Up at the great house the carriage had been drawn out, and the coachman
was busy putting to the horses.
"This is something quite new," said he to the footman who had brought
him the order to make ready. "The master and mistress are going to
drive out together. A red cross should be set against the day in the
calendar."
The man laughed. "Yes, they won't find much pleasure in it; but you see
they can't help themselves. The return visits have to be made in the
town to all the great folk who were here at the dinner, and it would
not do exactly for them to drive in separately, or, no doubt, that is
what they would have done."
"A queer couple," said the coachman shaking his head. "And they call
that being married! The Lord preserve a man from such wedded bliss as
that!"
A quarter of an hour later the carriage containing Arthur Berkow and
his wife was rolling along the road which led to the town.
The weather had been tolerable enough during the morning, but had now
changed for the worse. The sky was lowering and overcast; the wind,
which had risen almost to a hurricane, drove the grey clouds before it,
and every now and then a heavy shower fell from them on to the already
over-saturated earth. It was, in truth, a rough and stormy spring, of a
sort thoroughly to disgust those accustomed to a town-life with a
sojourn in the country.
Although the month of May had come, the bare leafless trees in the park
showed hardly any symptoms of sprouting forth. The piercing wind and
cold rains had destroyed all the flowers, to the distraction of the
head-gardener who had been at so much pains to train them to perfection
in the beds and on the terraces, and every bud was mercilessly nipped
and blighted so soon as it showed itself. The impracticable roads and
drenched forests made all excursions, possible only in a close
carriage, as unpleasant as they were objectless.
Day after day nothing but storms and heavy rain; a grey cloudy sky,
mountains veiled in mist, through which, ever and anon, a pale ray of
sunshine would struggle faintly; and with all this a joyless, desolate
home, where the mists gradually sank deeper and deeper, so that there,
at least, no sunshine could penetrate, where every blossom, possibly
ready to unfold, was frozen by the icy breath of bitterness and hatred.
In this home two people endured, as a kind of martyrdom from which each
strove to escape as much as possible, that undisturbed seclusion which
is looked on by most newly-married couples as the height of bliss.
Surely this was enough to account for the bride's pale face and for
that expression of pain about her mouth which no amount of self-control
could obliterate; to account also for the melancholy look with which
she gazed out at the landscape.
She had given her strength credit for more than it could bear. The
sacrifice had been promptly made in the flush of courage and of filial
love, but the days and hours succeeding the sacrifice, the passive
endurance of her chosen lot, called now, for the first time, all her
moral courage, all her power of will, into action, and however much
Eugenie might possess of both, it was yet plainly to be seen that this
after-time was very bitter to her.
Her husband, leaning back in the opposite corner as far off as
possible, so that the folds of her dress hardly touched his cloak, did
not seem to carry the burden of his happiness much more lightly. His
face had, it is true, always been as pale, his eyes as expressive of
fatigue, his bearing as languid as now, but there were lines in his
countenance which had not been there before--dark, bitter lines,
stamped on it by the events of the last few weeks, and which no amount
of the coolest indifference would ever again efface.
He too looked out silently through the window, and made no more attempt
than Eugenie to renew the conversation. They had met for the first time
that day when about to set out on this journey, and some formal little
speeches had been exchanged about the weather, the drive and the object
for which it was being made; then they had relapsed into an icy silence
which was to last, apparently, until they reached the town.
The expedition, conducted in this fashion, was not very agreeable;
though in the comfortable close carriage nothing was felt of the
inclement weather without, yet even the softest cushions could not
prevent their feeling some inconvenience from the bad state of the
roads, and the heavy barouche could only advance slowly, though drawn
by fine and powerful horses.
They had accomplished nearly half the distance when a sudden jerk, more
violent then any preceding, nearly threw the carriage over on its side.
The coachman swore and stopped the horses. He and the footman both
dismounted from the box, and then a lively discussion went on between
them out in the road.
"What is the matter?" asked Eugenie, leaning forward uneasily.
Arthur, for his part, did not seem much to care what was the matter. He
would no doubt have quietly waited until some announcement on the
subject had been made to him, but he felt himself called on now to let
down the window and to repeat his wife's question.
"Don't be alarmed, sir," said the coachman, stepping up to the door
with the reins in his hand. "We have had a very lucky escape, we
were within a hair of upsetting. Something must have snapped in the
hind-wheel. Frank has gone to see what it is."
The report, which Frank brought back after due examination, was not
precisely of a consoling nature. The wheel was so much injured that it
was clearly impossible to move the carriage on even a hundred paces in
that state. Both the men looked at their master helplessly.
"I am afraid, under these circumstances, we must give up the intended
visits," said Arthur coolly, turning to his wife. "By the time Frank
has gone back to the house and brought us back another carriage it will
be too late to drive as far as the town."
"I am afraid so too. There is nothing to be done then but to get out
and turn back."
"Get out?" said Arthur in amazement "Do you think of going back on
foot?"
"Do you think of sitting in this carriage until Frank has returned with
another?"
Arthur appeared to have entertained the idea; he would probably have
preferred to wait two hours, stretched in his comfortable corner where
he was sheltered from wind and weather, than to undertake a pedestrian
tour through the cold wet woods. Eugenie noticed this, and her lips
curled disdainfully.
"As for me, I prefer going back on foot to waiting in that wearisome
useless manner. Frank will go with me, he must return any way. You will
no doubt remain in the carriage. I would not take upon myself the
responsibility of giving you cold for the world."
That which the misadventure had not had power to do, was effected by
the overt irony of these words. Arthur was roused out of his corner. He
got up, pushed open the door, and next minute was standing on the step,
offering his hand to help her alight. Eugenie hesitated.
"I beg of you, Arthur" ...
"I beg of you not to make a scene before the servants and to show them
that you prefer the footman's escort to mine. Allow me."
She gave an imperceptible little shrug; there was no choice for her,
however, but to accept the proffered hand; the coachman and Frank were,
in truth, standing close by. She got out, and Arthur turned to the two
men.
"I will see your mistress home. You must contrive to get the empty
carriage to some farm where it can stay for the present, and follow us
as quickly as possible with the horses."
The men took off their hats and prepared to carry out the instructions
they had received. Under the circumstances it was really the only thing
to be done. With a slight gesture Eugenie declined her husband's
offered arm.
"I think we can hardly walk here as on a promenade," said she, evading
it. "We must each look to ourselves and make our own way as best we
can."
She attempted this indeed, but only to sink at the very first step into
the soft slippery mud; taking refuge on the other side of the road, she
found herself suddenly in water an inch deep which splashed under her
feet. She stood still in it helpless. The road had not looked so bad to
her from the carriage.
"Here, at any rate, we shall never get on," said Arthur, who had tried
a like experiment with the like result. "We must go back through the
woods."
"Without knowing our way? we should lose ourselves."
"Hardly that. I remember when I was a child there used to be a path
which led right through the wood, over the heights and down into the
valley. We must try and find it."
Eugenie still lingered, but the evidently impracticable state of the
main road, half flooded and full of ruts, left her no alternative. She
followed her husband who had already turned off to the left, and a few
minutes later they were in the midst of the dusky green and thickly
planted pine trees.
Now at least it was possible to advance over the roots and moss-covered
ground, nay, it would even have been easy to feet trained to such
exercise. To a lady and gentleman accustomed to the smooth floor of a
drawing-room, having carriages and riding horses at their disposal for
every excursion, and whose pedestrian feats were limited to a turn
round the park when the weather proved unusually fine, this path
offered difficulties enough--and then the foggy tempestuous weather to
boot! It had left off raining certainly, but everything about them was
dripping wet, and the clouds threatened a fresh shower at any moment.
Several miles from home, in the midst of the woods, straying like a
pair of adventurers trusting to chance, without conveyance or servants,
without the smallest protection from wind or rain, Herr Arthur Berkow
and his high-born wife were in a situation so extraordinary as to seem
almost desperate.
But the lady had already accepted the inevitable with characteristic
resolution. The first ten steps had shown her how impossible it would
be to save her light silk dress and white bernous, so she abandoned
them to the mercy of the wet moss and dripping trees, and walked
bravely on. Her attire was ill-suited to such wanderings on foot, and
utterly incapable of affording her any protection from the inclemency
of the weather. She wrapped herself more closely in the thin cashmere,
and shivered in spite of herself as the cold wind met her.
Her husband noticed this and stopped. Although they had started in a
close carriage, he had, in his effeminate way, thrown a cloak round him
which covered him completely. He took it off in silence, and would have
put it round his wife's shoulders, but she moved aside with prompt
decision.
"Thank you, I do not want it."
"But you are chilly."
"Not at all. I am not so sensitive to the weather as you are."
Without saying another word Arthur took the cloak back, but instead of
folding it about him again, he threw it negligently on one arm and
walked on at her side, clad only in his light dress suit. Eugenie
struggled against a feeling of rising anger. She hardly knew herself
why this conduct vexed her so much, but she would far rather have seen
him wrap himself carefully in the despised cloak and so take care of
his precious health, than witness this reckless exposure of himself to
wind and weather. It was for her, and her alone, to show a quiet,
well-considered acquiescence in the decrees of Fate.
It was incomprehensible to her that her husband should for once lay
claim to the same right, that he, who had been alarmed at the very idea
of this journey home on foot, should appear now hardly to feel its
inconveniences, while she was already more than half repenting of her
resolve. A gust of wind tore his hat off and blew it down a steep bank
where it could not possibly be reached. Arthur looked calmly after the
fugitive and tossed his long brown hair back with an almost defiant
movement. His feet sank deep into the wet moss at every step, and yet
his gait had never seemed to Eugenie so firm, so elastic, as now. As
they advanced into the forest, his languid air gradually vanished,
his eyes brightened as they glanced sharply round in quest of the
wished-for path. The dark damp woods seemed to have a re-animating
power over him, in such deep draughts did he drink in the bracing
pine-scented air, so briskly did he lead his wife along under the
whispering trees. All at once he stopped and cried triumphantly,
"There, that is the way!"
Before them there was indeed a narrow footpath which ran straight
through the forest, and, at some distance farther on, seemed to decline
gently. Eugenie looked at it in surprise. She had not believed that her
husband would prove a sure guide, and had quite made up her mind to
losing their way completely.
"You seem very familiar with the country," said she, as she entered the
path at his side.
He smiled, but the smile was less for her than for the place he found
himself in; he looked round, scanning it on all sides with interest.
"I have not forgotten my old friends the woods yet, though it is long,
very long, since we have seen each other."
Eugenie raised her head in astonishment. She had never heard such a
tone in his voice; there was deep strongly-repressed feeling in it.
"Are you so fond of the woods?" she asked, involuntarily keeping up a
conversation which would probably else have lapsed into the usual
silence. "Why have you passed a whole month then without once setting
foot in them?"
Arthur did not answer. He was gazing dreamily down at the green depths
shrouded in mist.
"Why?" said he at last, sadly. "I don't know. Perhaps because I was too
lazy. One loses everything in that city of yours, even one's taste for
solitude in the woods."
"In that city of mine? I thought you were brought up there as well as
I."
"Certainly, but with this difference, that my life ended when my
so-called bringing up began. All that was really worth living for I
left behind me when I entered those walls, for the joyous sunny years
of my early boyhood were the only ones worth having."
He spoke in a tone half bitter, half resentful. But in Eugenie's mind
the old angry feeling blazed up hotly again. How dared he speak as if
he had ever had anything to give up? What did he know of sacrifice, of
renunciation? For her, indeed, childhood and happiness might truly be
said to have come to an end together. As her father's confidant, early
initiated into all the family affairs, she had made acquaintance on her
first entrance into life with that graduated scale of care,
humiliation, and despair, with that bitter school of sorrow, which had
steeled her character, but had also robbed her of all the joys of
youth. How different had been her husband's position, how different all
his past life! And yet he spoke as if he had known unhappiness!
Arthur seemed to read these thoughts in her face, as he turned to hold
back a drooping branch which would have brushed against her.
"You think I, of all people, have no right to complain? It may be so.
At any rate I have always been told that my existence is a most
enviable one. But I assure you a life like mine is sometimes
desperately void and wretched. When fortune heaps all her gifts before
a man, he just treads them under foot, because he does not know what
use to make of them. The life is so empty and miserable that one would
gladly escape in the end from this gilded felicity they vaunt so
loudly, and rush out of it anywhere--anywhere, even into the midst of
storm and tempest!"
Eugenie's dark eyes were fixed in speechless astonishment on his face.
He flushed suddenly, remembering perhaps that he had been guilty of an
unpardonable mistake; he had betrayed some feeling in his wife's
presence. The young man frowned and cast a reproachful angry glance at
the forest which had thus led him astray. Next minute he resumed his
old indifferent manner.
"Just now we have more storm and tempest than we care about," said he
negligently, going on in front so as completely to turn his back on
her. "It is blowing a gale up there on the hills. We shall have to wait
until the worst is over; we cannot go down at present."
And truly the storm met them with such force, as they issued from the
wood, that they had some trouble to keep their footing. It was plainly
out of the question to go on now, for at this spot the road grew steep
and led straight down into the valley; they would have been in danger
of being caught up by the wind and hurled bodily into the depths below.
There was therefore nothing for it but to wait here under the shelter
of the trees until the hurricane should subside.
They stood under a mighty pine-tree which reared itself high aloft on
the very verge of the forest. The storm roared and rustled in its great
green arms, as it stretched them protectingly over its younger and
weaker fellows, and swayed them groaning up and down every now and then
in spite of their strength, but the giant, whitish-grey trunk, offered
shelter and support to Eugenie, who stood leaning against it. Two
persons might have found room there in case of need, but they would
have been placed in the closest proximity to each other, and it was
this consideration, no doubt, which induced Arthur to remain standing
some paces off. He was but very imperfectly sheltered, and the
raindrops, accumulated on the branches from the last shower, poured
down plentifully upon him as the wind moved them to and fro; his hair
was blown about and the drops chased each other over his uncovered
brow, still he made no attempt to change his place.
"Would you ... would you not rather come here?" asked Eugenie,
hesitating and squeezing herself to one side, so as to make room for
him on the only dry spot.
"Thank you. I do not wish to inconvenience you."
"Put the cloak on then, at least." This time it sounded almost like an
entreaty. "You will be quite wet through."
"Certainly not. I am not so sensitive to the weather as you imagine."
She bit her lips. It is not pleasant to be fought with one's own
weapons, but far more than this it angered her to see him expose
himself thus to wind and weather, just for the sole purpose of teaching
her a lesson. True, this sort of defiance seemed to her supremely
absurd; she did not really suffer by his persistency, and she did not
very much care if he caught cold or fell ill through it or not. Still
it irritated her that he should stand there calmly and keep his place
in spite of the storm, with an effort, perhaps, but still keep it,
while, but half an hour before, he had been lying, sleepy and
shivering, in the cushions of the comfortable carriage and appearing
painfully affected by every breath of air which found its way through
the windows. Were storm and tempest really needed that he might prove
to her he was not quite the weakling she had hitherto considered him to
be?
Arthur hardly looked just now as if he had the intention of proving
anything to her. He stood with folded arms, gazing at the chain of
wooded hills, a commanding view of which was to be had from this
eminence. As his eyes turned slowly from one summit to another, Eugenie
suddenly made the startling discovery that they were very handsome. It
was a great surprise to her; up to this time she had only known that
the half-closed lids veiled two sleepy, tired-looking orbs which she
had not troubled herself to examine more narrowly. When, by any chance,
he raised them, he did it slowly, in a lazy fashion, as if it cost him
an effort which he felt would be ill repaid, and yet this look of his
was well worthy of notice. To judge by the expression of his face, one
would have expected the usually drooping lashes to cover eyes of a cold
pale blue, but instead of this they proved to be brown, clear and deep,
though lacking animation, and it seemed as if they might yet light up
with energy and passion, as if in their depths a whole world lay perdu,
long forgotten and sunk out of sight, yet awaiting only the magic word
which should break the spell and call it up afresh to life and action.
Once more there flashed into the young wife's mind the thought which
had crossed it when, at their entrance into the woods, he had turned
from her so suddenly, the suspicion of all the havoc made, of the great
wrong done, by the education his father had given him, a wrong too
great to be justified or ever to be redressed.
They stood together alone up there upon the hill. The forest lay before
them with its veil of mist, closely wreathed in the grey shadows which
clung to the sombre firs, waved from their crests in long gauzy
stripes, floated ghost-like over the earth. And over the hills yonder
the same misty veil hovered and fluttered, now torn asunder, now
rushing together in one compact mass, clothing alike the hill-tops and
steaming valleys. One continual surging and swelling, ebbing and
flowing; mountains and woods seeming, at one time, to open forth their
innermost depths, then again to close, withdrawing themselves from
every mortal eye.
All around the storm howled and raged, tearing through the great
secular pines as through a cornfield. The mighty trunks groaned as they
swayed up and down, and bent their lofty crests murmuring before the
wind, whilst overhead chased in disordered flight the great, seething
formless masses of grey cloud. Such a storm as can only burst forth in
the heart of the mountains--yet in all its uproar, it brought a message
of spring. She came riding on its rustling wings, not sunnily smiling
as on the plains below, but in rough wild humour. It was her breath
which swelled the hurricane, her cry which resounded through all the
clamour.
In these great disturbances of Nature may be traced a promise of the
glowing sunshine and scent of flowers, so soon to be spread through the
earth, a prevision of all those creative forces at work, struggling to
bring their thousand germs forth to the light of day. And they heard
her cry and answered her, those murmuring forests, those precipitous
brooks and vaporous valleys. In all this commotion and fury and foam,
there was yet Nature's shout of gladness as she threw off the last
chains of winter, her hail of rejoicing as she greeted the coming
deliverer. The spring is at hand!
There is something mysterious in such an hour. The legends of those
mountain parts allot to it a peculiar romantic charm. They tell how the
spirit of the hills travels through his kingdom at such times, and uses
his power for a blessing or a curse to the lives of all tarrying within
his dominions. "To meet then is to cleave together, to part then is to
part for all eternity." For those two standing on the height together,
there was indeed no question of such meeting. They were bound by the
closest tie which can unite two human beings, and yet they were as far
apart, as strange one to the other, as though worlds lay between them.
The silence had lasted some time. Eugenie broke it first.
"Arthur."
He started as from a dream and turned to her.
"Yes?"
"It is so cold up here--Will you not .... lend me your cloak now?"
Again the bright flush rose to the young man's face, as he looked at
her in speechless astonishment. He knew she was so proud, she would
rather have been frozen by the icy wind than condescend to beg for the
once despised covering; yet she did so now in the hesitating tone, and
with the downcast eyes, of one confessing a fault.
In a minute he was at her side, and holding out the cloak to her. She
allowed him to put it round her shoulders in silence, but when he was
about to return to his former post, he met a glance of dumb yet earnest
reproach. Arthur still hesitated for one second, but had she not almost
asked for forgiveness? He, too, allowed himself to be disarmed, and
remained standing by her.
A great rampart of fog had risen out of the valley and closed in round
them, fastening them to the spot. Mountains and woods disappeared in
the grey vapour. Only the mighty pines towered high above it, and
looked gravely down on the two human beings who had come to them for
protection and a refuge. Overhead the dark branches rustled and
whispered noisily as with a thousand mysterious voices, and ever and
anon struck in the fuller-toned chords of the forest. It became
painfully oppressive up here in the midst of this fog, beneath all this
eerie fluttering and stir.
Eugenie started up all at once, as if she must extricate herself from
some danger, from some toils which held her enchained.
"The fog gets thicker and thicker," said she anxiously; "and the
weather more dreadful than ever. Do you think there would be any danger
for us on the road?"
Arthur looked at the swelling masses of vapour, and stroked the drops
from his damp hair.
"I am not well enough acquainted with our mountains to know how far
their storms may be dangerous. If it were the case, would you be
afraid?"
"I am not fearful, but one always hesitates when it is a question of
life."
"Always? I should have thought our life, the life we have led for the
last month, was not of a nature to make any one afraid of risking it.
You especially have cause to feel this."
She looked down.
"So far as I know, I have annoyed you by no complaints."
"Oh, no. Nothing like a complaint has escaped your lips. If you could
only force some colour into your cheeks as easily! You would do it, I
know, if you could, but there even your power of will fails. Do you
think it can afford me any great pleasure to see that my wife is
drooping away at my side, and that just because a hard fate has driven
her there?"
This time the hot glow mounted to Eugenie's face; it was not called up
by the reproach contained in his words, but by the strange expression
he had used towards her for the first time.
"My wife" he had said. Yes, she had certainly been married to him, but
it had never yet occurred to her that he could have the right to call
her "his wife."
"Why do you touch upon this subject again?" asked she, turning away. "I
hoped after that one necessary explanation it would be done with for
ever."
"Because you seem to be in error and to fancy that I shall hold you all
your life long in chains which, truly, are as oppressive to me as they
ever were to you."
His tone was cold in the extreme, but Eugenie looked quickly up at him.
She could read nothing in his countenance, however. Why were those eyes
instantly veiled whenever she attempted to search their meaning? Was it
that they would not submit to be questioned, or that they feared to
betray themselves?
"You allude to--to a separation?"
"Do you imagine I could look upon the union between us as lasting after
the expression of--of esteem, which I was forced to hear from your
mouth on that first evening?"
Eugenie was silent.
Over their heads the pine-branches rustled and waved hither and thither
once more. The voice of the forest, exhorting, remonstrating, was
wafted down to this wedded pair about to utter the word which should
separate them, but neither he nor she would understand the meaning.
"We are neither of us free enough to lay all considerations on one
side," continued Arthur, in the same tone. "Your father and mine are
both too well known, each in his own sphere, our marriage attracted too
much attention for us to be able to dissolve it immediately, without
affording inexhaustible matter for gossip to the whole town, and making
ourselves ridiculous as the hero and heroine of a hundred stories.
People do not separate after four-and-twenty hours, or even after a
week, without some appreciable cause; for appearances' sake they bear
with one another for a year or so, in order to declare, with some show
of likelihood, that there is incompatibility of temper. I had hoped we
could have borne to live so long together, but it seems that our
strength is not equal to the task. If we go on in this way, we shall
both of us succumb."
The arm which Eugenie had wound round the trunk of the great tree
trembled slightly, but her voice was steady as she answered.
"I do not succumb so easily when I have once taken a task upon me; and,
as for you, I really did not think you were in the least affected by
our painful position."
In his brown eyes there flashed once more that rapid lightning-like
gleam which vanished as quickly, leaving no trace behind it. His look
was quiet and expressionless as before, when he replied after a short
pause.
"You really think so? Well, it does not signify whether I am affected
by it or not. I should not have touched upon the subject, if I had not
seen the necessity of reassuring you by a promise that our marriage
should be dissolved as soon as circumstances permit. Perhaps now I
shall not see you look so white as you have done for the last few days,
and perhaps you will believe now what you have, so far, looked upon as
a lie, namely, that I had no knowledge of the machinations by which
your hand was obtained for me, but imagined that it was given
voluntarily and of your own free will.
"I believe you, Arthur," said she in a low voice. "I do believe you
now."
Arthur received this first mark of his wife's confidence with a smile
of exceeding bitterness. It came to him at the very moment he was
giving her up.
"The fog begins to clear," said he, changing the subject, "and the
storm seems to abate too for a few minutes. We must take advantage of
it to get down. In the valley below we shall be protected, and shall
soon reach the farm, where, I hope, they will be able to lend us a
carriage. Will you follow me?"
The way was steep and slippery, but Arthur seemed wishful to-day of
giving his whole nature the lie. He walked down the hill with a firm
sure tread, while Eugenie, with her thin boots and long dress, impeded
still further by the cloak, could hardly advance. He saw that he must
come to her assistance, but on such a road he could not simply offer
her his arm. He must, of necessity put it well round her if his help
were to be of any avail, and that ... that would hardly do!
The husband hesitated to render his wife a service which he would have
done to any stranger; and that which a stranger, under the
circumstances, would have at once accepted, the wife felt averse to
receiving from her husband.
After some moments of indecision he did finally place his arm round her
waist. She quivered a little at his touch, but neither of them spoke
while making the descent, which lasted about ten minutes. At every step
they took downwards Eugenie's face grew whiter. It appeared to be
intolerable to her that his arm should thus support her, that she
should be forced to lean on his shoulder, so near him that she could
feel his breath on her face. Yet he did what he could to spare her. He
never glanced at her once. All his attention seemed directed to the
road, which, certainly, was of a nature to make care and prudence
needful to prevent their both sliding down it unawares. But, quiet as
he seemed, there was that same treacherous little twitch about the
young man's lips, and, when at last they reached the valley below, he
released his wife from his arms with a long, deep-drawn breath, which
showed he had been anything but calm during their strange little
journey.
Already the farm-buildings were visible glinting through the trees, and
they hastened down the path which led to them, as though feeling that
on no account must they remain longer alone together. Overhead the
storm raged afresh, and high up on the hill the fog thickened again
round the stout old pine which had spread its branches protectingly
over these two, and given them shelter in the hour of which the old
legends say:
"To meet then is to cleave together, to part then is to part for all
eternity."