"And when a lady's in the case,
You know all other things give place."
_Gay_, "The Hare and Many Friends."
Fateh Mohammed, whose name, literally translated, meant "The Victorious
and Praised," intended to halt his cohort a short day's ride from Agra,
in order to patch its way-worn aspect into some semblance of dignity ere
he entered the presence of the King of Kings. Had he ever heard of
Falstaff he might well have cried with Sir John: "No eye hath seen such
scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat." The
wear and tear of seven hundred miles had pressed so heavily on the
resources of guards and prisoners alike that their clothes and
accouterments did, indeed, require some furbishing. In this ragged
regiment the Englishmen and their Rajputs alone presented a reputable
appearance.
But, stout though he was, and otherwise much resembling plump Jack in
his rascally tastes, Fateh Mohammed possessed a fair share of Eastern
wiliness, so he took good care to apprise Jahangir beforehand of the
curious conditions under which he was bringing to the capital the two
men whose presence there was so greatly desired by his imperial master.
The recital naturally showed that the fat man was a model of zeal and
discretion. If the Conqueror of the World regarded the Giaours as
malefactors, here they were, ready to be bound and dealt with according
to the King's command, but, should it happen to please the Planet-born
to treat them as friends, naught had been done to give ground for other
supposition, save in such slight and easily arranged matters as
disarming them and holding certain valuable securities for their
observance of the pact agreed upon.
Hence, Fateh Mohammed felt neither "victorious" nor "praised" when a
high official, accompanied by a glittering retinue, rode out from Agra
and greeted Mowbray and Sainton with much deference, inviting them to
return with him forthwith and accept the Emperor's hospitality! They had
gone through so many vicissitudes of late that this bewildering attitude
on the part of the Mogul monarch left them outwardly unmoved though
inwardly amazed. No one could be more surprised than Mowbray, the too
successful prophet of the royal intent. Yet he bowed his polite
acceptance of the proffered honors, and his manner was discretion itself
when Fateh Mohammed, jelly-like in agitation, expressing his regrets
with the spluttering haste of water poured from a narrow-necked bottle,
hastened to restore not only the cedar box with its contents intact, but
also the swords and daggers stolen from the Englishmen while they slept.
Mowbray did not know then that the court official had curtly told Fateh
Mohammed he was in grave peril of being hanged on the nearest tree if
Jahangir had reason to complain of his treatment of the strangers. It
was in vain that the fat man pleaded the Emperor's written instructions,
which were ambiguous certainly, but which must be interpreted by his
Majesty's anxiety to secure the presence of the two Feringhis at Agra.
"If you interpret a King's wishes you run the risk of making a false
translation," was the chilling response, so Fateh Mohammed was left
alternately thanking the Prophet that he had not obeyed his inclinations
and slain the Giaours when he learnt how they had hoodwinked him, and
shivering with fear lest, after all, Jahangir might find cause to be
displeased with him.
Therefore, he groveled before Mowbray, and, like Prince Henry's
sack-loving companion, wished "it were bedtime and all well."
The mystery of the Emperor's attitude deepened when Walter learned that
Nur Mahal was, indeed, a palace menial. Even the weather-cock courtier,
skilled in the art of polite evasion, did not scruple to show his
contempt for feminine influences at the best.
"I have seen many such butterflies dancing in the sun," he said
scoffingly. "They are very brilliant until the rain falls, or some
hungry bird eats them."
His orders were to conduct the Englishmen and their followers to
Dilkusha, where they would be in the midst of familiar surroundings, and
it was Jahangir's wish to receive them that afternoon. When Mowbray
insisted that Fra Pietro should come with them the envoy was dubious at
first, but Walter would not yield the point, which was ultimately
conceded. As for the others, they were to bide in their present camp
until arrangements were made for their disposal.
"Gad!" cried Roger, paying some heed to this statement, "that will not
be to Matilda's liking!"
"Have affairs come to the pass that you may not be parted?" asked
Walter, roguishly, his perplexities vanishing for the moment as he
pictured the Countess's agitation when told she was to be separated from
her cavalier.
"'Tis to me a matter of no great cavil," was the reply, "but the poor
body will surely miss me when the mule crosses a bad bit of road."
"Why not bring her with us?"
"Aye. That is to be thought of. There are always more ways of killing a
dog than choking him wi' butter."
"But you must marry the lady first, Roger. At a pinch, Fra Pietro--"
"The devil fly off with thee and thy pinching! Who spoke of marrying?
Thy humor, at times, Walter, is dry as the Swale after a drought."
"From what I have seen of the Countess I fear that marriage will be the
only cure for her affliction."
"By the cross of Osmotherly!" cried Sainton, hotly, "if that be her
malady she will ail a long time ere I give her physic. Marry, forsooth!
If ever I seek a wife, which I greatly doubt, I'll hitch up wi' a lass
from my own dales. Not that Matilda is ill-looking, or, for that matter,
as skittish as some I have seen, but may the Lord help any woman I
bring to Wensley afore my mother runs an eye over her!"
"I fear, then, her Ladyship must remain here willy-nilly."
Sainton, more annoyed than he cared to show, drew his long neglected
sword and began to burnish it affectionately.
"Thou hast a toad's tongue at times, lad," he growled, breathing on the
steel before rubbing it to a fine sheen. "The thing had not troubled me
a whit hadst thou not spoken of it, but, now I come to think over
bygones, I am constrained to admit that mayhap her Ladyship may have
construed my actions amiss. Women are oft prone to look through a chink
when the door is open all the time. On my soul I fear to face her. My
hang-dog looks will betray me and she'll upbraid me. Go thou, Walter,
and tell her--tell her--"
"That thou hast no mind to wed. Nay, Roger, that would be ungallant, to
say the least."
"Tell her any glib lie that will get me safely away. Samson was half
conquered when it was known wherein his strength lay, and my only sure
refuge is flight if a woman attacks. Poor Matilda! I would I had the
heart to appease her. Yet I am not for matrimony, and no barber can make
a wig of a hide that is bald of wool. But I vow you have vexed me by
your niceties. Drat the thing! I trust the bit of Latinity our worthy
friar gave me yester e'en is sound sense, else I'll mope for a week."
"And what was that, Roger?" asked Mowbray, turning to hide a smile from
his wrathful friend.
"He spoke to me of certain passages twixt you and Nur Mahal, as he built
somewhat on her power despite Jai Singh's story. Yet he sighed and said:
'Quid vento? Mulier. Quid muliere? Nihil!' It tickled my fancy to put
the quip into rhyme:--
'More fickle than wind
Is woman's mind;
More fickle than woman
Naught you'll find.'
Beshrew me! It fitted Nur Mahal all right, but the cap seems to sit awry
when worn by my jolly and pleasant-spoken Countess. What! Would you grin
at me, you dog, like a clown gaping through a horse-collar? I'll wager,
were the business yours, you'd carry a longer jowl."
"On my word, Roger, if you trumpet so loudly I must even believe that my
Elephant is sore wounded. Why say aught to-day to the Countess? Once we
are sped on some new path I promise to write her on your behalf, and in
such a strain that any silly notions she may be harboring shall vanish
after a day's fasting."
"Ecod, you know not Matilda. She would not miss her dinner for twenty
men. And that is what draws me to her. A plague on all weddings, I say.
They mar a woman and vex a man. What the devil! A nice thing Noah did
for the world when he took nowt but pairs into the Ark."
Nevertheless, though angered by his tardy discovery, Sainton was far
too good-natured to steal away covertly from the genial presence of the
Countess di Cabota. He cudgeled his brains to invent some reasonable
excuse for bidding her farewell. Finally he hit upon an expedient that
pleased him greatly, and chased the unwonted frown from his cheerful
face.
In view of the expected state visit to Jahangir he had donned his best
garments, which, though soiled, were yet free from rents, and never a
finer man trod the iron earth of India than Roger that day when, with
his four-foot sword clanking against his thigh, he approached the
Countess's camping-place. Already, of course, rumor had been busy. The
perturbation of Fateh Mohammed and the haughty curling of Rajput
mustaches which followed the advent of Jahangir's envoy told some
portion of the tale to the stealthy-eyed natives. Gossip did the rest.
Roger found the Countess all agog with joyous hope.
"_Por gracia di Dios!_" she cried, clapping her hands, "now that I see
you wearing your sword I know that what I have been told is true."
"I' faith, Matilda, you are a rare hand at guessing sheep when you smell
roast mutton," was his hearty greeting. "'Tis indeed true that some
favoring star hath moved the king to deal with us kindly. Perchance 'tis
the moon, which is said to rule certain humans. But my news is stale. I
come to take leave of you."
The Countess's ruddy cheeks paled beneath the tan of long exposure to
the open air, and a spasm of fear dilated her pretty eyes.
"To take leave of me! _Mater misericordiae!_ What say you?"
"Nay, my bonny Countess, you read my words wrongly. Master Mowbray and I
are bidden ride ahead to meet the Emperor. That is all."
"You will return ere night?"
Roger stroked his chin with dubious calculation. The action enabled him
to avoid her startled glance.
"I have my doubts," he said, and, not so sure now of the simplicity of
his errand, wisely added not another word.
"Do you mean that you go on to Agra and leave me here with--with Fateh
Mohammed?"
There was a directness, yet a veiled inference, in the question that did
not escape him.
"Be reasonable, Matilda," he pleaded. "We go but to prepare the way. You
forget that Jahangir, for some reason not known to any of us, is
changing his plans. From fire and murder he hath turned to clemency. It
may be that he thinks some quiet talk with Master Mowbray may clear the
thorns from his new path."
"Then let Master Mowbray go to him, and you bide here."
"That cannot be. It would argue distrust."
"I think I understand," said the Countess, quietly, with all a woman's
irritating assumption of the truth when a man would soothe her with a
plausible tale.
Roger, whose wit was keen enough when he encountered opposition, was
helpless before this passive attitude. Yet he blundered on, trusting to
luck to extricate him. He fumbled with a small package he took from his
breast, and swayed from one foot to the other, losing some of his
gallant air in an attitude which reflected his mental stress.
"There's nowt to make sike a pother about," he growled. "We haste to
Agra, you follow more slowly, and that is all there is to it. But you
are in sad plight, Matilda, after these weary days of travel, without a
stitch to your old clothes, so to speak, or means to buy new ones. Now,
a lady of your condition should be garbed more reputably. Though I doubt
not Jahangir will treat you generously in his altered mood, I would not
have you wholly dependent on his tardy grace. I have no money, but here
is money's worth, and it can never be put to better use than in
purchasing the wherewithal to adorn you."
So saying, and thankful that the concluding sentence, which he had
concocted with some care, had not escaped his memory, he dropped Sher
Afghan's magnificent gold chain into her lap, for the Countess was
sitting on a saddle outside the tent.
She bent forward, as if to examine the present, passing each of the fine
turquoises with which it was set mechanically through her fingers. She
managed so well that her voice seemed to be under control.
"You are very kind and thoughtful," she said in a low tone. "I am,
indeed, much in need of repair."
"Gad! I would smite sorely the man who said so. I spoke of the husk, not
of the kernel."
"And I shall value the gift highly," she continued.
"Stick out for the last rupee. These Agra goldsmiths are thieves. If not
the whole, you might sell a portion."
Her head drooped a little more.
"They are beautiful links, well knit, and of the best workmanship," she
said, "and I have never before seen such stones. 'Twould be a pity to
sunder them. They will be pleasant to look upon long after the flimsy
silks they would buy are faded and threadbare."
Resignation, not to say hopelessness, was a new phase to Sainton in
woman's varying humors. Had the Countess di Cabota stormed, or
protested, or even broken down utterly, Roger, though profoundly
uncomfortable, might have survived the ordeal. But the merry-eyed lady
was crushed. She who was wont to toss her curls so saucily when he tried
that excellent specific of a thumb in the ribs now sat before him with
hidden face. And Roger was terrible only in war. Let him have his way he
was easily swayed as a child; but to-day he was a child perplexed by a
new problem.
"If you are not minded to use the gaud in that way," he growled
hesitatingly, "I must devise some other manner of meeting your wants."
"I am greatly beholden to you," she murmured. "Mayhap I may not see you
again, so, should you succeed in sending me some money, let your
messenger bring a parchment, and I will write an order on a certain
house in London for your repayment."
This was unbearable. Roger stooped, placed a great hand under her chin,
and raised her unresisting face. His unlooked-for action caused pent-up
tears to tremble on her eyelashes, while there was a suspicious
quivering in the corners of her red lips.
"Are you bent on plaguing me, Matilda, or is it that you truly believe I
am seeking some pretense to go away under a false flag?" he demanded
fiercely.
"I cannot tell you, Roger. You know best yourself. Why should I
complain? I owe my life, and many days of happiness, to you and to your
good friend. Whether you go or stay may the Lord watch over you, and
bring you safely to that pleasant home in the North of which you have so
often spoken to me! I think I have seen it in my dreams, and the notion
pleases me."
She caught his hand and would have pressed it to her face, but he was
too quick for her. Before she well knew what was happening she was
lifted to her feet, and Roger had kissed her heartily on the lips.
"That is a quittance for the chain," he cried. "When I want another for
the money I shall bring thee, be not surprised if I discharge the debt
in like fashion."
Woman-like she glanced hastily around, all aglow with sudden
embarrassment, to learn if others had observed his action. Certainly the
eyes of some of the Portuguese captives were turned curiously towards
them. Making a tremendous effort, she laughed gaily.
"Your English leave-taking is very nice, but somewhat unusual to our
ideas," she cried. "Nevertheless, I am glad to have your promise to
return."
"I swear it, by the cross of Osmotherly!" vowed Roger, and with this
mighty oath the Countess was satisfied, though, as a good Catholic, she
might have been surprised if she knew that the giant's favorite
expletive only referred to a crossroad on the summit of a Yorkshire
hill, where King Oswald is supposed to lie buried by the side of his
mother, whence the name Osmotherly: "Oswald-by-his-mother-lay."
There was some dubiety among the remaining Europeans when they saw the
Englishmen ride off with Fra Pietro and the Rajputs. So might sheep feel
in a wolf-infested land, if the shepherds and dogs were withdrawn.
"What is to become of us," they asked, "and why have our protectors
taken the friar alone?"
But the Countess bade them be of good cheer.
"They will come back," she said, calmly. "They have promised; and those
men never say what they do not mean."
Yet one of the pair reflected ruefully, as he jogged towards Agra, that
he had said a good deal more than he meant to say. Mowbray, noting his
comrade's introspective mood, forbore to question him as to his farewell
interview with the Countess, and Roger quaked at the thought of putting
into words his recollections of the scene. So Walter chatted with Fra
Pietro, seeking that grave counselor's views as to the possible motives
which inspired Jahangir's remarkable _volte-face_.
To reach the Garden of Heart's Delight the cavalcade crossed a ford of
the Jumna and followed a road along the left bank of the river. Thus,
they passed close to the royal palace, being separated from it only by
the width of the stream. Its lofty red sandstone walls, high piled
towers and threatening battlements, topped by the exquisite spires and
minarets of the white marble buildings within, made a resplendent and
awe-inspiring picture in the vivid sunlight. Dominating the cluster of
regal apartments on the river face was the superb Diwan-i-Khas, or Hall
of Private Audience, which stands to this day "a miracle of beauty."
Mowbray knew it well. Behind its inlaid walls lay the garden in which
Akbar chaffered with the ladies at the fair, and on the south side was
the broad terrace whence Roger heaved the great stone onto the tiger.
Standing boldly out in the angle formed by the Diwan-i-Khas and the
terrace was the Golden Pavilion, so called because of its roof of gilded
copper, and nestling close to this glittering apex of the zenana was the
fairy-like Jasmine Tower. No strange eyes might dare to rest on that
imperial sanctuary save from a distance. Yet Mowbray, from description
oft repeated, could tell the Franciscan some of its glories; how the
marble pavement of its inner court represented a pachisi-board, on which
the Sultana and her ladies played a clever game with shells; how the
lovely lattice-work of the window screens was cut out of solid slabs of
marble; how trailing devices of flowers and fruit were fashioned in
pietra dura with carnelians, agates, turquoises, and all manner of
bright colored or sparkling gems; how fountains made music where marble
baths were sunk in the floor, while the dripping naiads who emerged
from the cool depths might survey their charms in the Shish Mahal, or
Room of a Thousand Mirrors, wherein a cascade of rippling water fell
over a tiny terrace artificially lighted with colored lamps. These and
other marvels did he pour into Fra Pietro's ears, until the friar
piously crossed himself and said with a smile:--
"Yet a little while and these glories shall be forgotten. 'Then shall
the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto
God who gave it.'"
"But you will grant, good brother, that a man only lives once on earth,
and it would be scarce credible, did we not know it, that with all our
Western wit we have naught in London or Paris to match the skill of
these barbarians," cried Walter.
"I have seen in old Rome the crumbling fragments of palaces for which
the proudest hall in Agra might serve as an ante-chamber. Brethren, more
traveled than I, and learned men withal, have told me of the still more
wondrous works of ancient Greece and forgotten Babylon. Of what avail
are the vain efforts of man! 'Lord, a day in Thy courts is better than a
thousand. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but Thy word shall not pass
away.'"
Though the friar spoke Latin when he quoted the Bible, Walter followed
his thought closely. Here was a man wholly unmoved by the pomp and
vanity of the world. Fra Pietro paid more heed to a budding shrub as a
manifest sign of the Creator than to all the transient splendor of the
Mogul capital. Yet he was one who seldom mixed religion with his
conversation, and it is reasonable to suppose that his utterances would
have taken a less abstract form had he known that the bright eyes of Nur
Mahal were even then fixed intently on the cavalcade from the recess of
a small apartment over the Water Gate of the palace. Perchance the
subtle mesmerism of her glance was more potent with his gentle spirit
than with the hardier soul of the young Englishman, for his sedate mule
had not gone many paces by the side of Walter's mettlesome Arab ere he
spoke again:--
"Forgive me, friend," he said, "if I broke in on your discourse with
solemn reflections. One must be boorish, indeed, to deny a just meed of
praise to the designers and builders of yonder superb pile. Tell me, as
you seem to know its ways so well, in what quarter does Nur Mahal
probably dwell?"
"There!" and Mowbray pointed straight towards the Water Gate.
"Ah! That is the very heart of the fortress. It will be difficult to
reach her."
"Difficult indeed, dangerous for a native and wholly impossible for a
European. But why do you ask?"
The Franciscan's remark took his hearers by surprise, and Roger, who
listened silently to their talk, smiled for the first time during five
hours.
"Hola, my chuck," he muttered to himself, "now it is thy turn to be
roasted while a woman turns the spit."
"I think she is the _fons et origo_ of all that has occurred," said the
friar. "Whether exalted or lowly, such a woman will ever be the yeast
in the leaven of a man like Jahangir. He may neither believe nor admit
that this is so, yet I incline to the opinion that the character of your
reception is due to the promptings of a higher intelligence than that
with which the Emperor is endowed."
"I would rest assured if Nur Mahal supplied his inspiration," answered
Mowbray, conscious that Roger's eye was cocked at him. "But remember
there is a chance that my arch-enemy, Dom Geronimo, may have survived
the Emperor's edict against the Christians. In the East one perforce
looks for guile, and I fear that the smooth seeming of Jahangir's
actions may prove a snare for our undoing. I account in that way for the
desire to separate us from the others. It is idle to say that this great
city could not house us without preparation. And now you have my secret
mind as to your presence here. If Jahangir means evil, Roger and I,
knowing his methods, may defeat him. Assuredly you are safer with us
than with the poor souls who remain in Fateh Mohammed's custody."
Then Roger swore so violently that Fra Pietro turned and looked at the
fort again.
"By all the fiends!" he roared, "why didst thou not tell me thy secret
mind, as thou callest it, earlier? Here have I left Matilda with yon
spawn of Old Nick, and kept her content only by a pledge to return with
proper haste."
"Roger, Roger! never before hast thou addressed me with such unreasoning
heat. Who asked thee, this morning, to bring the lady with us? Who
asked me to make thy excuses to her? What of my dry humor, my toad's
tongue? Who was it that grinned like a clown through a horse-collar
because he would not lie glibly enough to suit thy purpose?"
Sainton gulped down his wrath, but Mowbray was disturbed by the
expression of ox-like stubbornness which suddenly clouded his face.
Roger, wearing such aspect, was hard to control.
"I mun go back," he said. "Look for me ere midnight, Walter."
Without another word of explanation he bared his sword and wheeled his
powerful horse.
"Make way, there!" he bellowed. "Out of my path, swine! Quickly, ye
sons of pigs, I am not to be stayed!"
Thinking the Hathi-sahib had gone mad the troopers who rode with
Jahangir's emissary scattered right and left. Mowbray, though vexed
by the untoward incident, promptly endeavored to rob it of grave
significance by ordering half a dozen of his own Rajputs to follow
Sainton-sahib and help him if necessary.
Before the nawab who headed their escort quite realized what was
happening, Roger had vanished. The last glimpse Mowbray obtained of
his gigantic countryman was when Sainton, sitting bolt upright on his
charger and holding his sword aloft like a steel torch, disappeared in
the cloud of dust created by the passage of himself and his small troop.
[Illustration: "Out of my path, swine."]
Now, the high-placed official was vastly offended by Roger's rude
and peremptory words, and some little time elapsed before Mowbray's
apologies, couched in the most polite Persian, were accepted. There was
nothing for it but to credit the Colossus with a touch of the sun, and
add thereto a hint of his passionate attachment for the buxom Countess.
Even then Walter's difficulties were not exhausted. Fra Pietro, speaking
very firmly, said that his place was with his people, and he would be
glad if some arrangement were made whereby he could return to them.
"It is not to be thought of," was Mowbray's instant answer. "Not only
will Roger create difficulty enough when he encounters Fateh Mohammed,
should the latter oppose the departure of the Countess, but I look to
you to champion the cause of the other captives at our meeting with
Jahangir. A woman may account for my comrade's absence. Such excuse will
not avail you."
The friar bowed meekly.
"I would not burthen you with fresh cares," he said, "but I cannot save
my own life and leave my flock to perish. Nevertheless, if it be best in
your judgment, I will go with you into the Emperor's presence."
Mowbray's resolute features must have shown the irritation which
mastered him, for the Franciscan added:--
"Be not angered with your friend. He hath a heart of a size to match his
body, and 'tis a man's privilege to protect the weaker sex. 'From the
beginning of creation God made them male and female.'"
"Believe me, brother, I am mostly concerned about my own lack of
foresight in this matter. Thank Heaven there is no woman here for whose
sake I should be compelled to act, it may be, even more hastily than
Roger!"
"Did you not tell me that Nur Mahal inhabits that portion of the zenana
situate over the Water Gate?"
"Yes; what if she does?"
"While Master Sainton was venting his ire I chanced to turn my eyes that
way. A white scarf fluttered for an instant high above the gate. Ah!
there it is again! Take heed lest some of the others follow your glance!
You are not prone to rash vows, friend, yet I am much mistaken if there
be not a woman in Agra who shall perplex you sorely ere many hours have
passed."
And, indeed, Walter did see a whirl of muslin tremble in the air like a
tiny cloud from one of the many small windows which pierced the frowning
battlements.