THE MARRIAGE AND THE DEATH.
Trent was still in the possession of the Huns--though the main body of
their innumerable host had passed on--when, on the third day after the
departure of Theodore, two young and beautiful beings stood before the
altar of the high church of that venerable city, in youth's brightest
day to pass youth's brightest hour. There is certainly, in that
peculiar moment of happiness in which the young heart of woman plights
its full faith to the man she loves, a beautifying influence, which
gives to features not otherwise remarkable a loveliness of expression
that they possess not at other times. It is the beaming forth of the
sweet chastened joy of fulfilled hope and gratified love: it is the
picture presented by the speaking face of many of those beautiful
feelings whereof external loveliness is but the type and symbol. Joy,
timid modesty, pure affection, bright hope, unshaken faith, the
fruition of long-nourished wishes, the fulfilment of the brightest
expectation of a woman's heart--all, all are there when she kneels
before the altar with the man she loves, to bind that solemn tie which
nothing but the grave should break.
There knelt Eudochia by the side of Ammian; and though a slight shade
of sympathizing melancholy stole across the sunshine of her face when
she turned her eyes on Ildica, yet her look was as bright as hope and
happiness could make it, and in the serious but still enthusiastic
countenance of her young lover might be read, in its very gravity, a
deeper happiness than ever his lighter smiles betrayed.
Ildica, poor Ildica, had twined the flowers in the fair bride's hair;
and though a tear had fallen upon them, spangling their sweet leaves
like a drop of morning dew, yet she had struggled hard to banish every
selfish regret, and share to the full in the joy of those dear beings
whose union, and, as she trusted, whose happiness that day was to
secure.
Beside Ildica stood her mother; but oh! what a sad change had the
passing of less than five years wrought in the fair form of Flavia,
since first we saw her on the bright shores of the Adriatic. She had
known grief, deep grief before that period; she had tasted
disappointment, and undergone misfortune of many kinds: but there is a
time of life when the springs of health and sources of enjoyment flow
up so full and bounteously, that the most scorching heat cannot dry
them up; when the earthquake itself cannot overwhelm them; when still
they flow on, under the fiercest sun of summer, and are but choked up
in one place to burst forth and sparkle in another. But there comes an
after period, when, choked up and nearly obliterated by the sands of
time, the fire of lesser misfortunes will exhaust them quite, and
leave the empty fountain, the dried-up spring, without a drop of water
to moisten the lip of hope. So had it been with Flavia: the
misfortunes of her early years, the loss of her loved husband, the
tyranny of a capricious and greedy monarch, an anxious widowhood,
watching over her orphan children, had rendered the stream of life
calm and dull, but had not diminished its waters nor seemed likely to
shorten its course. But when a later epoch of existence had come on,
and fresh sorrows, labours, anxieties, and cares had fallen fast about
her, the very hopes she had nourished, and the placid joys which had
rendered life verdant, faded by the wintry blast of late
disappointment, like the withered leaves of winter trees above a
fountain, had dropped fast and thick, and filled up the very well of
life itself. Her step was feeble; her once bright eye was dim; and
though the graceful line of that fair form remained, though the black
hair was little more silvery than before, and the white teeth had lost
none of their ivory purity, yet the pallour of her countenance, the
bloodless lip, the languid, drooping eyelid, and the quick, difficult
respiration, all spoke that "the body was broken by its cares and
labours," and the spirit, weary of its ruined tenement, was hesitating
whether it should not fly for repose.
She gazed, however, with a bright and cheering smile upon Ammian and
Eudochia, as they knelt to pledge that sacred vow which she, too,
hoped and believed would secure for them as much happiness as this
world could bestow. She herself felt within her bosom rise up at the
sight the memory of bright hopes and aspirations passed away, and the
spring of life for the moment flowed more freely. They, as they looked
upon her, saw a happy change, and gladdened their own hearts by the
thought that her health was better, and looked forward to the future
with hopes for her as well as for themselves.
Others, however, were present in the church; and Attila himself, with
arms folded on his bosom, stood not inattentive to the words which a
Christian priest addressed to the fair young beings met together there
to be parted no more. That priest was a venerable and a fearless man;
and after his blessing had been spoken, and the indissoluble contract
sealed, he poured forth an exhortation to maintain and hold fast the
purer faith in which they had been educated, touching boldly on the
doctrines of his holy religion as conrasted with the pagan
superstition of many who heard him, and appealing to the consciences
of all men to decide whether sublime purity of soul and body were not
the doctrines which God might teach and men revere.
Attila listened in silence, though many of the barbarian chieftains
around frowned angrily to hear their ancient faith assailed from the
lips of one of a people whom they looked upon as conquered and trodden
upon under foot. Attila, however, listened, as we have said, in
silence; and only twice during all that ceremony did he take his eyes
from the priest, to turn them for a moment upon the lovely countenance
of Ildica, and glance over that unrivalled form which might well have
made the sculptor blush at his imperfect works. They were withdrawn as
quickly as turned thither, and he fixed them on the priest again, and
listened to his glowing eloquence as one who could admire, though
unconvinced.
The ceremony was over, the prayer prayed, the exhortation made. The
feet of Ammian's horse was heard without pawing impatiently the
ground; the litter which was to bear Eudochia into Thrace was
prepared; the slaves who were to accompany her, and the guards which
Attila had directed to conduct them in safety to the frontiers of the
Eastern empire, stood ready before the gate. But when the bridegroom
and the bride rose up from the altar, without turning to bid their
mother farewell, they advanced hand in hand to Attila, and knelt
together at his feet.
"Oh, great king!" said Ammian, "thou hast made us happy, and we have
to beseech thee to add yet one favour more. To return unto our native
land is joy, for we love no land like that; but if our mother return
not with us, the joy withers, and, like a flower in the night, it may
be beautiful, but we cannot see it for want of the sunshine to make it
expand. Let us beseech thee, then, oh king! crown thy great goodness
unto us, and either let our mother and our sister bear us company on
the way, or let us remain here till they may go there too."
Attila listened with the same calm, steadfast look which in former
days used never to be absent from his countenance; and no features of
his face could have betrayed the slightest emotion produced by the
words of Ammian. When the youth had done, he replied, "Thy mother and
thy sister must not depart; and I have promised the son of Paulinus
that thou shouldst join him with his sister in Thrace."
He paused for a moment, and thought deeply, turned his eyes to Ildica
and Flavia, and then added, "Nevertheless, ye shall stay or go, as
your mother wills. If ye go not, the breach of the promise be upon
you. Attila has prepared to fulfil it; but he will not, he cannot
drive a son from a mother, and that mother ill as she is."
Ammian and Eudochia rose and clung to Flavia, each exclaiming, "Oh let
us stay, my mother! let us stay till Theodore returns!"
Flavia pressed them to her heart, and kissed the fair brow of that
sweet girl; but she did not reply for some moments; while Eudochia,
linking her hand in that of Ildica, exclaimed, "Plead for us, dear
Ildica! Plead for us, my sister!" and Ildica turned her lustrous eyes
upon her mother, as if doubting and inquiring what she should do.
To Flavia it was a moment of the most intense pain, to which the heart
of any mortal being can be subject--it was the struggle of duty
against the tenderest, the noblest of human affections. It was a dying
mother placing one of her children in safety, with the certainty of
never beholding him again, even while obliged to leave another in the
midst of perils without any support. It was a moment of most intense,
intolerable pain; and yet she conquered it.
"Eudochia," she said, calmly, "it must not be, my beloved child!
Ammian, do not agitate and distress me! Theodore might wait for you.
Your staying might delay his return. At all events, it is but for a
short time that we are parted," and she raised her eyes to heaven,
while her lips still moved, but in silence. "Go, my children, go," she
said: "hasten Theodore's return; bear him my blessing."
"Must it be, my mother?" cried Ammian.
"It must, beloved!" answered Flavia, kissing him. "Take her, oh take
her from me," she added, unclasping the arms of Eudochia, who clung
round her knees weeping. "Dear, affectionate girl, farewell! Take her,
Ammian, take her! God's blessing and her mother's be upon you, my
sweet children!" Ammian raised Eudochia, and half bore, half led her
from the church.
The eyes of Attila remained fixed upon the countenance of Flavia with
a deep, earnest, contemplative gaze, which might have been painful to
her had not other feelings absorbed every thought; and when, as Ammian
and Eudochia disappeared through the portal, Flavia raised her robe to
her eyes, and for the first time wept, Attila, the stern, dark Attila
himself was moved, and pressing his sinewy hand upon his brow, he
exclaimed aloud, "Noble, noble woman!" Then turned, and, as if stung
by some sudden pang, strode hastily out of the church.
There came a sound of rude music from without, and of young voices
singing, as a troop of boys and girls, gathered together for the
marriage, accompanied Eudochia and Ammian on their way to the gate of
the city. But oh, how strange and harsh sounded that bridal song upon
the ears of the sad few who remained within the church! Flavia stood
and wept; and the large drops rolled slowly over the fair cheek of
Ildica. But at length Ardaric, who had not followed Attila when he
departed, advanced, and in a kindly tone which spoke to their hearts,
notwithstanding his small knowledge of their language, bade them take
comfort.
"Let us leave this place," he said at length. "You have need, lady, of
repose: to-morrow night the last of our forces leave Tridentum. It
were needful for thee to pass all the intervening time in repose: and
if thou wouldst take some simples, such as our people know well how to
prepare, it might give thee strength for the journey. But let us leave
this place--the sight of it only makes thee grieve."
"Let those sounds cease without, and then I will go," replied Flavia;
and as soon as all was quiet in the street, the mother and the
daughter, left alone in the midst of a strange and barbarous host,
took their sad way back towards the dwelling which they had inhabited
since their arrival in the city of Trent. There Ardaric left them;
and, entering into their own apartments, Flavia sent away all the
slaves.
As soon as she was alone with her daughter, to the surprise and grief
of Ildica, the lady sunk upon her knees at her own child's feet.
"Pardon me, Ildica, pardon your mother," she said--"pardon your
mother, if, in the agony of this day, and in the anxiety to secure
safety and happiness for one child, I have failed to purchase, even at
his risk, support and protection for another."
Ildica cast her arms around her, and striving hard to smile, she said,
"Alas, alas! dear mother, why should you ask pardon of me? Know you
not that your Ildica would gladly, willingly sacrifice everything but
virtue, and honour, and the love of those who love her, to secure the
happiness of her dear brother and the sweet sister of her infancy. Oh
no, think not that I regret even for a moment that you have sent them
from us, if by their presence they could not have comforted and
supported you. Ildica has a resolute heart, my mother, and can bear,
with strong determination, whatever fate her God may send her. With
her own hand she can protect her honour, if need should be; and she
fears nothing else; for death is little terrible to her, and that is
the worst that can befall."
"But, alas! you know not all, my child," answered Flavia, sinking into
the seat to which her daughter led her, but still holding Ildica's
hand, and gazing in her face. "Dear, beloved girl. I am dying!"
"Speak not such cruel words, dear mother," replied Ildica, not knowing
how terribly the ravager had proceeded in the frame of the loved being
who was now her only support. "I see, indeed," she added, "that you
are far from well; but I trust that fatigue and anxiety is the chief
cause, and that now you have seen so happy an event as the marriage of
our dear Ammian with Eudochia; now that you know them to be in safety;
now that the speedy prospect of returning to our own land is open
before us; now that nothing is wanting to our future peace and
happiness but Theodore's return--I trust, I hope, I am sure, dear
mother, that joy will prove a good physician, and restore you quite."
"Ildica," answered Flavia, "let us not deceive ourselves, my child. I
shall never see the Dalmatian shores again. How long this shattered
prison may keep the struggling spirit in its ruined walls, I know not;
but in my bosom there is kept a fatal calendar, whereon is marked how
much each day takes from the small remaining store of life, and I feel
that that store is nearly gone. Like a spendthrift with his treasure,
Ildica, I would now fain hoard the little that remains, but know not
how, and fear that it will fail me soon. When, five days ago, we
halted by the little lake in those grand mountains, I felt that death
was coming, but still thought that repose might keep him yet at bay,
and give me time to reach some surer resting-place. But in that day's
repose, the active enemy still strode on his way; the next day's
journey brought him nearer still; and the sad scene of your dear
Theodore's parting led him onward almost to the door. I have shut my
ear while he knocked, listening to Hope while Ammian's bridal has gone
forward; but I felt that Death went with me into that church, and has
come hither to sit beside me till I follow him to a brighter land,
where the dark herald leaves us for ever at the gate."
Ildica wept bitterly; and her mother, after pausing for several
minutes, proceeded:--"Must I tell thee not to weep, my child? Nay, I
will not do thee so much wrong! Yes, weep, my Ildica! weep as I would
weep for thee; but listen to me. I have said that I felt myself dying
when in yon church I sent from us Ammian and Eudochia. I sent them
from us, knowing that I might soon have to leave thee here alone, in
the midst of a barbarous people, till thy Theodore, thy husband, shall
return--alone, with no one to protect thee but domestic slaves, who,
though faithful and attached, are still but slaves. Was not this
cruel, Ildica? Wilt thou forgive me?"
"Forgive you, dear mother!" cried Ildica, looking up reproachfully at
the very thought of forgiveness being necessary; "think you that for
my selfish sorrows I would have had Ammian and Eudochia stay in scenes
of danger, when peace, and joy, and safety were before them? If peril
awaits me, Ammian could not, with his single hand, have averted it. If
death be following me, too, in any shape, he could not have shielded
me from the lifted dart; and--for the sake of a few kind words and
tender consolations, the balm of sympathy, and the fine elixir of kind
familiar looks to sooth and cure a wounded heart--think you, dear
mother, that I would have perilled his young happiness, and perhaps
cast the cloud of misfortune over his whole life? No; let me meet the
coming ills alone. There are many with whom I would gladly share the
cup of joy, but none whom I would force to drink a part of the
bitterer draught which I am bound to quaff. Forgive you, dear mother!
oh, there is nothing to forgive!"
"Dear Ildica," cried Flavia, pressing her to her bosom, "noble,
beloved girl! Sure, sure I am that, through whatever scenes the will
of Heaven may lead you, you will bear up nobly still, and never, never
forget that you are the daughter of a Roman. Remember, Ildica--oh,
ever remember--the land and race from which you spring. Think of their
great deeds and steadfast courage. Remember that, among the best and
greatest of our ancient names, your father might have boldly,
confidently written down his own; and, whenever difficulty or peril
falls upon you, think how a Roman of old days would then have acted,
and so act!"
"I will, my mother," cried Ildica, sinking on her knees beside Flavia;
"I promise you, by all which is most sacred, that I will! Nothing
shall ever make me forget that I am a patrician's child, bound by my
nobility of blood to noble conduct. And should the time ever come that
I must be tried, the names of my ancestors shall not be blotted out
from the roll of fame by any weakness of mine. I promise it! I vow
it!" and, with high resolution beaming in her beautiful eyes, she
rose, and stood in the majesty of loveliness by her dying mother's
side.
"May God bless you, and give you strength in all things, my true
child!" Flavia answered; "and yet, Ildica avoid all such trials; turn
from all such dangers when you may. Seek not for dangers, but act
boldly in them. And now, my child, one more direction, and I leave you
to the keeping of your own heart and God's directing Spirit. If I
should not live, which is, indeed, beyond all likelihood, to witness
Theodore's return, let no vain sorrow for the dead restrain you from
giving him your hand at once. If but a single day have passed since
the grave has closed over me, meet at the altar with the tear of
memory dimming the eye of hope; but delay not your union by a single
hour. Wed him, my Ildica! wed your beloved without a hesitation; and
fly with him, as speedily as may be, to our dear, beautiful land,
where peace and safety shall attend you. To him, Ildica, to him only
of all the world could I give you without a fear, without a sigh--to
him, noble, just, wise, brave, firm yet tender, generous yet prudent,
ardent yet temperate. Oh, Ildica! oh that I could see that day! my
last, brightest hope, my fondest wish, my only remaining aspiration on
this side of the grave would then be fulfilled; and, as calmly as for
a happy sleep, I could lay down my head in the tomb and say, 'Come,
quiet Death! life has all finished well!'"
The tears streamed anew down the cheeks of Ildica; and her mother,
after a short pause, drew her gently to her, kissed her pure brow, and
added, "Now leave me, my sweet child, for one half hour. We shall both
be the better of a brief solitude."
Ildica withdrew without reply; for she sought not to add to her
mother's emotions by emotions of her own. In her own chamber she
turned the hourglass, neither to fall short of nor to exceed the space
of time that Flavia had appointed; and she would fain have bent her
thoughts to contemplate all the frowning features of her present fate,
and the still darker countenance of the future. She felt, however,
that to do so would unfit her mind for the task of soothing and
consoling the last days of her mother; she felt that she might be
shaken and overwhelmed by the burdens which she was destined at
different times to bear, if she suffered imagination to attempt to
raise them all up at once, in order to feel and try their weight. She
resolved, then, that she would not contemplate them until they came
upon her one by one; and, murmuring the holy maxim of Him who alone
could teach us the wisdom from on high, "Sufficient for the day be the
evil thereof," she sank upon her knees and passed the half hour in
prayer. When she rose she was calm and prepared, feeling that, though
philosophy may teach us to resist firmly the evils of life, it is only
religion that can teach us to bear them meekly.
Her mother received her with a smile; and she, too, was calmer--for
the fatal truth had been spoken between them, the dark secret had been
told; and Flavia herself, prepared to die, was glad to have prepared
Ildica for her death. The rest of the day passed over tranquilly; and
Flavia seemed relieved, and even better. There was a slight flush upon
her cheek, which, though it was not exactly the rosy hue of health,
gave a false appearance of returning powers. Her eye, too, was bright,
and she breathed, or fancied that she breathed, with less difficulty.
She cherished no hope, however; and Ildica was not deceived into the
belief that her mother could recover. Her disposition had once been
full of hope; but the spring had lain so long under a heavy weight
that it had lost its elasticity; and the evening passed calmly, but
not cheerfully.
At length, towards her usual hour of retiring to rest, Flavia took out
of a casket a golden bracelet of an antique form, and, laying it on
her knee, gazed upon it thoughtfully. It had been the first present
that she had received from her dead husband, and in all her
wanderings, under every blast of adversity, that bracelet still had
remained with her. She had worn it on the shores of Dalmatia; it had
been carried forth amid the rocking of the earthquake; it had been
restored, with other property, at the command of Attila, after having
been taken by the Huns; she had possessed it among the Alani; she had
carried it with her to Rome; she had brought it thence to where she
sat even then. Every night, through a long life, she had gazed upon
that token of early affection; and now, with her thoughts turning to
her husband, she looked upon it again, thinking, "I go to join him,
where we shall never be separated more!"
As she thus thought, she tried to clasp it on her arm: but suddenly it
slipped from her fingers, rolled from her knee, and dropped upon the
ground. With a quick motion, she stooped forward to catch it ere it
fell or pick it up; then suddenly pressed her hand upon her breast,
and sunk back upon the cushions that supported her, exclaiming, "My
child! my Ildica!"
Ildica darted forward, and caught the hands that her mother now
extended towards her. The lips of Flavia still moved, but no sound
followed; she fixed her eyes with a look of deep love upon her child;
the brightness of being was still there; the flame of life's lamp
shone in them still brightly; but, in a moment after, it waxed dim and
faint: light and life, lustre and meaning, passed away; the jaw fell;
the features became rigid; and the gray hue of vacant death spread
over the soulless countenance. A loud long shriek rang through those
apartments; and when the slaves rushed in, they found their mistress
dead, where she sat, and her daughter lying senseless at her feet.