_Dear, the Sun that shines above thee
Spends his gold to see thee, sweet
Let me like those rays that love thee
Kiss the dust about thy feet_.
--Nizami.
There was a faint half-kissing sound as of bare feet on a wet marble
floor, and a running tinkle of light voices behind the heavy curtain
which barred the archway to the inner bathroom; but in the little
balconied alcove at the end of the vestibule, where Aunt Rosebody,
attired in a vivid rose-coloured wadded silk dressing-gown, sate
drying her gray hair in the wind, there was silence, almost sleep.
For the active little old lady still preferred a swim to paddling in
scented waters, so she and Umm Kulsum the "Mother of Plumpness," both
being of small size, were used to start earlier, in one dhooli, for
their morning bathe in the women's screen at the big tank beneath Atma
Devi's house. Being of the frank old Chughtai type, they were
hail-fellow-well-met with the all and sundry who came down to fill
their pots or wash on the steps; so nearly every day a gray head and a
black one, both sleek from a dive under the screen arches, might be
seen slipping sideways in the overhead stroke far beyond the women's
limited range.
Now such exercise is fatiguing even when age is set aside so lightly
as it was by Aunt Rosebody. Therefore the time of hair-drying was for
her a time of repose also; the more so because Umm Kulsum always dried
hers whilst picking her daily violet posy for the King. And the other
ladies--heaven rest their souls and bodies!--always spent such an
unconscionable time over their scented paddlings; while as for the
dressings to come, when, fresh from their baths, they all sate in the
balconied vestibule to be perfumed, and manicured and massaged--Why!
what with the drinking of cool sherbets or hot tea, scented, almost
colourless, tasteless, save for the cinnamon flavouring it, these
_seances_ seemed unending. They were, however, amusing enough, since
this was a recognised time for morning callers; primed, of course,
with the latest and most vivacious gossip. Nor were the visitors
necessarily of the class which nowadays the East--without thereby in
the least impugning their respectability--stigmatises as "street
walkers"; since the laws governing seclusion are now far more strict
than they were in Mogul times.
Besides, there were always the court ladies, and the wives of the
Palace officials.
Always indeed! Aunt Rosebody broke off in the faintest of deep
breathings, which even by discourtesy would hardly be called a snore,
and remarked with drowsy captiousness, "What? again!" when the African
slave girl--whom the dear old lady had imported from Mekka as part of
her piety--ingeniously roused her slumbering mistress by actually
touching her feet in the deep salaam which accompanied the
announcement, "Bibi Azizan, noble wife of my lord Ghiass Beg,
Treasurer, and her daughter Mihr-un-nissa crave audience."
Aunt Rosebody's beautiful wavy gray hair stirred like moon-ripples on
water as she shook her head patiently.
"Let her come," she said resignedly, "the others cannot be long now,
and, mayhap, if I let her tongue start fair at a gallop, I may finish
forty winks ere it slackens to a trot."
Thereinafter, swaying with an odd sidelong waddle of the hips in the
fashionable gait which was supposed to emulate the grace of a swan or
a young elephant, there came over the marble inlaid floor strewn with
silken carpets from Khotan, a truly marvellous figure. Being somewhat
stout in the body--though the face, still charmingly pretty was
curiously unmarred by fatness or flabbiness--the extremity of the
modes in which the figure was dressed did not become the wearer. The
graceful dual garment (almost diaphanous but for its exceeding
fulness, cut to the ground at the sides, but literally yards long in
front and behind) instead of, when swept back by the walk, clinging in
soft folds from hip to ankle and lying on the ground behind in a
billowing train with no wrong side, was ruckled about the fat legs,
and huddled itself confusedly behind them, giving the appearance of a
peg-top entangled in a handkerchief!
There was no lack of colour, or stitching, and sewings about the lady.
From head to foot she stood confessed as one of the leaders of ladies'
fashions, and the jewelled chatelaine at her waist held _kohl_ caskets
and rouge-pots, even an unmistakable powder box, while a large mirror
set in pearls shone ring-fashion on her thumb.
She salaamed in the very latest court manner to Aunt Rosebody, and
came up from the semi-prostration, breathless but complacent, to meet
the little old lady's keen eyes fixed on her forehead whereon, just at
the parting, was stuck a tiny, round, vermilion wafer.
"What is that?" asked Aunt Rosebody pointing an accusing finger at
her. "Hast become a Hindu?"
Azizan Begum tittered. "La! madam. 'Tis the very latest fashion! One
cannot, with respect to oneself and others, appear without it, in----"
"In the Rajput harem," interrupted the little lady, her tone rising
ominously. "Well! 'tis not far distant, Aziz, if thou hast missed the
way thither. Just through the door, down the steps, across the yard
and thou wilt find plenty of red _tikkas_; but not here!"
"Madam! I protest," expostulated the poor fat fashionable; "I have no
desire--and 'tis worn by everybody at court."
"It is not worn here," repeated Aunt Rosebody with cool dignity. "So
if the desire to remain finds place in the respected and respectable
lady's plans she--she can wash it off! Ooma! a basin of water. Let it
be tepid lest the lady should receive a shock--and--and see it be duly
scented with scent of flowers; something that will make the respected
and respectable lady smell less like a civet cat! 'Tis pity, Aziz,
thou dost not keep to rose-essence after taking the trouble to invent
it!"
"I protest," murmured the Bibi, seeking support on the floor, and
adjusting the set of her veil and her folds generally with the sort of
reflex action which exists still in the women of her type--that is to
say, hopelessly courtesan despite their excellent wifehood and
motherhood-- "'Tis the very latest of my perfumes, and all the latest
fashionables--"
The elder woman's face took on seriousness beneath its impatience. "I
am not of the latest," she said, "though in truth I be later in life's
journey than they. Yet even in my youth"--her sparkling bright eyes
roved contemptuously over the other's dress--"I did not clothe myself
after--after Satanstown! And thou growest old, Azizan! Thou hast a
daughter--but where is she?--did not they say she was with thee?"
"The child was beguiled bathward by Lady Umm Kulsum whom we met,"
bridled the Bibi.
"The child?" echoed Aunt Rosebody; "Lo! she will be giving thee dates
ere long--ha--ha!"
She chuckled over her own little joke, for the giving of dates is the
first step toward a wedding; but the Bibi tossed her head.
"She is but eight, and I protest is quite a babe--not one thought of
marriage."
Auntie Rosebody leant back and yawned. "Eleven," she said calmly, "or
twelve maybe. 'Tis thirteen since the ill-fated caravan left Persia,
and on the way thy child was born. Strange, surely, that such close
touch on death as must have been thine ere thou and her father could
have left her--as thou didst--to die in the desert, should not have
brought thee some sense in life! How about the betrothal to Sher
Afkan?"
Bibi Azizan gave an affected little scream.
"La! there 'tis! Did I not tell her father that if he would insist on
sending the country-bumpkin a platter of welcome that the old tale
would be revived. La! 'tis too vexing! I could cry; and my sweet
poppet whom I long to keep always as my little babe, my perfect
innocent! I protest, madam, I would kill any bridegroom."
"Oh fie! marmie!" came a laughing voice behind--"Not Prince Salim, I
will wager!"
Both women looked round with a start to see, holding back the wadded
curtain, such a vision of youth and perfect loveliness as the world
shows but seldom; yet once having shown does not let men forget. For
this small slender Eastern maid, comparable at her eleven years to
Western fourteen, was to take her place amongst the beauty which has
swayed the destiny of empires.
As she stood backed by the soft embroideries of the curtain, the
delicate outline of her still childish figure barely concealed by the
silver tinsel veil Umm Kulsum had thrown over her in laughter at her
utter nakedness as she had scrambled out of the bath, she showed at
once innocent, yet full of guile. There was not one false note in the
harmony of her beauty. The cupid's bow of her mouth was curved into a
mischievous smile as she looked at her mother half-jibingly, and at
Aunt Rosebody half-defiantly.
"Oh! my heart! Oh! what words!" gasped the former, having recourse to
her vinaigrette, while the latter looked at her nodding her moonshiny
head.
"So!" she said; "So, Azizan! That lets the cat out of the cupboard!"
But there was no time for more, since through the upheld curtain
trooped the bevy of bathers followed by their maids. Then arose such a
chatter as to places and pillows, such giggles, such laughter, waxing
loudest round Umm Kulsum who, ready dressed, caught the silver tissued
maid-ling about the waist, and danced round with her, whirling through
the room, feet flying, hair floating, until--quite breathless--she
pulled her partner down right on Aunt Rosebody's rug.
The little old lady looked at the perfectly bewitching face, and a
smile quivered about her mouth.
"What about the Prince Salim, child?" she asked accusingly. "What
about him?"
Mihr-un-nissa looked arch in return and positively made a _moue_ of
uncontrollable high spirits before she put on an air of immense and
demure propriety.
"Nothing, gracious lady! Am I not betrothed to Sher Afkan Khan?"
Bibi Azizan let loose an absolute shriek.
"Oh! my liver! Ah! ladies! Heard one ever the like? Mihr-un-nissa how
darest thou?--it is not true--it is a lie!"
A curious expression of untamed obstinacy came to the girlish face and
gave it a character beyond its years.
"Lo! Marmita!" she said lightly; "when thou and Afkan's mother have
settled whether I be betrothed or no, there may be talk of truth. Till
then I marry no one."
Bibi Azizan subsided helplessly, limply, amongst her cushions. To say
more might only induce the _enfant terrible_, of malicious intent,
still further to reveal the family strife; so there was room for Umm
Kulsum's tactful raillery.
"What! thou wilt be an old maid like me! And without even a pilgrimage
to thy credit! Fie! Thou art too pretty for Jehannum!"
Mihr-un-nissa laughed scornfully. "I would rather Jehannum on my own
feet than Paradise on a man's coat-tails. La! la! I hate men folk!"
There was a general gurgle of laughter. The girl's face grew
crimson-dark; her eyes filled with tears, yet flashed also and she
held her ground.
"'Tis true," she cried, stamping her bare foot with an almost
soundless yet curiously imperative smack on the marble floor. "I hate
them--they think of nothing but themselves--and--and women! And I hate
women too--I want to be a Queen, and I _will_ be one!"
"Come hither, child, and let me look at thee," said Auntie Rosebody,
suddenly holding out her hand. The supple young thing crossed to her
proudly, and crouching low touched the small fine old fingers with her
forehead.
"Thine eyes, child--thine eyes!" said the old woman. "Let me see thy
fate in them."
So for an instant's space the great lustrous soft depths of
Mihr-un-nissa's fathomless eyes were appraised.
"She might keep him--as he should be kept," murmured Auntie Rosebody
to herself; but Mihr-un-nissa was thinking of the queenship.
"What does the Most Beneficent see?" she asked eagerly. "Shall I be
Queen?--Queen myself I mean--real Queen?"
There was an instant's pause and in the silence which hung over the
whole room the imperious young voice seemed to linger. Then Umm
Kulsum, seeing a look of sudden recoil in Aunt Rosebody's face,
laughed cheerfully.
"Ask the witch wives, Mihro, not us! Or stay! Lo Auntie! dost remember
the red woman with her curious cry whom we saw at the tank steps but
now, and bade come hither, since she claimed to be the royal bard? She
is Brahmin and tells the stars, she said. Let us have her in if she is
here and then Mihro can hear fortunes."
"La!" cried Bibi Azizan catching at any side escape from what had gone
before, "I can tell the ladies who the woman is. She is mad--quite
mad--and----"
"The more suitable for this subject of Queenship," remarked Aunt
Rosebody dryly, twisting her hair deftly to a topknot which greatly
enhanced her dignity. "Ooma! see if one Atma, singer of pedigrees,
soothsayer, heaven knows what, waits without. If so, bid her enter.
And bring me a violet sherbet such as my father--may peace be his
always!--loved when he was aweary of fools; then Bibi Azizan can have
her say in peace!"
After which Parthian shot she sipped her sherbet in silence. She was
inwardly amused at the cat which Mihr-un-nissa--an enchanting piece
truly!--had so wilfully and deftly let out of the cupboard. In truth
there was some excuse for such vaulting ambition in the child's
extraordinary beauty. Pity she had not been a few years older--pity
nephew Akbar would not put pleasure first and politics second in
Salim's marriage--pity! Ah! pity in so many things.
"_May the Gods pity us, dreamers who dream of their Godhead!_"
The old lady started at the quaintly apposite cry which seemed indeed
to force the whole vestibule into a second's silence.
Atma Devi stood at the far arches, her poppy-petal dress showing for
an instant brilliant in the glimpse of sunlight let in by the upraisal
of the curtain.
In truth her entry brought a new note to the chord of womanhood which
vibrated in the atmosphere; a note that was foreign to its harmony. A
quick sense of tragedy came to the comedy of laughing ladies.
Something in Atma's womanly face and figure that was in them also,
disguised, tucked away, hidden out of sight but still recognisable
made them recoil to silence. Perhaps it was the "Not womanhood" of the
dark days before Sex shows itself--the Not-womanhood which, with the
"Not-manhood," go to make up the Paradise Life in which there shall be
neither male nor female.
Atma felt the recoil herself as her dark eyes questioned the scene
before them, challenging it in swift antagonism. For the past two days
her thoughts had been concentrated on her search for some clue of
Siyah Yamin. She had drifted about the bazaars, giving her curious
cry, she had watched at street corners, and listened patiently through
the hurly-burly of passing voices for some hint, some sound. Without
avail; and time was running short; she would not have wasted one
minute of it in obeying Aunt Rosebody's order to attend at the palace
but for a dazed sense of duty. She, the King's Charan, must not
neglect royal commands; even Siyah Yamin must give way to them.
Siyah Yamin! Siyah Yamin! Ye Gods! why had either of those two
children who had played together, grown up to be women? Why should any
woman-child grow up to be hampered by her sex, left helpless?
Atma's thoughts as she stood mechanically shaking the hour-glass drum,
paused; her eyes in the darkness to which they were becoming
accustomed had found something which brought answer to her
questioning.
It was Mihr-un-nissa, who, barely veiled by silver tissue, sate a
little way apart from the others on a yellow silken rug; her slender
arms were around her knees, her head was tilted back against the wall
on which a flower garland of the inlaid mosaic seemed to frame her
delicate face, as through half-closed lids she returned the singer's
stare.
"Art thou a witch-wife?" asked the little maid suddenly, as if none
but they two were in the room. "Lo! I am Mihr-un-nissa, Queen of
Women. Tell me--shall I indeed be Queen not of them only, but of men
also?"
The brushers and dressers paused in their avocations to look and
listen. Something insistent, compellent, seemed to have come into the
atmosphere. Even Auntie Rosebody paused in the sipping of her sherbet
and waited for the answer to that still-childish voice.
And those two stared at each other, feeling vaguely akin; the woman
who strove to forget her sex in a man's work, the girl who cherished
it as a means of gaining a like power.
"I offer excuse for interference," came Rakiya Begum's rasping voice,
"but soothsaying except by reference to the Holy Book----"
"'Tis but for fun, Most Noble," pleaded Umm Kulsum, who was invariably
the smoother of difficulties, "and they did it at the Holy City, for I
paid seven golden _ashrafees_ to a woman with a crystal who told me
naught that I did not know before."
The little ripple of surrounding laughter did not soften Rakiya
Begum's sternness.
"A crystal," she said severely, taking a pinch of snuff, "is
different. That hath, as all know, its gift of God in certain hands;
but the looking at grains of rice and the counting of pease-pods is
irreligious, and most derogatory to true believers. Therefore in the
absence of our Lady Hamida----"
The acerbity of this allusion to an occasionally divided headship in
the harem was interrupted hastily by a twitter from the elder Salima
who addressed her daughter nervously.
"In truth dear heart, Ummu, 'twere better not mayhap--the woman is
Hindu."
Mihr-un-nissa, her head still tilted back against the garlanded wall,
looked through her lashes, and her cupid's bow of a mouth smiled
bewilderingly.
"I mind not that one fly's weight," she remarked cheerfully, casually,
as if her likings or dislikings were the only question at issue, "Come
good red woman, begin! My fortune, please!"
Atma hesitated. Here was a household divided against itself, and
beyond Auntie Rosebody and Umm Kulsum, whose status she knew, she was
unaware of the position of the scented, languidly laughing ladies
around her. Yet a false step might be fatal to future right of entry.
It was a time for swift, decisive action.
"I tell no fortunes," she replied. "I look only in the magic mirror
after the fashion that a pious pilgrim of Mahomed taught my father,
and if God sends a vision, I see!"
It was a fortunate hit. Rakiya Begum sate stiff with excitement. "Not
the magic mirror of ink, such as is used in Room? Lo! ladies! this is
a chance indeed! and I, at the moment, in one of my-poor verses was
using it as an allegory for the vast enlargement of the mind by
literature! Good woman! Let us see the process without delay. What
dost require?"
Atma's native wit was equal to the occasion. "A drop of ink from the
inkpot of the poetess must bring visions," she replied readily, and
Khanum Rakiya Begum smiled her approval. So the inkpot came and Atma,
her full red skirts billowing about her, sank to the ground opposite
Mihr-un-nissa whose bare limbs, the colour of freshly garnered wheat
overlaid with a faint tinsel sheen, showed almost white in contrast
with the intensity of the scarlet. Then holding the inkpot high in her
right hand the Charan began to sing softly:
Drop, ink! and hide my flesh
Cover my worldly ways
Then let God's Light afresh
Mirror God's praise
Drop ink! Drop deep
Cover in Sleep
My Night of Nights and bring the Day of Days.
A little pool of ink lay, with curved surface like a dewdrop, on her
left palm as the song ceased.
"If the gracious child will almost touch the mirror with her left
forefinger and complete the circle of magic by touching my right arm
with her right hand," she suggested in a mysterious monotonous voice.
For answer Mihr-un-nissa's firm little fingers closed round her wrist
tightly. "Aye! it shall not stir," she said coolly. "I want to know
for certain--no clouds and waves and mists--I want to know. Dost
hear?"
Childishly imperative her eyes questioned Atma's. "Nay!" replied the
latter, feeling in a measure at bay. "The gracious maid must close her
eyes. I, Atma, will look alone into the mirror and see--if God
wills--the fortune of the Princess."
Aunt Rosebody's laugh came sudden, sarcastic.
"Not Princess yet, woman! Not as yet," she continued, turning to Bibi
Azizan, "even in the inmost heart of the house of Ghiass Beg, the Lord
Treasurer."
"I protest," began the fat fashionable one feebly.
Atma gave a swift glance round at the speakers and the little pool of
ink in her palm wavered despite Mihr-un-nissa's almost fierce grip.
"How now, slave?" cried the latter; "I said no wavering."
"There shall be none, Highness," replied Atma bending her brows over
her task again. But the mention of Ghiass Beg's name had brought back
the thought of Siyah Yamin. For the only clue of any sort which the
two days of search had given to Atma was a possible connection between
the Lord High Treasurer's House and that of the Syeds of Barha.
They were distantly related by marriage. It was the faintest of clues
but the thought of it filled Atma's mind in an instant with a pressing
desire.
Siyah Yamin! Siyah Yamin! She must be found! Time was passing! The
very next morning the Audience would be held.
Siyah Yamin! Siyah Yamin----
"I see naught," she went on monotonously, forcing herself to
words foreign to her thoughts--"I see, I see--what do I see? A
crowd of banners waving. 'Tis a marriage procession! And lo! the
bridegroom--Ohe! like the young Krishn for beauty--tall, slim, and
fair."
"Thou liest," came Mihr-un-nissa's voice full of passion. "Thou dost
not see it. Thou dost not----"
As she spoke she flung up the wrist she held so roughly that the ink
drops spurted over Atma's scarlet dress; then, with a sudden bound,
she stood confronting her, a tornado in silver tissue. "Lo! I was
looking too, and I saw no crowd, no banners, no bridegroom. All I saw
was Siyah Yamin playing on the lute as she played last night when----"
She broke off with a sudden dismay, then laughing round defiantly to
her mother went on recklessly:
"There! I have let that musk-rat go! but I did see her, Marmita, just
as she sate last night when you and she----"
Bibi Azizan's shriek drowned the rest.
Then came Auntie Rosebody's voice of horror; "Siyah Yamin! At--at thy
house, Azizan! This passes indeed! Go, woman, and venture hither no
more!"
"I offer excuse," remarked Rakiya Begum who had risen and come forward
in sedate annoyance. Her stiff brocaded petticoat looked almost regal,
but her thin angular body still suffered from lack of attire, and her
veillessness showed her scanty hair screwed back tightly, ready for
subsequent additions. Withal she had a certain dignity of thin, harsh,
high features and scraggy uprightness. "That question, Khanzada
Gulbadan Kkanum is, as the lawyers have it, _sub-judice_. To-morrow
the King decides."
"Decides!" echoed Auntie Rosebody wrathfully. "And if he does
decide!--what then? You can't beat a drum with one hand, and all the
other five fingers are in the butter! No! No! Marry her fifty times,
Siyah Yamin _is_ Siyah Yamin. You can't hide an elephant under a
hencoop. So there! That's my say!"
Rakiya Begum took a pinch of snuff. "And I say nothing. A wise man
learns to shave upon strangers."
Meanwhile Mihr-un-nissa, her swift anger passing into amused wonder,
stood looking at the ink spots on the scarlet dress, until suddenly
her cupid's-bow mouth curved itself into a smile.
"'Twas thy fault," she said nodding her head. "Thou must have been
thinking of her, for I saw her clear; but see--that for thy spoilt
dress!"
She tore off a gold bangle from her arm and held it out. They were
standing close together, almost unobserved, the rest of the company
being more interested in crowding about the discussion which still
went on regarding Siyah Yamin.
"Why wilt not take it?" continued the little maiden stamping her foot,
as Atma Devi drew back.
"Because I want a bigger boon," she replied hurriedly, seizing her
chance.
"A greater boon?" echoed Mihr-un-nissa curiously.
"Aye!" almost whispered Atma Devi. "If the gracious child--in
truth her head well deserves a crown--would take this in exchange for
me," she hastily wrenched off a thin silver band-bracelet all too
small for the matured wrist on which it was worn. "Take it to Siyah
Yamin--it--it is hers. See! there is her name upon it."
She pointed to a word engraved on the bracelet. Mihr-un-nissa took it
and stood holding it, her unfathomable eyes full of malicious
contempt. "So! there is a mystery! La! I love mysteries--they are so
easy to guess! Yea! I will give it--and find out! Is there any
message?"
"None."
The childish face broke into almost sinister smiles. "Then the
bracelet means the message! What is it? Come, or go? No matter! I will
find out!"
She slipped the bracelet round her own slender wrist and turned away
nonchalantly, a veritable Queen of Women.