“I wanted,” he said, “to know your opinion.”
“But you have often seen me at prayer,” said Vera.
“Yes, but I do not overhear your prayers. Do you pray for the alleviation of the restless sorrow that afflicts your mind?”
They had reached the chapel, and Vera stood still for a moment. She did not appear to have heard his question, and she answered only with a deep sigh. It was growing dark as they retraced their steps, Vera’s growing slower and more uncertain as they approached the old house, where she stood still and glanced in the direction of the precipice.
“To still the storm I must not go near the precipice, you say—I beg of you to stand by me, for I am sick and helpless.”
“Will not Grandmother know better how to help you, Vera? Confide in her, a woman, who will perhaps understand your pain.”
She shook her head. “I will tell you, Grandmother and you, but not now; now I cannot. And yet I beg of you not to leave me, not to allow me out of your sight. If a shot summons me, keep me away from the precipice, and, if necessary, hold me back by force. Things are as bad as that with me. That is all you can do for me. That is why I asked you not to go away, because I felt that my strength is failing, because except you I have no one to help me, for Grandmother would not understand. Forgive me.”
“You did right, Vera,” he replied, deeply moved. “Depend on me. I am willing to stay here for ever, if that will bring you peace.”
“No, in a week’s time the shots will cease.”
She dried her eyes, and pressed his hand; then with slow, uneven steps, supporting herself by the balustrade she passed up the steps and into the house.