Under St Paul's: A Romance
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Part the Third.
MISERERE NOBIS
CHAPTER I.
ANXIETY AND DESPAIR
As Osborne and Nevill descended the steps of the cathedral, the former became conscious of weakness. He passed his arm, through one of his companion's. For awhile both walked on in silence. They were too much occupied with the conflict between their thoughts and their feelings for words. Nevill felt: 'Oh, if I should lose her, what will become of me? I never was serious in my life until now. What a fearful thing it is to go on all one's days treating life as a jest, and then come suddenly upon a fair shy girl, whose word can make life a tragedy or an idyl!' He thought, – 'What can have happened to Osborne? He amazes me. How can he have lost his faith? Find a love and lose a faith! Monstrous! Find a love and find a faith was the rule. Love first wakened young men to religion. They loved; they could not believe the object of their idolatry was mere clay, destined to melt back into earth, like an apple or snow. He cannot endure the idea that when his eyes close, or when hers, they are to see each other no more. That is what roused me up first. It was the dread that I should lose her for ever when I die that made me think of what I was taught when I was young, and see its beauty and its truth. But Osborne, Osborne, Osborne, how is it with him?' Osborne's thoughts were much less clearly defined. He wondered what brought Nevill there, but the wonder was ill-defined and weak. He was in no particular anxiety to find out why Nevill went to St Paul's. He had a general dim idea that the circumstances fitted in with something in his own case; he was too indolent, too tired, too worn, too weak, too miserable, to try and see where the coincidence lay. But his feelings made up in intensity for the vagueness of his thoughts. Heaven and heaven on earth were vanishing from him at the one time, through the one agency. The same sly awful hand that stole his faith away would steal his darling away also. Oh, misery and desolation! As a last resource he had come to that great temple. When his mind seemed tottering, and the ground was tottering beneath his feet, when the pillars of the heavens were shaken over his head, when the clangour of words falling headlong into ruin had horrified his ears, he had fled to that holy fane, that noble pile, raised by pious hands, frequented by pious souls. He had tried with all his might to force back what had escaped him. He' had failed. The carnival of the beast continued, and, hideous thought, loathsome degradation, intolerable fate, he was compelled not only to look on, but to take part in that revolting saturnalia of reason. Lose her? Of course he should lose her. What could prevent him losing her? Nothing. Oh dreary, bald world, what wert thou made for? What was he made for? Oh mockery, to call into existence such worship of the Divine, such loyal, unselfish love of her as his had been, to snatch both away from him at one swoop, in one fell hour! He could not bear the idea. In order to shut it out he spoke. 'I have had a very long walk. I have eaten nothing all day. You must think me mad, Nevill. I am not quite out of my senses, but I am far from sane,' he said. 'We are just like two newly-convicted felons chained together for the first time. Each of us knows the other has a story that would interest him, and that he will hear; each is so absorbed in his own history he cannot free his mind enough to take any interest in the circumstances of the other,' said Nevill, by way of reply. 'No felon was ever more wretched than I am now; but in other respects I am not as you describe. I am very willing, very anxious, to hear your story. If telling it will relieve your mind, listening to it will distract mine; and I have now no bitterer enemy than my own thoughts.' 'My story,' cried Nevill, 'is one of the commonest in the world; and of all men in the world you are the one I most wanted to meet to-day.' 'I am glad to meet you, Nevill, that is if I can be glad for anything now. What did you want me for?' 'I want to tell you I am in love.' 'Yes, I supposed as much from what you said in the church.' 'I have never been really in love before, and I want you to tell me what you think of me as a man.' 'My dear Nevill, what a question!' 'It is one I am most anxious you should answer honestly. Stop! I must not say honestly. I know enough of you to be certain you are incapable of the smallest, even conventional, dishonesty. Tell me, Osborne, what you think of me as a man?' 'So far as I have seen, I think very highly of you. What an extraordinary position you place me in, Nevill!' 'I place you in an awkward position now, in the hope that you will allow me to place you in a certain other position some day.' Osborne, for the first time, looked at Nevill. He saw the man was haggard and scared. He himself was too much exhausted to take more than a languid interest in the conversation so far. Now he roused up a little, and said, – 'Go on with what you have to say.' 'What you have told me emboldens me, Osborne. Do you think I should make a bad husband?' 'No, certainly not. This is a still more extraordinary question to ask me.' 'You will see, later on, a good deal depends on it. Suppose a girl were very dear to you, the dearest in all the world, Osborne-' 'Yes,' answered Osborne, drawing up and looking into the eyes of the other. 'Would you advise her to reject an offer of marriage from me?' 'What on earth do you mean, man? You are putting me in a most horrible position, and I don't think you are behaving honourably.' 'Honourably, Osborne! Honourably! Take care.' The dull cheeks flushed, and a light of warning came into the eyes. 'Well, speak on at once, man, and then we shall run no risk of misunderstanding one another.' 'If I proposed to your sister Kate, and she accepted me, would you object to her marrying me?' 'My sister Kate! Do you mean my sister Kate?' 'Yes. Who else did you think I meant?' 'Miss Gordon.' 'Miss Gordon! Good heavens! Osborne, you didn't think me such a scoundrel as to make love or propose to the girl you are engaged to?' 'And have lost,' added Osborne, dropping his chin on his breast, and resuming walking. 'Lost!' cried Nevill. 'Lost! What do you mean? It is you now who are mysterious. What do you mean by lost?' Osborne raised his head and gazed into the other's eyes with a look of desperate hope. 'Nevill, you will answer me a question if I ask you one, as I have answered you, honestly?' 'Most assuredly.' Osborne had not answered the most important question of all, but he could wait. 'Suppose you loved a woman with all your heart and soul-suppose it was your first love-' 'All that is very easy, for it is my case.' 'Suppose you had been accepted, that you believed you were loved in return, that there was no material impediment to your marriage, that you put on the engaged ring with all the solemnity of a private religious service, and that, in putting it on, you extracted a vow from the girl, would you ask that girl to break that vow the next day?' 'My dear fellow, vows spoken in that way do not bind.' 'I think you an honourable man. If you, at the time of engagement, exacted a vow from the girl, would you, as an honourable man, ask your sweetheart to break her vow?' 'It is you who now place me in a horrible position.' 'You can answer. As an honourable man, would you ask your sweetheart to break her vow?' 'As an honourable man I would not. But how does this lose you Miss Gordon?' 'Because if she keep her vows she must not have me.' 'But why, in the name of Heaven?' 'Because I made her vow never to marry any man who did not belong to the church she had been brought up in. She made the vow. And now-' He paused. 'Well, Osborne, and now-' 'I belong to no church. I have lost my faith. I can never, as an honourable man, ask her to marry me.' 'But, my dear fellow,' said Nevill, in a tone of encouragement, 'you never yet knew a woman who refused to marry the man she cared for because of his religious beliefs or disbeliefs.' 'That has nothing whatever to do with the question. The question is, should a man ask the woman he loves to break a solemn vow for his sake? A quick flush of pleasure shot over Nevill's face. By putting Kate in such a position towards him, Osborne indicated, unintentionally no doubt, that he had no objection to him, Nevill, as a brother-in-law. 'Suppose Kate were engaged to you, and at the time of your engagement you asked her to make a solemn pledge never to marry any man who did not conform, would you ask her to break that vow and marry you, though you did not conform?' 'I cannot bring the question home to myself in that way. My case is the direct opposite. How can you be so silly as to lose your faith now that you have won all you want in the world?' 'There is no good in our going into an argument, Nevill. We must take things as they are. I will not press you for an answer. I know what it would be.' 'Although,' said Nevill slowly, deliberately, 'I cannot bring the situation home to me so as to make it mine, I am sure I can give you good advice in the case. You must first of all be prudent, and say nothing for awhile. What has suddenly left you may suddenly come back.' Osborne shook his head drearily. 'I don't say it will. I say it may. Why should it not come back to you as to me? Surely there is a case in point. Here am I, who have been a wanderer all my life, who believed I never should settle down, who cared nothing for spiritual matters, now come almost quite round, turning religious, and thinking of settling down. Why should not such things happen to you?' Again Osborne shook his head. 'You cannot say; you cannot know,' urged Nevill. 'Give yourself time and a chance. I do not see why you should be in any haste about it. The day for the wedding is not fixed yet?' 'No.' 'Very good, Osborne. Don't hurry matters,' said Nevill, forcing a gaiety that would not come naturally. 'Don't hurry matters, and we may make it a double event.' Once more Osborne shook his head. Once more an expression of pleasure passed over Nevill's face. It was quite plain Osborne would not oppose his approaches to Kate. George was now in too disturbed a state of mind to press home the question, and, indeed, there seemed to be no need to press home the question at all, for he had inferentially answered it favourably. For hours they walked about arm-in-arm through the chill dark streets. Now they skirted the enclosures of quiet squares; now they pushed their way through the crowd of a street thronged with people. Nevill was killing time, Osborne was trying to leave memory behind. Anything was better than to recall the past. Even the future might be more cheerfully faced. The future, the future-what was the future? What could the future bring to him? What could the future be to him? Merciful heavens, was he to pass the rest of his days in Benares, worshipping in the temple of Hunooman? Horrible fate! What had he done to merit this? At last, when it was past ten o'clock, Osborne drew up. 'Nevill,' he said,' I can walk no more. Come home.' 'No, no. I am not going back to-night. I could not breathe the air of that place until I am certain. I shall walk about until I am worn out; then I'll get a bed at some hotel or other. I cannot go back until I get Kate's answer. If it is favourable, and I can satisfy you as to my position, and so on, you won't object to me, will you?' 'No, Nevill; no. She is a good girl, Nevill.' 'The best in the world.' 'Oh, Nevill, I had such a dream of my future life. And now there is nothing of it left. It is all gone.' 'It will come back again. Give it time.' 'It will never come back again. Nevill, my life is over before it has well begun.' 'Say nothing to her about it for awhile, and all may be well.' 'She will notice my changed manner.' 'It will be time enough to explain when she speaks.' 'Good-night.' 'Good-night.'
CHAPTER II.
A BAD WAKING
When Osborne entered the drawing-room at Peter's Row he was pale, spent, weak. He could hardly stand for a moment; the place swam round him, and he swayed to and fro as if about to fall. Some of the guests looked at him with amazement, some with suspicion, some with fear. What was wrong with this young man? Why did he come down to breakfast the other morning in that extraordinary condition? What was the meaning of any man, half covered with mud, breaking into a drawing-room? It was very strange. Was he drunk? Why did not Mrs Barclay tell him to leave? Kate saw at a glance something dreadful had occurred. She looked hastily at Marie, but found no explanation there. Marie sat on a couch fronting the door, and stared in vague apprehension at him. In her, love was alarmed by an unfamiliar phase of the beloved. Kate rose, and went to George, saying, – 'What is the matter, George? What is the matter? You look ill.' 'I am only tired-only tired, Kate.' He glanced at Marie. 'She fears me already,' he thought. 'She fears me. See how she shrinks from me. She would scream out if I dared to go near her. She would scream. She sees, with the swift instinct of a woman, that what I swear to-day I will forswear to-morrow. She loathes me more than the most unsightly things that crawl on earth. Oh, my Marie, my life-my soul! Have I lost you for ever-for ever!' All the guests were still staring mutely at him. He was unconscious of their presence. He was unconscious of everything but the feeling of loss. He stood in the midst of a pitiless desert. Neither heaven nor earth, beast nor man, would take pity on him, would kill him, and put him out of this awful pain. If he could shut his eyes for ever on her, for ever on the past, he would be content. For, indeed, what want of contentment can there be when past, present, and future are no more? Had he been born to open his eyes on this apparition of supreme loveliness, merely that he might see it for a brief span, and then lose it, and all memory of it, for ever? If even memory might remain he should now be content. But nothing would be left-nothing. He had been foolish, insane, a moment ago, to wish for oblivion. He would prefer the memory of her, the mental image of her, with all the sense of final loss, to forgetfulness. How shallow Dante had been to say memory of former joys was the crudest pain! Who would give up certain aspects of his true love for all the pain those pictures could bring? Memory was the inexhaustible bank of love. As the future is the fairest, so is the past the most dear. The feeling you must lose all the heart-savings of a love-time is the most bitter sting that can enter the soul of man. Ay, but Dante did not think he or anyone should lose the memory of love at the silent side of the grave. That accounted for Dante saying, the bitterest thing of all was remembering brighter hours. Into Dante's code oblivion did not enter. Miserere nobis. Miserere nobis. With a weary, vacant smile he held out his hand to Kate. 'I am very tired, Kate, very tired, and am going to bed. Say good-night to Marie for me.' He drew back into the passage, and closed the door. Marie turned pale. Furtive eyes now sought her. The men looked at her with anger against him in their eyes. In the glances of the women was pity. Plainly all was over between her and him. Well, who could expect any good to come out of such an engagement? No one but a fool. Fancy people meeting in a common boarding-house, falling in love, and getting engaged! Why, if such things were to happen and turn out well there would be no protection to society, and domestic life would have to be abandoned; and then things would be in a nice state. The minds of the men took another direction. What had he been doing? He looked as if he had been on a fearful spree. But how could a man bengaged to that glorious girl go on a spree? And besides, Osborne was as steady as a rock. No; it couldn't be a spree. What, then, had cut him up so dreadfully? He looked all right yesterday, or nearly so. No matter how wild a man had been for one day, he would not be so cut up. Evidently something was wrong between this incomparable girl and him. What could it be? Had he been suddenly seized with illness, or were there traces of insanity in his family? A man must be mad to quarrel with such loveliness. 'What's the matter, Kate?' whispered Marie, as soon as the former had returned to her old place close to the couch. 'I don't know, dear. He looks awful, and says he's tired. What can it be? There is no quarrel?' 'No. Nor do I know any reason why he should not speak to me.' 'He told me to say good-night to you for him, and that he was very tired.' 'What! Very tired! Was George too tired to cross this little room to say good-night to me? Oh, Kate, there is something wrong, something wrong! Did he say anything about Mr Nevill?' 'No; not a word. I have told you all he said. I never saw George in such a way before.' The two girls rose soon after, and went to their rooms. When George Osborne closed the drawing-room door he walked slowly upstairs. He undressed, and went to bed. He was completely worn out, and fell into a profound sleep. He awoke. What, dark still! 'Who's there?' 'I.' 'Oh, Nevill, is that you? What o'clock is it?' 'You have had a long sleep. It is five o'clock in the afternoon.' 'Five o'clock in the afternoon! What is the matter? Have I been ill? I forget. Nevill, tell me, have I been ill? Where is Kate?' 'Kate is downstairs. You have not been ill. You know you had a long walk and great anxiety yesterday. Would you like a light?' 'I remember all now. No, I don't want a light. We can talk in the dark.' 'How do you feel to-day? Shall I tell them to bring you something to eat?' 'No, thank you. I shall get up presently. I am not hungry. Have you seen Marie to-day?' 'I have not. I was not in to breakfast. Even had I been, I should not have seen her, for neither she nor Kate was down.' 'You awoke me, Nevill, did you not? Have you anything to tell me, anything to say?' 'I am sorry I disturbed you, Osborne; but I could not rest still. My dear fellow, you know what I told you last evening about Kate?' 'Yes; that you had proposed to her. Have you got a reply?' 'I have. I called this morning at Lombard Street, and found a letter there from Kate. The letter, although a refusal, gave me a half notion I had failed only for the time. So I came on straight here to see her and you. I have been with her all day, and I cannot tell you how delighted I am, my dear Osborne, to say to you there is hope I may yet succeed, though nothing definite has been arranged, nor will she allow me to call her anything more than Miss Osborne, until her mother's consent has been obtained, which is quite right.' 'And you want to speak to me now about the matter?' asked Osborne, sitting up in the darkness. 'Yes, if you have no objection.' 'On the contrary, I shall be glad to listen; it will interest me, since it concerns Kate, and at present I prefer not to think of my own affairs. Go on, Nevill; go on.' 'Well, Osborne, I will tell you all I think you would care to hear, and then I will ask you to do me a great favour. I have knocked about in the world in my time, and have been no better than most men-nothing like you. I lived at Rome; and you know that Rome often lived up a tree. But, upon the whole, I was among the ruck; I don't think I led. You must know my people were no great swells, only middle-class merchant-folk. I am alone in the world. My father lived at New York, and made a little money in corn. I'm thirty years of age. I have never been in gaol. I have never yet committed bigamy. I have thirty thousand pounds, and not a soul to leave a penny to. I'd settle all of it on Kate, and anyone who might come after us. I am a native of England, of the parish of Stepney, as I was born at sea. I was born under British colours, on the way out to the States, before either my father or mother, and I may add before I myself, ever set foot on American soil. I am an advanced Radical, was reared in the Church of England faith, and mean henceforth to conform to that creed.' He paused awhile, and tried to pierce the darkness in the direction where Osborne sat; but he could see absolutely nothing. Now that there was silence, Nevill could hear the deep breathing of the silent listener. At length George spoke, – 'Go on, Nevill. Go on; I am listening to you most attentively.' 'So much for the past and present. Now for the future. You are not, I suppose, going to live in London always?' 'I cannot say. I do not know.' 'Well, if I prosper in this, I propose to go to Stratford-your old place-and take a house there, and settle down as a member of a quiet English family. I will grow into a middle-aged respectable man as soon as I can, and you and your mother and younger sister and I will be the greatest friends in the world-a kind of colony of love, down in that dear old place of Shakespeare's.' He paused again. No sound from the bed but the breathing, which had grown more laboured. He waited awhile. He knew that Osborne shuddered; though how he knew this he could not tell. Then the other spoke in a constrained voice, – 'I. see nothing whatever to object to in what you propose. I think nothing would please Kate or my mother more than that Kate's home should be near Stratford. You said you intended asking me something. What is it?' 'Oh yes. I want you to take me down to Stratford, introduce me to your mother, and let me plead my cause with her. In fact, you can arrange both our affairs-I mean yours and mine-at the one time.' Nevill paused once more. The breathing had grown quieter. There was not a sound. The room was as hushed as a stone. Nevill remained perfectly still. Stop, there was a faint, very faint, sound. A soft, delicate pat-pat-pat, as though you beat a table very gently with the top of your finger. It could not be the beating of Osborne's heart. It was too slow for that. What could it be? 'Why don't you speak, Osborne? What's the matter?' Pat-pat-pat. 'Good God, Osborne, you are weeping!' 'Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me my life? Who has taken my life away? Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me sight, and gives me darkness? Dear God, turn away Thy wrath, and show me mercy! I am humbled and punished. Let me come back to Thee and peace. Give me faith for this void, light for this darkness. O God, my life!' 'Osborne! Osborne! Osborne!' 'In a moment.' 'Osborne!' 'A little while longer.' 'Now I am all right. I could not help it, Nevill. It came on me suddenly. I had no power over myself. Will you forgive me, my dear friend? I hope I may some day call you brother. It all came upon me at once. I broke down when I thought of you and Kate being settled at Stratford, and I-' 'You too will be settled there or somewhere else with Marie soon. Take my word for it.' 'Ay. I may as well get up; and I may as well stop in bed. It is one of the advantages of being ruined that all things are alike to you. You are above or below every-day detail. I'll get up. It must be near six now.' 'Yes; the quarter-to has struck.' 'I'll get up. Do not leave for a minute. You need not tell anyone I broke down-Kate least of all. It would only pain her, and do no good. I'll go up to Stratford with you, and do all I can in your interest. I do not think my mother will make any objection, for she is a most just and considerate woman, and has taught all of us to rely on our own judgments since we were young. I think you may put your mind at rest. I feel much easier now than I did when you woke me first. You may go now. I'll get up. If you meet Marie before I go down, do not tell her anything I have told you. If she asks you anything about me, say I was merely tired, and overslept myself.' When Nevill had shut the door, Osborne arose and lit the gas. He was deadly pale, but refreshed with sleep. He felt weak, and thought some illness must be coming on him; he forgot he had not eaten anything the whole of yesterday. He was feeble now from over-exertion and want of food. It was six o'clock before he reached the dining-room, where tea was always set at that hour. The people had not yet sat down. He went over to where Kate and Marie stood by the fire, and shook hands with both. 'I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself. Yesterday I ran away without a word of explanation, and to-day I sleep until tea-time. I assure you both I never awoke until Nevill came into my room about an hour ago. I was quite worn out.' 'But, George,' asked Kate gravely, 'why did you go for such a long walk yesterday, and eat nothing all day?' 'Mr Nevill told Kate,' said Marie, 'that you ate nothing all yesterday, and that you would not have anything to eat last night when he met you. Surely that was too bad of you. You know, George, between sitting up all night over those books, and then walking about all day without food, you will very soon find yourself in the hands of the-' 'Hangman,' George concluded the sentence for her. 'No; don't be silly-in the hands of the doctor.' 'I am past cure,' he said gravely, and with a faint sweet smile. Marie looked up quickly at him. Was his old self coming back? In saying he was past cure, did he mean he was so much in love nothing could make him heart-whole again? There was no answering look in his eyes. What could be the matter? What had happened to George? He was wholly changed, wholly unlike himself of two days ago. He looked worn out and dull, more like a man just recovering from a raging fever than a healthy, hearty lover. What could be the matter? It was sad to think that, no sooner had she entered upon this fairyland of love, than some terrible monster invaded the garden also, and she went in constant dread of being struck down by the beast, and killed or maimed for ever. In Mrs Barclay's all meals were served in the dining-room, and it was customary for the ladies to retire to the drawing-room after breakfast, dinner, or tea. At tea that evening nothing was spoken of but the most general subjects. Marie and Kate did not speak beyond the words necessary in reply to commonplace questions from commonplace people. Mrs Barclay rallied Osborne on his recent irregular behaviour, and cautioned him that no doubt such vagaries might be expected from a bachelor, but very different conduct would be exacted from a married man. At this there was a general smile, and a sly look from his to Marie's face. All else that passed at the table was of the most ordinary and every-day character. Tea took forty minutes, and at about a quarter to seven the ladies retired to the drawing-room. Between seven and eleven was the quietest time of the day at Mrs Barclay's, for men and women staying at the house went out between those hours, either to theatres or other places of amusement, or to visit friends whom their business occupations in the day prevented them calling upon. When George Osborne entered the drawing-room he found no one in it but Marie and Kate. He felt refreshed and brightened by the meal. Tea always had an exquisitely cheering effect upon him. He walked first to Marie, took her gently by the hand, and said, – 'I was not able to explain to you-do not move, Kate; what I am saying is intended for both of you-I was not able to explain what must have seemed extraordinary in my conduct during the past few days. I cannot yet tell you explicitly what it is, but in a few days I hope to be able to satisfy you. Both must have faith in me till then. You must believe that I have got a terrible shock, with which neither of you has anything to do. I am at present in a state of great mental anxiety, and you must try to be indulgent to me. No matter how odd I may seem to you, I ask you not to judge me hastily. Give me time, and I will tell you both all. Give me time. Will you, Marie-a few days?' 'Yes.' 'Will you Kate-a few days?' 'Yes.' The two girls were more terrified by this quiet, collected confession of trouble than by the most erratic thing he had yet done. Marie thought, 'Oh, my George, my love, my noble, simple-hearted gentleman, why will you not tell your Marie what troubles you? Why will you not let her share your anxiety? She would bear all the anxiety of this world rather than not share his secret pain. Oh, my love, why are you so white? What will become of me if anything happen to my love-if anything happen to thee-if anything happen to my love?' Kate was too terrified to think; she only prayed-prayed against evil to him, against evil to any of them. The affair between Nevill and herself could not have caused any such dreadful result as this. He spoke again, – 'All the more necessary will it be for you to have confidence in me, because I am going to leave you both in the care of Mrs Barclay for a couple of days. Nevill and I are going to Stratford for a day or so.' Kate was too distressed to feel incommoded. She did not blush, she did not look down. Marie only thought, 'Oh, why will he not take us? Going away for two days, and in such a mood! Oh, how shall I get from rising to lying down while he is away? My love, if my life could save you this trouble, I would give it for you with joy.' 'We leave to-morrow morning. I shall not see you between this and then. Mrs Barclay, whom I have just spoken to, promises to look after you, and'-he smiled faintly-'to see that neither of you elopes while we are away. Good-night and good-bye now.' He kissed Marie. 'Good-night and good-bye.' He kissed Kate. 'The evening of the day after to-morrow, or, at latest, the morning following, we hope to be back. Till then take great care of yourselves, take great care of one another. Our thoughts will be with you two constantly all the time we are away.' He walked slowly out of the room, nodding to them with a feeble smile, as he closed the door. 'I could not talk to her, or be near her, now. I shall never be able to talk quietly to her until this fever is past. Nevill is right. Delay is the best thing now. If I trusted myself with her I should tell her all. O God, what a hideous, abominable all! Oh thou Maker and Unmaker, help me, if Thou wilt have mercy!' When he had gone each girl stood looking into the face of the other. Gradually they both sank down on a couch. Kate put her arm round Marie's waist; Marie covered her face with her hands and shuddered.