"No—not that. I don't deserve it," he broke out, lashing himself and startling her. "I've been a rank coward—letting things drift. But honestly I hadn't the conceit—we were cousins ... it seemed natural. And now ... this!"
A stupid catch in his throat arrested him. She sat motionless; never a word.
Impulsively he dropped on one knee, to be nearer, yet not too near. "Arúna—I don't know how to say it. The fact is ... they were afraid, at Home, if I came out here, I might—it might ... Well, just what's come to us," he blurted out in desperation. "And Mother told me frankly—it mustn't be, twice running ... like that." Her stillness dismayed him. "Dear," he urged tenderly, "you see their difficulty—you understand?"
"I am trying—to understand." Her voice was small and contained. The courage and control of it unsteadied him more than any passionate protest. Yet he hurried on in the same low tone.
"Of course, I ought to have thought. But, as I say, it seemed natural.... Only—on Dewáli night——"
She caught her breath. "Yes—Dewáli night. Mai Lakshmi knew. Why did you not say it then?"
"Well ... so soon—I wasn't sure ... I hoped going away might give us both a chance. It seemed the best I could do," he pleaded. "And—there was Dyán. I'm not vamping up excuses, Arúna. If you hate me for hurting you so——"
"Roy—you shall not say it!" she cried, roused at last. "Could I hate ... the heart in my own body!"
"Better for us both perhaps if you could!" he jerked out, rising abruptly, not daring to let the full force of her confession sink in. "But—because of my father, I promised. No getting over that."
She was silent:—a silence more moving, more compelling than speech. Was she wondering—had he not promised...? Was he certain himself? Near enough to swear by; and the impulse to comfort her was overwhelming.