“You are generous, Cousin. Vera will not forget.”
With that she hurried into the thicket, jubilant as a bird set free from his cage.
Raisky heard the rustle of the bushes as she pushed them aside, and the crackle of the dry twigs.
In the half-ruined arbour waited Mark, with gun and cap laid upon the table. He walked up and down on the shaky floor, and whenever he trod on one end of a board the other rose in the air, and then fell clattering back again.
“The devil’s music!” he murmured angrily, sat down on a bench near the table, and pushed his hands through his thick hair. He smoked one cigarette after another, the burning match lighting up his pale, agitated face for a moment. After each shot he listened for a few minutes, went out on the steps, and looked out into the bushes. When he returned he walked up and down, raising the “devil’s music” once more, threw himself on the bench, and ran his hands through his hair. After the third shot he listened long and earnestly. As he heard nothing he was on the point of going away. To relieve his gloomy feelings he murmured a curse between his teeth, took the gun and prepared to descend the path. He hesitated a few moments longer, then walked off with decision. Suddenly he met Vera.
She stood still, breathing with difficulty, and laid her hand on her heart. As soon as he took her hand she was calm. Mark could not conceal his joy, but his words of greeting did not betray it.
“You used to be punctual, Vera,” he said, “and I used not to have to waste three shots.”
“A reproach instead of a welcome!” she said, drawing her hand away.
“It’s only by way of beginning a conversation Happiness makes a fool of me, like Raisky.”
“If happiness gleamed before us, we should not be meeting in secret by this precipice,” she said, drawing a long breath.