A small shiver convulsed her—kneeling there in her balcony; her bare arms resting on the balustrade. The new Arúna shrank from thought of death. She craved the fulness of life and love—kisses and rapture and the clinging arms of little children....
For, as she knelt in the moonlight, nominally she was invoking Mai Lakshmi; actually she was dreaming of Roy; chiding herself for the foolishness that had kept her from appearing at dinner; hoping he might wonder, and perhaps think of her a little—wishing her there. And all the while, perhaps he was simply not noticing—not caring one little bit——!
Stung by the thought, she clenched her hands and lifted her bowed head. Then she started—and caught her breath——
Could it be he, down there among the shadows—wandering, dreaming, thinking of her, or making poems? She knew most of his slim volume by heart.
More likely, he was framing bold plans to find Dyán—now the answer to her letter had come. It was a strange unsatisfying answer; full of affection, but too full of windy phrases that she was shrewd enough to recognise as mere echoes from those others, who had ensnared him in a web of words.
"Fear not for me, sister of my heart," he wrote. "Rejoice because I am dedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released from political bondage and shine again in her ancient glory—no longer exploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones they can lock up Veda—eternal truth! The gods have spoken. It is time. Kali rises in the East, with her necklet of skulls—Giants of evil she has slain. It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot: 'Do not wall up your vision, like frogs in a well.... Rise above the Penal Code to the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions of heroic men.'
"You ask if I still love Roy? Why not? He is of our own blood and a very fine fellow. But I don't write now because he would not understand my fervour of soul. So don't you take all his opinions for gospel; like my grandfather's, they are well meant, but obsolete. If only you had courage, Arúna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keep you in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of the Mother. Sing Bande Mátaram,[11] forty thousand brothers! That is our battle-cry. And one of those is your own fond brother—Dyán Singh."
Arúna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell and blotted the words. Could this be the same Dyán who had known and loved England even as she did? His eloquence somehow failed to carry conviction. To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full of contradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read. But behind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyán—the brother who was her all.
Still no address was given. But Roy had declared the Delhi postmark sufficient clue. Directly Dewáli was over, he would go. And, by every right impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad. But the heart, like the tongue, can no man tame. And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt her a little. Was he thinking of Delhi down there—or of her——?
The shadow had turned and was moving towards her. There was a white splash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette.