His head sank
wearily forward, his shoulders rounded themselves as though under a
burden, his feet dragged a little as he tried to walk on again, and he
leaned heavily on the young girl's arm.
"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me--perhaps I can help you--I mean--I beg
your pardon," she added, humbly, "perhaps it would help you to speak of
it. That sometimes makes things seem clearer just when they have been most
confused."
"Perhaps so, Vjera, perhaps so. You are a very good girl, and you came
just in time. I love you, Vjera--do not forget that I love you." His voice
was by turns sharp and suddenly low and monotonous, like that of a man
talking in sleep. Altogether his manner was so strange that poor Vjera
feared the very worst. The extremity of her anxiety kept her from losing
her self-possession. For the first time in her life she felt that she was
the stronger of the two, and that if he was to be saved it must be by her
efforts rather than by anything he was now able to do for himself. She
loved him, mad or sane, with an admiration and a devotion which took no
account of his intellectual state except to grieve over it for his own
sake. The belief that in this crisis she might be of use to him, strongly
conquered the rising hysterical passion, and drove the tears so far from
her eyes that she wondered vaguely why she had been so near to shedding
them a few moments sooner. She pressed his arm with her hand.
"And I, too, I love you, with all my heart and soul," she said.
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