THE WIDOW'S DWELLING.
Near a bend of the Tibiscus, on a meadow that might have refreshed the
weary eye in summer by its beautiful verdure, the Romans pitched their
tents at the close of their first day's journey in the land of the
Huns. The night was dark and gloomy; no golden sunset had cheered the
world on the departure of the light; and covering all the heavens, in
long wavy lines from the horizon to the zenith, stretched out a canopy
of heavy clouds, like waves of molten lead rolled over the sky.
Maximin, struck and pleased with Theodore, had invited him to his
tent; and there, by skilful and kindly inquiries, he won from the son
of Paulinus a sketch of all the events which had affected him
personally since the death of his father. There was much that Theodore
omitted, because he trifled not with the confidence of others; but
Maximin learned enough to show him that the youth was held by Attila
in a state of honourable, but unwilling captivity; and he resolved to
use his best efforts to redeem him from such a situation.
While they thus conversed by the dull lamplight, the pattering of some
heavy drops of rain was heard upon the tent, and, mingled with the
rushing murmur of the Tibiscus, came the low sobbing of the rising
wind. Their conversation, however, was too interesting to allow them
to give much attention to the storm without; for, besides the feelings
of sympathy which Theodore had excited in the bosom of the noble
Maximin, he had much information to communicate concerning the manners
and habits of the Huns, and the character of Attila himself; all which
the ambassador knew might prove most valuable to him at an after
period.
The rain increased while they talked; the river roared and raged; the
wind rose into fierce gusts, and the poles of the tent were seen to
quiver under the violent blasts, while the trickling drops began to
welter through the tent, and threatened to extinguish the light. At
length, after a long moaning sound, a fiercer gust than all the rest
swept the sky; the tent-poles shook, bent, gave way, tearing up the
earth into which they were driven; the cords and pegs which stretched
out the covering were broken or loosened in a moment, and the tent,
with all that it contained, was dashed with fury to the ground.
As soon as Maximin and Theodore could disentangle themselves from the
fallen mass, they found that the whole of their little encampment had
shared the same fate. All was confusion and disarray. Every light had
been extinguished: the torches, drenched with the fallen deluge, could
not be lighted. The night was as black as the jaws of Acheron; and all
that could be distinguished was a glistering line of water, every
moment approaching nearer, as the Tibiscus, filled by a thousand
mountain-torrents, began to overflow the meadow in which the Roman
tents had been pitched.
While engaged in removing, with difficulty and haste, the horses and
baggage to a more elevated situation, a number of lights were seen
coming over the nearest hill; and in a few moments forty or fifty
Huns, bearing torches of resinous pine, which neither the rain
extinguished nor the wind blew out, came down to render assistance to
the party of whose encampment in the neighbourhood they had heard
before the storm. While some remained to aid in saving the baggage
from the encroaching Tibiscus, others led Maximin, Theodore, and their
companions towards the village, which they said was not far off; and
as they went, Theodore saw several of the new-comers sporting, as an
old acquaintance, with the negro Zercon, who had returned with him.
Calling the unhappy jester to him, Theodore asked who were to be their
entertainers; and a feeling of pain, as well as interest, passed
through his bosom, when he heard that their steps were bent towards
the dwelling of Bleda's widow.
"I knew not that the village was so near the river," said Theodore,
"and yet I know the country well."
"She dwells not where she did dwell," replied Zercon. "When gall is
mingled with hydromel, we abhor the sweet drink that we used to love,
and its very sweetness makes the bitter more nauseous. Scenes that we
have loved, when associated with painful memories, like honey mixed
with gall, are more repugnant to us from the remains of sweetness. She
has never dwelt where she did dwell since her husband's death. It was
in visiting that spot, after having been hidden for many weeks, that I
was found by the soldiers of Attila, and driven on foot to Margus."
Theodore made no reply, but walked on thoughtfully by the side of
Maximin. In a few minutes they saw before them the village towards
which their steps were bent, and the porch of the widow's dwelling,
from the windows of which streamed forth many a light to guide them on
the way; and gladly the Romans approached the hospitable walls which
promised them shelter from the inclemency of the weather.
As they entered the wooden portico, the widow of Bleda, and a number
of other women, came forth to meet them, but Neva was not among the
rest. With a calm but somewhat sad demeanour, the widow welcomed
Maximin, and his companion Priscus, and Edicon, who followed next. But
when her eyes fell upon Theodore she paused for a moment, and gazed on
him with a dark and melancholy look. At length the tears burst forth
in large drops from her eyes; and, casting her arms round the young
Roman, whom in his illness she attended as her own child, she
exclaimed, "It was not your fault, my son! it was not your fault! Be
you welcome also!"
The table was already spread for a banquet in the great hall. Three
blazing fires of odorous pine were lighted to dry the garments of the
guests, and everything bespoke rapid preparations made to exercise the
kindest rites of hospitality. No sooner were their vestments dry, than
large portions of venison, and various kinds of game from the
neighbouring woods, were set before them; and while the widow stood by
to see that nothing was wanting to their comfort a fair train of
girls, followed by several slaves, came in to hand the cups of rich
and excellent wine, which flowed abundantly around. At their head
appeared Neva, the daughter of the house. She was clad in deep gray
cloth, with broad furs of sable bordering her robe. Her arms, up to
the shoulders, were bare, and the snowy whiteness of her skin, beside
those dark furs, looked like Indian ivory contrasted with ebony.
Theodore saw her enter with feelings of deep agitation, for he feared
lest she should be pained and grieved by the sight of him for whom she
had done and suffered so much. It would appear, however, that some one
had prepared her for his presence, for she looked not upon him when
first she entered, but went round with the rest, and only raised her
eyes once to his countenance ere she approached him in turn. That one
glance showed Theodore that she recognised him, but was nevertheless
quite calm; and when she approached him, and took a cup of wine from
one of the attendants to give it to him, she stood by his side, and
looking in his face with a melancholy smile, she said aloud, "How art
thou, my brother? Art thou well after thy long journey? And hast thou
seen the friends thou lovest? And are they happy?"
Theodore could have wept; there was something so sad, and yet so
resigned under her grief, in the tone of that fair young creature,
who, if ever sorrow spared a human breast, should surely have been
sheltered from the arrows of adversity. He strove against his
feelings, however, and replied calmly, thanking her for all her
kindness and all her generosity. Maximin gazed with some surprise to
see the tender interest which the family of the dead king seemed to
take in his countryman, but he made no remark aloud; and retiring soon
from the banquet, the whole party of journeyers sought repose.
Weariness made most of them sleep long; but Theodore was awake and up
by the dawning day. Sleep would not visit him in that dwelling; and
with the first gray light of the morning he left the chamber which had
been assigned him. He found Zercon the jester stretched, sleeping, on
a skin at his door; and the moment the passing of the young Roman woke
him, he started up, and ran away through some of the passages of the
house. Theodore went on into the porch and gazed out, and in a moment
after Neva was by his side.
"I bade poor Zercon watch for you, Theodore," she said, "because I
wished to ask you, ere you went, to wander for an hour once more with
Neva in the morning woods. Will you not, my brother? I have many a
question to ask you, and I cannot ask them here, where everybody may
hear them or interrupt them. Will you not come, my brother?"
"Willingly, sweet Neva," replied Theodore, still holding the hand she
had given him in his. "Let us go." And they wandered forth together
along a path which, winding in among the trees, turned at each step of
the hill, showing the woody world below under some new aspect every
moment. The wind had cleared the sky, and the day was fine; but Neva
seemed more sad than on the night before. She said but little for some
way as they wandered on, but asked him questions about his journey in
a wild, rambling way. At length, however, with a forced smile but a
trembling tone, she said, "And of course you saw your promised bride?"
"I did," said Theodore, "and I told her that I twice owed my life to
you, in sickness and in danger."
Neva, however, seemed to take but little notice of his reply.
Continuing, apparently in the same train of thought in which she had
begun, "And did you think her very beautiful?" she said--"as beautiful
as ever?"
"More so," answered Theodore, "far more so."
Neva smiled. "May you be happy!" she said; "may you be happy!
Doubtless the time since I saw you last has been a happy time to you
and her, but it has been a terrible time to me and mine. You know that
they came and slew my father, even on his couch of rest?" and she
fixed her full bright eyes upon him with a look of painful
earnestness.
Theodore saw that she waited his answer, and replied, "I heard so, for
the first time, three days ago, at Margus."
"Did you not know it before?" she cried, eagerly. "Did no one tell it
you? Did you not know that it would be so?"
"Never!" answered Theodore. "How could I guess that so fearful, so
terrible a deed was so near its accomplishment?"
"Thank God for that!" she cried; "thank God for that! That is peace
and balm indeed. But let us sit down here," she added, pausing at a
rocky bank, where a break in the woods snowed the country stretched
beneath their feet, and the Tibiscus wandering in the distance--"let
us sit down here, and talk over it all. Oh, Theodore! my heart has
been sad since I saw you. They came and slew my father in the night,
and I knelt at the feet of his terrible brother and begged for his
life in vain; and afterward they said that it was for what he had done
against you that he was slain. I feared and fancied that you had
stirred up Attila against him, and I remembered that I had set you
free, and that I--I might thus have had a share in my father's death."
She paused for a moment, terribly agitated; but, ere Theodore could
find words to comfort her, she went on rapidly: "But think not," she
said, "think not, for one moment, that, even had it been so, I would
have wished what I had done undone. I saved the innocent from the
cruel death they meditated against him. I saved the good and the
innocent, and I had naught to do with the rest. Yet it was terrible,
Theodore--oh how terrible!--to think that I had aided to spill my
father's blood, by saving him that I love;" and, leaning her head upon
his shoulder, she wept long and bitterly.
"Weep not, Neva!" said Theodore, "weep not, my sister! You did but
what was generous and noble, and that deed had no share in your
father's death. All my own followers but one or two had escaped when I
was taken, and they, not I, bore to the ears of the king the tidings
of what had happened. I did nothing to provoke him against thy father;
but, had I been slain, the wrath of Attila would have been still
greater. Weep not, dear Neva!" he continued, as her tears, having once
more burst forth, flowed on apace; "weep not!" And, holding her in his
arms, he called up every argument to console her. He held her in his
arms; he used many a tender and endearing epithet; he even pressed his
lips upon her cheek; and yet no feeling but one, pure, noble, and
generous, was in his heart at that moment. There was a being that
loved him with the most devoted affection which the human heart can
feel, clinging to him in her deep distress, weeping on his bosom,
pouring out her griefs and apprehensions to his ear; and though he
could not return her love as love, yet his heart told him that he
would be ungrateful if he felt towards her otherwise than as a
brother. The kiss that he pressed upon her cheek was not cold, because
it was kindly; and the arms which encircled her held her tenderly,
because gratefully: but it was with the embrace of fraternal
protection. Shame upon those who cannot comprehend such feelings! That
kiss and that embrace seemed but to say, "Neva, you have lost your
father, but you have yet one in the world who, if he cannot, if he
ought not to feel for you as you feel for him, will protect, will
console, will sympathize with you--nay, will love you dearly,
tenderly, though with but a brother's love."
Neva felt that it was so. She would have started from his arms with
fear had there been aught of passion in their touch; she would have
fled from him for ever had there been aught of fire on his lips; but
it was all kindly tenderness, and she laid her head upon his shoulder
to weep as she would have done upon a brother's.
After a while her tears ceased, and she looked up. "You have taken the
thorn from my heart, Theodore," she said; "I shall now sleep at
nights. My fancy had conjured up many strange things; for though I
knew you to be kind and generous, yet I knew you had been greatly
wronged, and that the poor Arab, who had watched you with me through a
long, sad sickness, had been slain by my father's commands; and I
thought that, in your anger, you might have gone back to Attila and
demanded blood for blood. Then I, by saving you, might have slain my
own father; and I was afraid to ask my own heart if I would not have
done so even if I had known how it was all to end. But you give me
peace by telling me that the end would have been the same, even had
you been slain."
"The end might have been worse, my sister," replied Theodore, "for
Attila's wrath might have known no bounds; and besides, his anger
against your father was of no new date. I heard him warn him months
before, that the cup of his indignation was full, and that another
drop would make it run over. That drop was certainly the death of the
poor Arab, Cremera, but of that Attila was aware ere I reached his
dwelling after my escape, and the vengeance he took was all unasked by
me."
"Oh, thanks be to the gods!" replied Neva, gladly, "for I have felt as
if a rock had fallen upon my heart and crushed it ever since that
thought crossed my mind. But now, Theodore, now I am happy."
"And happy, entirely happy, should I too be, dear Neva," replied
Theodore, "if I could find any way of showing to you my deep gratitude
and regard. Oh, Neva, that I could be a brother to you, and protect
you against danger and sorrow, and wipe every tear away from your
eyes!"
"And so you shall," she answered, with a smile which had still its
share of sadness; though, as soon as the bitterness of her tears was
over, she had withdrawn herself gently from the young Roman's arms,
and now sat apart. "And so you shall. You shall wed your fair bride,
and I will come and dwell near you, and see your happiness, and find
pleasure in it too, Theodore, and never be envious; and you will be
kind to me; and she will too, I am sure, for your sake. All the time
too, that you dwell among the Huns, I will watch for moments to help
and befriend you, so that I shall have a right to share in your regard
and in hers too; and then, perhaps, the end of our days may glide by
in peace. Oh, how gladly will I devote a whole life to guard and care
for you! Remember, too, your promise! Send to Neva when you need aid
or counsel. Aid, strong and powerful, she can procure you even yet;
counsel, if she cannot give it wisely, she can obtain from those who
can. And now let us return, my brother. You will be glad to know that
you have made poor Neva as happy as it is possible for her to be."
Thus saying, and with one of those blander and more beaming smiles
which Theodore had often seen upon her face, ere yet a grief had
shaded it, she turned and led the way down the hill. The world were
now all abroad; but she took her way on through the midst by the young
Roman's side, seemingly careless of all attempt to conceal an
attachment for which she felt no shame.