The Great Mogul

Fra Pietro unbolted the door at which they knocked. Roger, seeing the Countess moving forward, and evidently quite recovered from her faintness, was seized with a spasm of shyness.

“All is well, Matilda,” he said, hanging back. “You had a boisterous journey, but you are in quiet waters now. I go to remove some marks of the jaunt.”

He made to sheer off, but she ran after him, brushing the Emperor aside in her eagerness.

“Nay, my good Roger!” she cried. “Fra Pietro hath told me all. I closed my eyes, and my heart stopped beating when I witnessed that last array of dreadful men. And thou didst carry me in thy arms as if I were a child, bearing me hither in safety through a hostile army. Oh, Roger, how can I wait to thank thee!”

“Calm thyself, sweet Matilda,” they heard him growl. “I’ll have no kissing of hands, and I cannot kiss thy lips in my present condition. Gad! I have more brains on my clothes than in my head. Well, if naught else will content thee, there!”

In the center of the room stood Nur Mahal, her normally lily-white face with its peachlike bloom wholly devoid of color, and her wondrous eyes gazing fixedly at the tall figure of the Emperor, who hesitated an instant when Mowbray motioned him to enter first. Walter’s pulse galloped somewhat during that pause. He did not know then that while men were dying in hundreds around the gate and elsewhere, the Franciscan had won a wordy victory behind the locked doors. No sooner were the Countess’s senses restored than Fra Pietro engaged the Persian Princess in a discourse which quickly revealed that here were well-matched dialecticians. Pride, keen intellect, consciousness of physical charm and mental power, were confronted by gentle insistence on the eternal verities which govern mankind, irrespective of race or climate.

Neither palliating nor excusing Jahangir’s excesses, the friar did not hesitate to hold a mirror to the girl’s own faults. If she had loved the prince why did she profess to hate the king? If the death of her husband so rankled in her memory that the Emperor, who was indirectly responsible for it, was not to be forgiven, why had she gone back to Agra, instead of pursuing her peaceful voyage to Burdwán? Ah, yes, he appreciated her belief that other eventualities might happen, but life was constituted of shattered hopes, and the one eternal, wholly satisfying ideal was to so order one’s actions that when called to final account one could truly say: “This I did and thus I spoke because it seemed to me best for the happiness and well-being of my fellow-creatures.”

To and fro flew the shuttlecock of their argument, until Nur Mahal, astonished and not a little humiliated by the singular knowledge of her inmost feelings displayed by this mild-eyed man of low estate, paced the long room like a caged gazelle, and the Countess di Cabota, half distracted by the distant sounds of murderous conflict, nevertheless found time to wonder what Fra Pietro was saying which made the beautiful Persian so angry.

The sound of Mowbray’s voice, the sight of Jahangir in his company unattended, drove the passion from her face. Her red lips were slightly opened in mute inquiry, her fingers were entwined irresolutely, her whole attitude, so heedless was she of the restraint that cloaks the secret thought, indicated a passive desire to let chance carry her which way it willed.

But the glory of her loveliness was never more manifest than in this feminine mood, and Jahangir, a man of impulse, was drawn to her as steel to a magnet.

“You and I,” said he, slowly, “have much to forget, but you alone have a great deal to forgive. Nevertheless, on a night when I have won my kingdom I may well be pardoned if I hope to win my queen.”

With that, he unfastened the samite over-cloak he wore, and took from his neck a string of priceless pearls. Nur Mahal bent her proud head, and the Emperor, with a laugh of almost boyish glee, adjusted the shimmering ornament around her throat.

She said something in a low tone, and it was a long time before she looked up again. When her eyes first encountered Mowbray’s they were bright with repressed tears.

Notwithstanding these tender passages, and some amusingly one-sided episodes in the garden between Roger and the Countess, for the lady made him kneel down whilst she washed his face, there was little time for love-making. Jahangir, having joyously informed the nearest members of his entourage that Nur Mahal was to be treated as the Empress which she would be created next day in durbar, began to question Mowbray as to the events of the night. Walter’s task was rendered more simple by the projected marriage of one whom he suspected to be the real instigator of the whole affair. He must perforce twist the narrative to show the prospective Sultana in the best light, and herein, as it happened, a casual reference to Dom Geronimo was helpful.

“I mistrusted that man from the first,” said Jahangir. “Why should he, a European, conspire against his fellows? No beast of prey, unless it be indeed hard pressed, eats its own kind. Howbeit, he will trouble the world no longer.”

“What means your Majesty? I was told he was active in his machinations this very day.”

“Yes,” was the cool reply. “I made use of him until my patience vanished. When you and Sainton-sahib proved him a liar, I sent orders that a cow was to be slain instantly and the black robe sewn in the skin.”

“Sewn in the skin!” repeated Walter, incredulously.

“Yes. He will be dead by the fourth watch. Hussain Beg, a traitorous villain from Lahore, whom I caused to be sealed in an ass’s skin, took a day and a night to die, but the hide of a cow dries more speedily.”

Horrified by the fate which had overtaken the arch enemy of his race, Mowbray told Fra Pietro what the Emperor had said. The Franciscan at once appealed for mercy in the Jesuit’s behalf.

“Forgive him,” he pleaded, “as Christ forgave his enemies. You can save him. Your request will be granted. God, who knoweth all hearts, can look into his and turn its stone into the water of repentance.”

It was not yet one o’clock when Walter and Roger, the latter glad of the errand which freed him from Matilda’s embarrassing attentions, rode with a numerous guard to the fort, bearing Jahangir’s reprieve for Dom Geronimo.

There had been no delay in the execution of the sentence. They found the unhappy priest already imprisoned in his terrible environment, and almost insane with the knowledge that the stiffening hide was slowly but surely squeezing him to death.

With Sher Afghán’s dagger Mowbray cut the stitches of sheep-sinews, and, after drinking some wine and water, the Jesuit fanatic became aware of the identity of the man to whom he owed his life.

“’Tis surely time,” said Walter, sternly, “that you and I discharged our reckoning. I could have pardoned my father’s death, foul murder though it was, on the score of your youth and zeal. But it is unbearable that you, who preach the gospel of Christianity, should pursue with rancor the son of the man you killed with a coward’s blow. Now, after the lapse of twenty-four years, I have requited both his untimely loss and your continued malice by saving your wretched life. What sayest thou, Geronimo? Does the feud end?”

“On my soul, Walter!” cried Sainton, “I think he is minded to spring at thee now.”

But the glazed eyes of the unfortunate bigot were lifted to his rescuer with the non-comprehending glare of stupor rather than unconquerable hatred. He murmured some reference to the miraculous statue of San José, to which, lying at the bottom of the bay of Biscay amidst the rotting timbers of a ship bearing the saint’s name, he evidently attributed his escape. So they left him, with instructions as to his tendance, and rode back to the Garden of Heart’s Delight.

All fighting had ceased. Some few Samaritans were tending the wounded; ghouls were robbing the dead; a mild rain, come after weeks of drought, was refreshing the thirsty earth and washing away the signs of conflict.

“What kept thee so long on the road?” asked Walter, when Roger confessed that the shower was the next most grateful thing to a flagon of wine he did not fail to call for and empty at the palace.

“Gad! I was forced to wring Fateh Mohammed’s stiff neck,” was the unexpected answer. “Having received Jahangir’s orders, he held by them as if they were verses of the Koran. The fat knave was backed by too many arquebusiers to assault him by daylight, so I played fox, and rode off in seeming temper. I and the six troopers hid in a nullah until night fell. Then we spurred straight to Matilda’s tent, but Fateh Mohammed, to his own undoing, was grossly annoying her, in that very hour, by professing his great admiration for her manifold attractions. He was not worth a sword thrust, so what more was there to do than to treat him as my mother treats a fowl which she wants for the spit?”

“What, indeed?” said Walter.

CHAPTER XIX

“To shew our simple skill,That is the true beginning of our end.” Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, Sc. 1.

When they reached Dilkusha they yet had much to talk about. During their absence Jahangir had departed with Nur Mahal, entering the palace by the Water Gate, so the Englishmen did not encounter the royal cortège. Worn out by fatigue, the Countess di Cabota was sound asleep, but Fra Pietro awaited them, being anxious to learn the fate of his co-religionist. He was devoutly thankful that Dom Geronimo was not dead, and his next inquiry dealt with the adventures of Roger throughout the day. Then the lively record of the fight at the gate must be imparted, and nothing would suit the friar, late though the hour was, but he must go and see the fallen elephant, which, guarded by a crowd of awe-stricken natives, still cumbered the entrance to the cypress avenue.

He gazed long at the mighty brute, whose bulk, as it lay, topped a man’s height. Then said he to Sainton: —

“At what hour, friend, didst thou attack the camp of Fateh Mohammed?”

“It might be half-past eight of the clock.”

“Ah! You forced your way in and out; you rode through hundreds of King’s men and rebels, who each in turn sought to bar your path; you fought here so well that not even this monster could prevail against you; nevertheless, our worthy Master Mowbray would scoff at the special protection of St. James which I invoked for you in the very hour of your first onset.”

“Gad! Such a serious speech hath a deep meaning. Walter, what’s to do between you and our good friar? Hast thou been reviling an apostle?”

“Never, on my life,” laughed Mowbray. “When my ears have lost the sounds of strife, Fra Pietro, you shall lecture me most thoroughly on my seeming lack of faith in that matter.”

“By the cross of Osmotherly!” vowed Roger, “if St. James be so potent I’ll down on my marrow-bones the next time I’m ’bliged to carry Matilda a mile. My soul! my left shoulder will ache for a week with the strain of her exceeding shapeliness.”

The Franciscan sighed. They were in no mood for a sermon. The load of care lifted from their hearts by the witchery of the night left room for aught save sober reflection. He must point the moral another day.

When fortune buffets a man for years she is apt, if caught in the right vein, to shower her favors on him with prodigality. Jahangir, wholly taken up in affairs of state and his wedding festivities, did not see his English friends until nearly ten days later. Then he astounded Walter with the information that King James of England had sent an Embassy to India, that he, Jahangir, meant to march to Ajmere to meet the Ambassador, and that he would esteem it a favor if Mowbray and Sainton would come with him, the journey being a fair measure of the road to Surat.

But this first surprise was sent spinning by the discovery that the leader of the Embassy was Sir Thomas Roe.

“Does your Majesty know if the Ambassador hath brought his sister?” asked Sainton, for Mowbray scarce knew how to account for the rush of color which bronzed more deeply his well-tanned face.

“There is no mention of the lady in my despatches. What of her?” inquired the Emperor.

“That is a tale for Mowbray-sahib to tell,” said Roger with a wink, and, indeed, the levity of his manner towards the monarch then, and on many other occasions, greatly scandalized the punctilious court flunkeys.

Jahangir seemed to be greatly pleased by the fact that Walter regarded Nellie Roe as his future wife. Being a devoted husband himself, he naturally told Nur Mahal, and was astonished that she received the news with indifference. Of course, Mistress Roe did not accompany her brother, but she sent a very nicely worded acknowledgment of Walter’s letters, together with a small package, which, when opened, disclosed a very beautiful miniature of herself by that same notable artist, Isaac Olliver, who had painted Anna Cave.

One day, when Jahangir and the Embassy were met in durbar at Ajmere, the conversation turned on this very art of painting on ivory, in which the Delhi artists were highly skilled, and Sir Thomas Roe’s “Journal” contains an effective sketch of the assembly to which the pictures of the two fair Englishwomen (Anna being then secretly married to Roe) were brought for comparison with native products.

“When I came in I found him sitting cross legged on a little throne, all cladd in diamondes, Pearles, and rubyes; before him a table of gould, on yt about 50 Peeces of gould plate sett all with stones, some very great and extreamly rich, some of lesse valew, but all of them almost couered with small stones; his Nobilitye about him in their best equipage, whom hee Commanded to drinck froliquely, seuerall wynes standing by in great flagons.”

There was some good-humored dispute as to the ability of the Delhi craftsmen to copy Master Olliver’s work, and a bet was made, which both Roe and Mowbray discreetly lost when the originals were returned with the reproductions. Yet, the native artists had achieved a better result than the Englishmen expected, whilst Jahangir was puzzled by his wife’s eagerness to see Nellie Roe’s presentment, although she evinced no curiosity concerning her when first he mentioned the projected marriage.

But the Emperor, still a wine-bibber it is clear, soon ceased to question the why and the wherefore of Nur Mahal’s actions. Each day of his life he fell more and more under her influence. Soon he practically made over the government of the state into her hands. At that time, especially during Mowbray’s continuance with the court, she exhibited a restless activity which found no sedative save constant movement. Devoted to sport, and showing much skill in using a gun which Sir Thomas Roe gave her, she shot many tigers with her own hand, and tigers, even at that distant date, were to be found only in secluded jungles.

A letter preserved in the Addlestone MS, from Sir Thomas Roe to Sir Thomas Smythe, refers to the Empress’s passion for roaming in remote districts. “I am yet followeing this wandering King,” he writes, “ouer Mountaynes and through woodes, so strange and unused wayes that his owne People, who almost know no other God, blaspheame his name and Hers that, it is sayd, Conducts all his actions.”

This same disturbing transition from place to place led to the departure, much against her will, of the Countess di Cabota to Bombay. Her ladyship found out, what was oft rumored in India, that the Dowager-Empress, Mariam, mother of Jahangir, was really a Christian woman of Portuguese birth. The Countess met her, and spoke to her in her own language, and the incident incensed the Emperor, who feared that his claim to be another Mahomet might be questioned by the imaums. Roe, a politic negotiator, took advantage of the hardships and difficulties of baggage-carrying involved by the daily breaking up of the camp, to despatch the Countess to the nearest Portuguese port.

She took leave of Roger with copious tears, and wrote him long letters he could not read, so that Walter was obliged to order his face as he made known her loving messages, and heard Roger swearing under his breath the while. Soon she sailed for Lisbon, and the big man, thinking he would never see her again, did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

Mowbray naturally rendered the greatest service to the English mission. The whole country was thrown open to British trade, special sites were granted for factories, and, indeed, Roe’s embassy undoubtedly planted in India the seeds which have borne such million-fold yield. But Walter, to his great relief, found that Nur Mahal avoided him. He seldom exchanged a word with her, and then only by way of formal politeness. She moved like a star, bright and remote. The sole instances of personal favor which she showed him consisted, in the first place, of the redemption of the box of diamonds for money, and, secondly, in urging him and Roger to invest two thirds of their capital in indigo, which, shipped to London, was worth five times what they paid for it in India.

During an uneventful voyage home, Roger often spoke of his Matilda, and wondered how she fared. He was sorry a gale blew them past Lisbon, though it hurried them to the Downs, but his regret merged with other sentiments when he learned, by advices awaiting Walter from his mother, that the Countess di Cabota was arrived in Wensleydale, where she had won much popularity, and was a special favorite of old Mistress Sainton’s.

“Ecod!” roared Roger, when the full effect of this amazing intelligence penetrated his big head, “that ends it. I am undone! Between them they’ll lead me to the kirk wi’ a halter, for my owd mother ever had an eye for t’ brass, and Matilda will have filled her lug wi’ sike a tale that I’ll be tethered for life.”

His prediction was verified. The Countess married him a week after he reached Yorkshire. But the only halter she used was the chain of turquoises and gold which he himself gave her. Never did man have more loving wife. Her chief joy was to find some wondering listener while she poured forth the thrilling recital of her husband’s prowess, and her only anxiety was lest his fighting instincts should prove too powerful to keep him at home during the troubled years of the next reign.

But her wealth, joined to his own very considerable store, made him a rich man and a landed proprietor. Several little Saintons, too, promised to be nearly as big as their father, or as pretty as their mother, so Roger stopped at Leyburn to look after them, siding with neither King nor Parliament, but making it widely known that he was yet able to break heads if anyone interfered with him or his.

Of the wooing of Nellie Roe by her constant lover much might be written of vastly greater interest than many things herein recorded. Yet, such a history is neither new nor old, being of the order which shall endure as long as man seeks his mate. So they were wed, in the Church of St. Giles, at Cripplegate, and, by one of those pleasant actions which redeem his memory, King James was graciously pleased to forget the contumacy of his long-lost subjects. On Roe’s showing that Mowbray had done such good work for England that he well deserved the royal favor, the King bade the newly-married couple invite him to the wedding, to which he came in great state. He asked for the Ambassador’s sword, averted his eyes, nearly clipped Walter’s ear with the blade in delivering the accolade, and duly dubbed him a knight. Here, also, the English Solomon met Sainton. Though his majesty was far too sagacious, in his own estimation, to credit half he was told of the giant’s performances at home and in the domains of the Great Mogul, he nevertheless asked Roger what he considered to be his most remarkable achievement.

“Gad!” was the grinning answer, “though I have lopped heads by the score, and fought wi’ strange beasts of monstrous size and fury, I think the most wonderful thing I ever did was to get off scot free when your Majesty was ill disposed towards me.”

James rubbed his nose dubiously. He took thought, and found that the retort pleased him. So Roger, too, was ordered to kneel, and arose, very red and confused, “Sir Roger Sainton, of Cabota Hall, in the County of York.”

A great deal of water had flowed under London Bridge, and under the bridge that spanned the Jumna at Agra as well, when Sir Roger rode up the Vale of Ure one day to dine and sup with his friend Sir Walter. With him, in a carriage, came Matilda, Lady Sainton, and the special purport of the visit was to hear news lately received from India.

Fra Pietro had written, as was his yearly custom, giving them the annals of life in far-off Agra. The Franciscan would not abandon his people, and he remained with those who elected to settle in the capital rather than return to Hughli. There, owing to the patronage of Jahangir and Nur Mahal, he established a thriving colony. In course of time, by teaching his flock to eschew politics and stick to trade, he made the Franciscans a greater power than the Jesuits.

Divested of the quaint phraseology and varied spelling then in vogue, some portion of his epistle is worthy of record.

“Each year it becomes more established,” he said, “that the Empress rules in Jahangir’s name. Truly she is a good and wise woman. She hath effected a beneficial change in his cruel disposition, and put a stop to his savage outbursts of temper. Not only does he drink less wine in the daytime, but he is ashamed to be seen by her if his evening potations are too indulgent. She still retains her habit of going unveiled among all classes, and, indeed, it would be a wise reform were other women of the country to do likewise, for the Creator never intended one half the human race to remain invisible to the other half. Herein, however, she has failed, though it is said, as a quip, that were her own features less noteworthy she would not be so free in their exhibition.

“Nevertheless, she is the most accomplished woman of her age and clime. She rules this land with moderation and firmness, encourages education and good living, and gives freedom to all men to worship God as seemeth best to them. I am reminded, by these last words, that one who sought unfairly to impose his will upon others, Dom Geronimo to wit, died recently in the Convent here. He had been partly demented for years, but you will be glad to learn that his final hours were peaceful. His soul was restored to consciousness when the weak body failed, and he departed this life sincerely regretting the excesses to which he was led by unmeasured zeal. Perhaps I err in judging him thus harshly. ‘Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.’ I Cor. x. 12.

“The Emperor kept his word touching the record of my good Roger’s mighty deed in slaying the elephant. Within the Ummer Singh Gate of the Palace he hath erected another gateway called the Hathiya Darwaza, or ‘Door of the Elephants.’ It stands on the summit of a steep slope, and bears on its two flanking towers life-size models of two elephants, one of which has a man’s head. Fra Angelico, of the Blessed Order of St. Francis, newly come here from Barcelona, has a gift in painting, and, at my wish, he has made two oil drawings, which I send herewith, one of which shows the noble design of the structure.

“The other will be equally foreign to your eyes. You will scarce credit that the splendid marble edifice drawn by my worthy brother in Christ is the tomb of Itimad-ud-Daula, father of the Empress, and erected by her on the site of the house in the Garden of Heart’s Delight. Jahangir wished the place kept as an evening retreat for the days of spring flowers, but Nur Mahal would hear of no other end than the monument. So there stands the mausoleum, a noble building truly, yet a grave. Who knows what unfulfilled desires lie buried with the unheeding bones of the old Diwán! I sometimes think the Empress, who, with all her wisdom, remains a wayward woman, was not wholly swayed by filial piety when she moved the remains of her excellent father to that lovely garden. Once, by chance, I met her there. She spoke to me, and I gave her such meager intelligence of my English friends as I possessed. She was pleased to hear that Roger and you were honored by the King. She sends her greetings. Jai Singh leader of the body-guard, also places his turban at your feet.

“And, in this connection, I am reminded of that verse in the XXVth Chapter of Proverbs: ‘As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.’ Write to me, therefore, my good Walter. May it please the Lord that these presents shall find you and yours in good health and abounding in happiness! They tell me I am growing gray, and thinner than ever, so assure me, I pray you, that Sir Roger is adding width to his inches and thus adjusting that proper balance between the extremes by which nature at times leaves the common level.