Salim knew not how to reply, as his father for a moment ceased to speak. He felt this reception deeply, so different from what he had expected, and the loving though melancholy words addressed to him, in spite of his errors; for Salim was not bad, nor hard-hearted, but weak and easily led; and on him rested the curse of despotism that Akbar had escaped,—the curse of the despot, and of him who is to become one,—that of placing his own will in the way of right and duty.
“But no,” continued the Emperor, “you would not, or rather you could not. You have never possessed the power of restraining yourself in anything; how, then, should you in this? For a time I saw with joy that you had given up your drinking, but for how short a time did this improvement last! You, who in my place wish to rule over others, cannot rule yourself. Had you only better understood your position, then your own interest would have shown you the right path. You would have seen that the straightforward fulfilment of duty would gain the respect and love of your future subjects; while actions such as those you were guilty of, only rendered you contemptible in their eyes, and when you had gained your wish and were their ruler, their obedience would be due to fear or self-interest, so foolishly and blameably have you lost their respect, and covered yourself and me with shame. If I could but have prevented this! I attempted it, when, following the counsel of Faizi, who was always well inclined towards you, I sent you to Allahabad, not suspecting that Salhana was a false traitor and one of the most dangerous of the party that was seeking to mislead you. Enough; the attempt to save you from your evil companions failed, and things continued their course. Then it became necessary to prove publicly that neither craft nor force could avail against Akbar, and that the reins of government remained in the Emperor’s hands. You have forced me to it, and on your head rests the blame of what has happened to-day. You have done yourself much injury, and grieved me deeply, more deeply than you can comprehend. May you never learn from experience what a father feels when, sword in hand, he is forced to meet his son as an enemy.”
This sad experience was not spared Salim, and in his old age the day came when the words of his father returned to his mind, and when Shah Jahan, his dearly-loved son, not only opposed him in the field, but defeated him more than once. When his father ceased speaking, his conscience awoke from its long sleep, and he recognised that crime to its fullest extent, which false councillors had palliated and made light of. Overcome by his feelings he flung himself on his knees before his father.
“Rise up,” said the Emperor, at last, after having for some time silently regarded his son; “and listen. That I possess full right to inflict punishment upon you, you less than anyone can dispute. But I require from you no further humiliation than that which you have already undergone. I do not wish it, because it would damage your future rule, shaking that respect which men will owe to you when you succeed me on the throne. If I punished you further publicly, I might as well declare you disinherited, and choose one of your brothers as my successor; but that I neither will nor can do. I hold you too dear to take such a course, so long as it can be avoided; nevertheless all depends on you. Tell me frankly, do you wish to work with me for the good of my kingdom, or do you feel no inclination and no strength for it? In the one case I will charge you with an honourable, though it may be laborious share; in the other, you can remain at my court, and there endeavour to learn as much of the art of government as is indispensable for your future. I leave the choice to you.”
“My father,” replied Salim, “I feel that I deserve neither of the generous offers you make me, and I should not complain if my last deed excluded me from the succession to the throne; but if indeed you leave me the choice, then, without hesitation, I choose the first. However difficult and dangerous may be the task entrusted to me, I will strive my utmost to fulfil it. You have indeed laden me with favours and honours, perhaps too many; my time has been thrown away in idleness, while you spent every day, from morning to evening, labouring for the good of the State; and then miserable idleness led me away to listen to the temptation of traitors, who pictured to me the fame that would be mine when power was once in my hands. Now, give me some work, however lowly, and I may perhaps be able to make up for the evil I have done.”
“You judge yourself justly,” said Akbar, “and to know oneself is the first step in the right path. I acknowledge that I am not myself free from blame for leaving you without employment, in the midst of luxury and self-indulgence. But enough of this. The rich and fruitful Bengal has not long been subject to my rule, and does not yet enjoy the privileges of a settled government. Go, and help me to carry out my principles of government there also. You shall reign under me, but almost as an independent king, until the day when, after having won the respect and love of your people, you shall in peace succeed to the empire of the whole of Hindustan.”
Tears of joy and gratitude sprang to Salim’s eyes, as he respectfully kissed the Emperor’s hand before leaving him, full of fresh courage and a new love of life. The reconciliation between father and son was sincere, and Akbar foresaw that the peace and friendship between them would never again be disturbed.
Though joy reigned in Agra as the time passed by, in Allahabad there was sorrow, at least in Iravati’s heart; for the new governor, in a few words, had imparted to her the news of her father’s death, but withheld from her all particulars, while he begged that she would remain in the castle as long as she pleased. She had never been aware of the crime of which Salhana had been guilty; and though she had not loved her father very dearly, still she had always held him in the highest respect, and, forgetting his recent treatment, she mourned him truly. In the midst of her grief another event happened, which gave her a fresh shock. Not long after the tidings of Salhana’a death had reached her, Kulluka the Brahman was announced. His faithful servant had been his only companion on his perilous journey from the north.
“Noble lady,” he said, when admitted to Iravati’s presence, “I accepted a sad task when I undertook to deliver a message, sad both for you and me. I bring you a token that you know well”: and feeling in his girdle, he drew out a finely-woven veil, and laid it in her hands. It was the same she had thrown to Siddha when for the last time she had seen him beneath her balcony.
“I understand all,” she cried, turning deadly white; “he is no more.”