-Apparent was head of the Hindu.
"With due deference," she went on composedly, "it is in the blood. His great-grandfather----"