"And now, Nancy," he went on, "I have read his words, his scrolls, read them for myself, and I know that he was right, that the best part of my life will come not only from understanding them but from realizing their meaning in actual life. You don't belong to the East, Nancy, you belong to the West whence you came; it is my happiness to take you back to the West of your birth. That is my lot and my destiny because I know in my heart I love you. I have been learning this through all the troubled months of the past year. I love you, Nancy; my claim upon you is greater than your father's; it is the claim to which he appointed me. His claim is passing, his life is nearly run. He will die, but we must live."
The girl listened to him in breathless quiet. Tumult, agitation, had frozen her muscles so that her face in the dim light showed neither anger nor joy, merely a ghostly whiteness, an unblinking passivity like the gilded immobile calm of the gods.
"I don't understand," said the girl after a long silence. "You should tell these things to my father, not to me."
"No," protested the man, "it is time to tell them to you, to make you understand. You are not blind, Nancy, you have been with us, you know something of the life I wish to offer you. No hiding away in an ignorant village, no father-in-law and mother-in-law and a whole courtyard of mangy relations tyrannizing over you, but your own home, friends to visit and be visited, and a husband who will love and reverence your slightest wish. Ah, Nancy, how can I tell you these things, how can I make you know that I love you, that life won't be life for me if I cannot have you?"
"These things should not be said to me," said Nancy, her voice burdened with pain. "You are late, late! Why do you say such things when you know it is useless, when you know my father has promised and I have promised? I have no power. I cannot call back spoken words, my spoken words."
"Then you do not love me," said Ronald, in a low, discouraged voice.
"I don't know," faltered the girl, unable to say the one phrase which would have quelled his importunity, unable to accept him, unable to give him up. "I don't understand this—this love."
"You are fighting against your own heart," said Ronald. "You are making the mistake which has tortured your father for years. Give me an answer, Nancy. This is no time for holding to foolish promises; it is no time for dainty, meticulous points of honor. Your father's life rests in your hands. You will hurt him if you don't go back; you will kill him if you do. I don't mind your sacrificing me,—I do mind, of course, but we'll not stop to argue over it,—but will you sacrifice your father? Will you sacrifice yourself?"
Nancy's composure was shaken. She was exhausted by the strain of arguing against everything she desired. Ronald was trying to persuade her to things whereof she longed only too ardently to be persuaded. She was worn out by the thankless irony of defending her own worst interests. She could not deny that she loved Ronald; she could not confess that she did; her heart was in a fever of eagerness to put into his masterful hands the knotted strings of her life, but her will, even when half convinced, balked at an act which, however surely it might lead to her father's ultimate welfare, would be desertion and disloyalty to his trust.
The rain had stopped. There was only the sound of water dripping from the trees to remind her that they must join the others, discover how they had fared in the deluge.