THE INTERVAL OF HAPPINESS.
Hitherto we have given nearly a connected narrative; but now it may
become necessary to proceed sometimes in detached scenes, leaving the
mind of the reader to fill up the obvious chain of intervening facts.
Theodore and Ildica sat alone by the banks of the lake, with their
eyes fixed upon the rippling waters that came whispering up nearly to
their feet; and they gained, without knowing it, a tone of calm
repose, in the midst of their hearts' thrilling enjoyment, from the
tranquillity of the scene around, and the bright, untroubled softness
of a fine autumn day. If, when they met on the preceding evening,
Theodore had been moved by joy, such as his heart had never known
before, Ildica's had been still more agitated, for delight had been
carried to its fullest height by surprise. Theodore had come thither
with expectation and hope as the harbingers of gratification; but to
Ildica, the joy of his coming had burst suddenly forth, like the
May-day sun when he scatters the clouds of morning from his path.
Neither, however, the youth nor the maiden had been able to pause,
and--if I may use so strange a term--_enjoy their joy_ during the
first evening after his arrival. The mind of each had been full of
whirling images of pleasure, but with forms scarcely definite. Now,
however, as they sat by the side of that calm lake, amid those
glorious mountains, with a sky clear, but not burning, above their
heads, and the fresh stillness of the early morning pervading all the
air, the solemn tranquillity of the scene sunk into their souls, and
bade their mutual thoughts flow on in peace.
The history of all external events which had befallen them had been
told, it is true, by Flavia and Theodore, and many a little trait had
been added by Eudochia, Ammian, and Ildica herself; but still she and
her lover had both a long history to tell of thoughts and feelings,
hopes and fears, of far deeper interest to each other than things that
might seem of greater importance. Ildica towards Theodore had no
thought concealed. No idle fear of lessening the value of her love by
displaying it put an unnatural bar upon the pure feelings of her
heart: not a doubt of his generous construction of all that she said
fettered her words or embarrassed the expression of her thoughts; and
she poured forth, without fear or hesitation, the tale of all she had
felt since she left him in the hands of the Huns; how she had wept,
and how she had feared; how she had daily looked for some tidings from
him, or some change in her own fate; and how she had consoled herself
with the remembrance of the extraordinary power he seemed to have
obtained over the barbarian king.
The telling of that tale, now that the dangers were over and the fears
gone by, was in itself a happiness; and, mingled with many a look of
love and accent of affection, and many a tender caress, Ildica's
narrative of all that she had felt proceeded, till, in the end, she
had to relate how, on the very preceding night, while sitting on the
little promontory with Eudochia, and her mother, and the slaves, there
had been something in the situation which--though unlike in all the
features of the landscape, though the air was colder, and the
mountains nearer, and the sky of a paler hue--recalled the lovely
Dalmatian shore to her mind; and how in the magic glass of memory had
risen up the mound of cypresses, and the bay of Salona, and the
glorious sunset, and all the objects and all the feelings of that
well-remembered evening when her lover had last returned from the city
of the emperors; and how, at those thoughts, the unbidden tears were
rising even to overflowing in her eyes, when she saw a horseman
suddenly gallop up the hill, and wild hopes and joyful presentiments
had rushed through her heart, and taken from her all power of speech
or motion, till she was once more clasped in his arms.
Theodore, too, had his tale to tell; and now, to the ear of her he
loved, it was not less full or less candid than her own had been. He
gave her a picture of all his thoughts in every situation through
which he had passed, and her own unconscious questions soon brought
the narrative towards Neva. But Theodore felt that he could trust in
Ildica, and he told her all; and, with his arm circling her waist, he
pressed her more tenderly, more closely to his bosom while he spoke of
the love of another, as if he sought thereby to express how much more
dear she had become to his heart under every change and every
circumstance.
Neither did he do the daughter of the barbarian chief the injustice of
breathing the tale of her unhappy love, without adding every pure and
noble trait which had shone out in her conduct; and Ildica, who had
listened with a beating heart but not a doubting mind, pressed her
eyes, in which were some tears, upon Theodore's bosom, saying, "Poor
girl, I am sorry for her! I wonder not at her loving you, Theodore. It
is but too natural she should; and oh, I am sure that her love for one
so much above any being that she ever saw before will last, unhappily
for herself, through all her life. She will compare every one with
you, and every one will fall short. I am sorry for her, beloved; and
yet, Theodore, yet I could not share your love with any one; I could
not part with the smallest portion of that treasure for a world. See
how selfish and miserly I have become!"
"None can ever take the slightest portion from thee, my Ildica,"
replied Theodore; "from infancy to death there shall be but one image
which shall fill my heart. But to do poor Neva justice, she seeks not
to rob my Ildica of that which is Ildica's own. She would not share in
a heart that is given to another, Ildica, even if she could; and as,
from all that has passed from her father's hatred towards me, and the
injuries he has done me, it is impossible that Neva and I should ever
meet again, I trust that she will forget feelings which were suddenly
raised, checked almost in their birth, and have no food on which to
feed and prolong their existence--I trust she will forget--"
"Never, Theodore! never!" cried Ildica; "such feelings are not to be
forgotten. She will see none like you; but, even if she did, she would
fancy none she saw your equal. The memory of having saved you from
death, too, will perpetuate her love--ay, the memory of that action,
and the memory of her love, will go down together with her to the
tomb, embalming and preserving each other."
"I trust not, my Ildica, I trust not," he replied.
"Oh, Theodore," she answered, "were I absent from you for long years,
separated from you even by impassable barriers, would you love me
less? could you forget our love?"
"No, certainly not," replied Theodore; "but our love is mutual and
full of mutual hopes. Her love is hopeless and unreturned; and I trust
she will forget it."
"Such may be the case with man," answered Ildica. "Hopeless and
unreturned, his love may, perhaps, seek another object. Woman loves
but once, and never forgets, my Theodore. My heart tells it me even
now; and though in such things I have, of course, but little skill,
yet I feel and know that time, absence, despair itself, could never
make me forget my love for thee. The time must come when remembrance
shall be extinguished in the grave, and the fine lines traced by the
diamond style of love on the tablets of the spirit may be hidden for a
while beneath the dust of the tomb; but to that cold dwelling-house
shall the unfaded recollection go down with me; and when I waken again
from the sleep of death, the memory of my love shall waken with me--I
feel--I know it will;" and, as she spoke, she raised her eyes to
heaven, while the rays of the morning light danced in their liquid
lustre, as if they, too, were of kindred with the sky.
Theodore pressed her to his heart, and long and sweet was the
communion that followed; but we cannot, we will not further dwell upon
things that those who have loved truly will understand without our
telling, and that those who have never so loved cannot comprehend at
all. Let them be sacred! those holy feelings of the pure and
high-toned heart; those sweet, ennobling emotions of the unpolluted
soul. Let them be sacred! those sensations, intense yet timid, pure
and unalloyable as the diamond, as firm, as bright, as unspotted; but
which, like a precious jewel that baser minds would ever fain take
from us, are wisely concealed by those who possess them from the gaze
of the low and the unfeeling. We seek not to display--we would not if
we could--all the finer shades, the tenderer emotions, of the love of
Theodore and Ildica. We have raised the veil enough to show how they
did love, and we will raise it no further.
The days of his stay passed in visions of happiness to Ildica and
himself, a long, dreamy lapse of exquisite delight. Beyond each other,
and the few dear beings around them, what was the world to them I The
limits of that valley were the limits of their thoughts; and, whether
they sailed on the bosom of the lake, or climbed the giant mountains
round about, or wandered through the rustling woods, or sat upon the
shore and watched the tiny billows of that miniature sea, the thoughts
of the two lovers were only of each other, though the lovely scene,
mountain, and stream, and woods, and lakes, and meadows, mingled
insensibly with their own dream of happiness, heightened the colouring
of their hopes, and, in return, received a brighter hue itself. Sweet,
oh, how sweet! were the hours, and yet how rapidly they flew; till at
length, when they rose one morning and gazed forth, a wreath of snow
was seen hanging upon the peaks of the mountains--not alone upon those
higher summits, on whose everlasting ice the summer sun shone vainly
through his longest, brightest hours, but on those lower hills which
the day before had risen up in the brown veil of the autumnal forest,
or the green covering of grass, or the gray nakedness of the native
stone. It was the signal for Theodore to depart; and then came the
hours, ere he set out, of melancholy and of gloom.
Those hours, however, were broken by many a long and anxious
consultation. The offered hospitality and protection of Valentinian
had yet to be considered, for it was a proposal which, if even not
accepted at once, both Theodore and Flavia judged might prove of great
utility at an after period. No one could tell either what changes
might take place in the positions of the barbarian nations, or what
might be the final result of the victories and successes of Attila
himself. Where he might next turn his arms was a question which none
even of his own court could solve; and while it was evident to all
that a victorious and devastating excursion against the Eastern empire
was by no means the ulterior purpose of his powerful and ambitious
mind, yet no one could divine what was the end proposed, or whither
the pursuit might lead. Under these circumstances, to have a place of
refuge open against the storm of war was always a blessing; and
Theodore strongly counselled Flavia to despatch messengers to the
emperor, charged with thanks, and such presents as circumstances
permitted her to send; not exactly accepting the offer of asylum he
had made, but expressing a purpose of taking advantage thereof at no
very distant period.
"Were you to go thither even next year," Theodore observed, while
speaking on the subject with Flavia alone, "Ammian would be some
protection to you all; for I remark that his bold spirit and his
mountain sports are every day giving greater vigour to his limbs, and
his frame is towering up towards manhood. A year will do much in such
pastimes as these, while the free and wild simplicity of the barbarian
habits will secure him against the weak and effeminate manners of
Rome; and, at the same time, it were but right and necessary that both
he and Eudochia should receive that civilized education which can be
obtained nowhere but in the empire."
"Alas! my son," replied Flavia, "I fear that it will be long ere
Ammian can give us that protection which thou mightst do; for, though
courageous to a fault, and resolute, yet there is a wild and heedless
spirit in his breast which often prevents his nobler qualities from
acting as they might. His heart is kind and generous, his mind upright
and noble; but in the exuberance of his youthful daring, and the
wanderings of a wild imagination, he forgets too often, Theodore, that
there is such a thing as danger to himself or others. He wants
prudence, he wants consideration, he wants that calm presence of mind
which sees under all circumstances that which is best to do, and is
ever ready to do it."
"But, my mother, he is yet but a boy," replied Theodore: "time will
give prudence, experience will give judgment, and age will tame
quickly the wildest and most wandering fancy. At all events, I only
desire that you should have a refuge prepared. Doubtless--both because
this mighty barbarian does really, I believe, regard me with
affection, and because he has been taught to imagine that there is
some mysterious connexion between his fate and mine--doubtless, I say,
he will allow me from time to lime to renew the visit he has now
permitted; at all events, I will find means to send, both to give you
my tidings and to gain news from you. If there be danger, I will let
you know, and be ready ever, upon but a short warning, to fly to the
court of Valentinian. As I go hence, I shall visit the capital of the
Alani by the banks of the Inn; for the kindred that I have among them
might think it strange and wrong were I to pass through the land
without seeing them; and, when there, of course I will do all I can to
ensure that the refuge which you have here received shall be as safe,
as peaceful, and as happy as it can be made. There is much in the ties
of blood, even between a Roman and barbarian, and I think that my
requests will find favour among the Alani."
Theodore would fain have lingered and protracted the hours; for
although he knew that he soon must go, and the thought of parting
sadly imbittered even the present, yet around Ildica there was to him
an atmosphere of light and happiness, which banished all that was dark
and gloomy from his heart. But he had made a promise to Attila, and
with Theodore a promise was inviolable. Ildica, too, would fain have
detained him, would have fain drank slowly out the last sweet drops of
the cup of happiness which had been offered to her lip: they were but
the dregs, it is true, and bitter was mixed with them, but yet the
taste of joy remained; and if she could not have it pure and
unalloyed, she yet lingered over the last portion, however sadly
mingled. But Theodore had given a promise; and Theodore's unstained
integrity and unvarying truth were as dear to Ildica as to
himself--were dearer, far dearer, than any personal enjoyment. She
would not have him forfeit his word to Attila, in order to remain with
her, for all that the world could give; and she herself bade him go
whenever she learned that he had barely time to accomplish his journey
by the path that it was necessary for him to follow. They parted--not
now, however, as when last they parted; for then before them had
stretched out nothing but one vague and indefinite expanse--the gray
cloud of the future! on which even the eye of fancy could scarcely
trace one likely form, through which the star of hope shone faint and
powerless. Now, after all those fearful scenes and that dreadful
separation--scenes and circumstances which had benumbed their
feelings, and, like some crashing wound, which by its very severity
deprives the sufferer of his sense of pain, had left them bewildered
and almost unconscious, till time had shown them the deprivation they
had undergone. Now they had met again; hopes that they had scarcely
dared to entertain had been realized ere the heart grew weary with
delay. They had known a longer and more tranquil period of happiness
than they had ever tasted since first the mutual love of their young
hearts had been spoken to each other; and hope, the sweet sophist,
skilful in turning to her purpose all things that befall, drew
arguments from past joy in order to prove her promises for the future
true.
They parted then: Ildica declared that she wished him to go, and
Theodore strengthened himself in the remembrance of his promise. Yet,
nevertheless, let no one think that their parting was not bitter:
Theodore struggled even against a sigh; and over the cheeks of Ildica
rolled no tear, though on the dark long lashes that fringed her
eyelids would sparkle like a crushed diamond the irrepressible dew of
grief. Yet, nevertheless, let no one think the parting is ever less
than bitter, when, even in the brightest day of youth, two hearts
united by the great master bond which God assigned to man to bind him
in the grievous pilgrimage of life to one chosen from all his kind,
are separated from one another for long indefinite hours, with
loneliness of feeling and the dim uncertainty of human fate hanging
over them like a dark cloud. Who shall say, when thus they part, that
they shall ever meet again? Who shall say with what dark barrier the
mighty hand of destiny may not close the way? whether death, or
misfortune, or interminable difficulty may not cut short hope or weary
out the spirit in the bondage of circumstance, till expectation is
vain of reunion on this side the tomb?
They parted firmly: but such partings are ever bitter; and when
Theodore was gone, Ildica wept for long hours in silence; while he, as
he rode on, beheld nothing of all that surrounded him; for the soul
was then in the secret chamber of the heart, communing sternly with
her own grief.
END OF VOL. I.
End of Project Gutenberg's Attila., by G. P. R. James (George Payne Rainsford)