THE PARTING FOR EVER.
A second, a third day had passed, and it was night; and, kneeling
humbly before a small black cross, with tears continually streaming
from her eyes, was that fair girl whose unhappy fate had led her from
the sweet tranquillity of the domestic home--the home which love, and
fancy, and hope had taught her to prize as the brightest lot on
earth--to scenes of strife, and turbulence, and toil, to cares
unceasing, and to acts which, purchased by the agony of her own spirit
and the blasting of her own hopes, had changed the fate and wrought
the deliverance of a world.
It was night; and she wept and prayed alone. An hour more, and she was
to be borne, guarded in safety by a strong band of warriors, from a
camp where, with the light of the ensuing morning, a ceremony was to
be performed which might well end in general bloodshed: and she wept
and prayed in silence; wept the blighting of her dearest wishes; wept
her own fate and the fate of him she loved; prayed forgiveness for an
act she had been taught to consider righteous, and holy, and
sanctified, but for which her own heart smote her, even though by it
she had won her own deliverance. She prayed forgiveness for that act,
heroic, mighty, beneficial as it was; and while the whole Christian
world raised up the thankful hands, and praised God for their
deliverance, she besought his pardon for the deed that had achieved
it.
Solemn and sad was the scene presented by that tent, as there, still
exquisite in beauty, she knelt before the cross; and the solitary
lamp, casting its full light upon her, showed those graceful lines and
lovely features too truly expressive of utter despair. After a while,
she strove to dry the fountain of her tears; those tears, bitter as
they were, had been a relief to her overloaded heart. She thought she
heard a sound, and rose from before the cross. It was but to be caught
in the arms of him she loved.
He pressed her to his bosom; and for a moment she lay there, while joy
ecstatic--joy worth years of suffering--thrilled through her heart,
and took away all power to speak, to think, or to resolve.
The next instant, however, she started up, and struggled from his
arms, exclaiming wildly, "Touch me not! Touch me not! Oh, Theodore,
touch me not! I am unworthy that thou shouldst touch me."
Theodore paused and gazed upon her, and over his face their gathered
the cloud of uncertainty and apprehension. A doubt, a suspicion,
horrible, fiery, agonizing, maddening, rushed through his brain, and
he exclaimed, "Oh, God! is it possible? Have I then lost my Ildica--my
pure, my holy, my beloved!"
Written on his countenance, she saw the dreadful thought that crossed
his mind; she heard it in the deep despair that shook his voice. "No,
no!" she cried, lifting her eyes towards the sky; "no, no! As there is
a God in heaven--as there is redemption for all sins--I am thine,
thine only, thine faithfully, thine in every thought, in heart, mind,
body! thine alone!"
"Then come to my arms!" cried Theodore; "come to my arms, and be my
own for ever, brightest, dearest, most beautiful, and most beloved!"
"Oh, no, no, Theodore!" she answered, sadly; "oh, no, no! never can I
be thine except in spirit and in love. This hand has lain in the hand
of the barbarian. This hand has been died in the blood of his heart.
This hand never, never can be given to thee in wedlock, pure, and
noble, and virtuous as thou art."
"Nay, nay, Ildica," he said, twining his arms round her, and pressing
her closer to his bosom--"nay nay; but hear me. Sit down here by your
own Theodore, your brother, your lover, your promised husband."
She sobbed violently, and her tears deluged his bosom. "Listen to me,
my Ildica," he continued, seating himself with her on the side of the
couch, and still pressing her to his heart. "Is my happiness nothing
to Ildica, that now, when fate at length unites us, her hand should
sever the dear bond for ever?" Her only answers were sobs. "Hear me,"
he said--"hear me, Ildica. Thon hast done an act for which all nations
bless thee. Nor wert thou to blame for any part therein. Thou hadst no
other way to save thyself from a fate far more terrible. Thou
thoughtest that I was dead! Flight was impossible, resistance vain!"
"Listen to _me_, Theodore," she said, raising her head and looking on
his face more calmly, but still sadly and gloomily--"listen to me, and
thou shalt see that I know, and have calculated, and pressed forth the
honey from each excuse, for the act that I have committed. I will tell
thee all--I can tell thee all--for my reason and my memory are now
clear, and I can look back upon the past as upon a picture, wherein I
can see my own image acting a part involuntarily in mighty and awful
deeds. Listen to me, then, beloved; and while I lie here and repose,
for the last time in life, upon that dear resting-place whereon I had
hoped to cradle all my after years, I will tell thee all, all the dark
thoughts and sad memories of the past. Thou hast heard how my mother
died, and how a violent and a raging sickness deprived me for long of
sense. Never after that, Theodore--never, after I awoke and found
myself alone in all the world, thee absent, my mother gone, Ammian,
Eudochia far away--Never do I think that my mind regained its tone. It
was as a bow which the strong arm of misfortune had stretched too far;
and though it sprang back in a degree, it never became straight and
powerful as before. Then came all the horrid visions of the
barbarian's love; but under all those trials I struggled, as my
Theodore might have seen and approved. Amid them all there is not one
memory that lies heavy at my heart. I bore up with fortitude: I
resisted with courage: I pleaded, as I fancied, with success. But then
at length, as hope, bright hope was rising up, and telling me that a
week, a day, an hour might bring thee to me, suddenly, and without
preparation, they told me that thou wert dead. They left me to believe
that thou hadst been murdered by command of him who sought my love. Oh
God! I can scarcely think of it even now," she continued, clasping her
hand upon her forehead.
But, after a moment, she went on, with a deep sigh--"Well, there fell
upon me a cloud; I walked amid those around me as one walking in a
mist. I saw little, I knew little, of all that surrounded me. Brief
snatches of what was said I understood. People came and disappeared
like figures in a thick fog, and voices sounded in mine ear as of
distant persons, that one sees not, heard talking in a dark night. But
among those voices was one," and her voice rose, "which taught me a
lesson of high daring, which showed me holy authority for a deed of
blood, which called upon me night and day to deliver the earth from
her scourge, the nations from their destroyer, the people of God from
their oppressor and their enemy. Night and day that voice told me that
I was the appointed, the chosen of the Lord, to do his will upon his
adversary. It told me that for this I had been made hopeless and
rendered desolate: for this I had been cast into the hands of the
barbarians: for this had the infidel king been made to cast the eyes
of passion upon me. Oh Theodore! that voice but strengthened ideas
which I had already conceived; it but nerved my heart to deeds that I
had already contemplated. I had promised my mother that, in the time
of trial, I would act as one of my ancestors would have acted: I had
promised my own heart that I would die sooner than suffer the love of
any but thyself. There was, as thou hast said, no escape; there was no
resistance. I was called to the sacrifice of the bridal by a command,
not an invitation; and I went in the strength of madness and despair
to slay the slayer of my father, my husband, and my people; to cut
short deeds of blood by one as dark and terrible; and to prevent the
accomplishment of that fearful vow which he had made, to lay the
Eastern world in ashes, and to leave not a blade of grass or a living
soul between the Danube and the Hellespont. Three fearful lots were
laid before me, to choose which I would. They were--to abhor myself
for ever as the slave of Attila's foul passions--to slay myself to
escape him--or to slay him, and, though my certain death should
follow, thus free the Christian world, and deliver the nations from
the sword of the destroyer. I chose, oh Theodore, the bolder and the
mightier deed: I chose that which I believed was justified in
self-defence, which was beneficial to the human race, which I had been
told was pleasing unto God. I chose it with an unshrinking heart, a
keen eye, and a steady hand. But remember, oh remember, that I vowed
no vow; that I promised no promise unto him; that I stood passive,
while they muttered, and they sacrificed, and never, never gave the
hand he took. Remember, that at that very altar where he sealed his
own fate, when solemnly adjured to tell the truth, he swore to me that
thou wert dead, and lost to me for ever. I had no choice, I had no
hope, I had no safety! But when he fell and lay before me, the dark
blood spouting from his stricken side, and the quivering heel smiting
the ground in the agonies of death, the justification passed away; the
terrible thing that I had done absorbed all thought, and feeling, and
sensation. Then immediately you rushed in. No, it could not be
immediately, though it seemed so unto me; but what passed I know not,
till your voice called me for a moment to recollection; and joy, and
horror, and despair cast me senseless again."
Theodore pressed her tenderly to his bosom. "And does not this show,"
he said--"does not all this show that thou shouldst be dearer than
ever to my heart? Does not this show that thou, whose every feeling
through life has been given to me, should, through my future days, be
the object of all my love, and care, and tenderness? Yes, yes, my
Ildica; my bosom shall be thy resting-place, my arms thy shield, my
heart thy sanctuary, my ear the willing listener to every sorrow and
to every care, my voice the soother of thy griefs, the consolation for
all that is painful in memory. Theodore will devote his life unto
thee; his every thought, his every hope, his every wish--"
"Forbear, forbear, Theodore," she cried; "for Ildica's life must be
given up to God. From this day forth no hour shall fly--but those in
which He sends his blessed sleep to allay the fiery memories of the
past--without some prayer for pardon, without some petition for light
in this world of darkness, without some act of penitence, of
adoration, of thanksgiving. What I have told thee, Theodore, should
make thee know that in this I can never change; that I have thought
deeply over all that is past; and with restored reason and a clear
intellect, there is but one place for me on earth--the calm and
tranquil cell in some solitary sisterhood, where I may devote, as far
as love for thee will let me, all my thoughts to God. Oh, Theodore, be
contented! In those thoughts thou wilt share enough. Thou, thou alone
art my object upon earth, round which still cling the garlands of
sweet flowers that fond hope and young affection twined in the days
gone by. Oh, Theodore! those flowers are all immortals: the dew of
memory shall preserve them still, as bright as when first we wreathed
them in the golden past. Their sweet odour shall still endure to
perfume the very latest hours of life; and let us hope--ay, let us
hope, that, with a garland in our hand, a garland of those same
immortal flowers of love, we may meet ere long in heaven! Oh,
Theodore! that life may have been terrible, painful, disastrous, but
never can be useless, that makes us look forward with hope and joy to
a better being and a nobler state." She gazed upward for a moment,
then cast herself upon his bosom and wept.
He held her to his heart in silence, for there was a sacredness in her
sorrow, an elevation in her purpose, which he dared not combat at that
moment, though the hope of changing it was not extinct. Gladly,
however, did he hear her, after a long pause given to the bursting
forth of that deep emotion--gladly did he hear her revert to a less
painful, a less agitating theme. "Eudochia," she said--"Eudochia and
Ammian; tell me, Theodore, are they well and happy?"
"I left them so, beloved," he replied, "and trust they are so still;
but that is long ago, for I have been delayed by every disaster that
can befall the traveller on his way. Tempest and shipwreck, storm and
enemies, the darkness of sixteen days upon the wide sea, a host of
insidious foes lining the shore, obstacles which the might of man
could not overcome, tortured, impeded, delayed me; and I am here with
scarce ten of all my followers left alive, and with my own life a
miracle even unto myself. When I left my sister and thy brother,
however, they were well and happy; she full of smiles and hopes; and
he, though graver--calmer I should say, than he was, yet, looking
thoughtful happiness whenever he gazed on his own dear bride. They are
both happy--most happy; and we may be so too. Yes, yes, my Ildica,
brighter thoughts will come: I will see thee this night depart towards
our own land with joy and thankfulness; and will follow thee with a
more rapid pace ere two days be over. We have none but each other
left, my Ildica, to cling to in the world; and our prayers, our
thanksgiving, our adoration, will rise as gratefully to the heavenly
throne, from two united hearts, thankful for mutual love and mutual
happiness, as from two separate beings, torn asunder when they loved
the most, and ending in solitary misery a life that has already known
some sorrows."
She shook her head and murmured, "It cannot be!"
But Theodore would not believe aught but the voice of hope; and he
pressed her closer to his heart. "Hark!" he said, after a moment;
"there is the litter and the train of horsemen that accompany thee!
Ardaric has fully provided for our safety till we reach the borders of
our own land."
There was the sound of a step in the outer tent, and the curtain which
divided it was raised. So often had misfortune stricken her, so
continually had the wave of evil tidings been poured upon her ear,
that, even at that slight sound, Ildica started, crept closer to the
breast of her lover, and gazed forward with a frightened glance upon
the moving curtain. The form that appeared, however, was not one to
inspire fear; it was that of Neva, now pale as Ildica herself, but
scarcely less lovely. She was covered with a mantle of furs, and a
hood of fine sable was drawn partly over her head.
On seeing Theodore with Ildica, she paused and hesitated; and either
the lamp, flickering with the wind of the moving curtain, cast for a
moment a red light upon her countenance, or else the blood mounted up
into her cheek, and then, rushing back again, left it as pale as
before.
"Ildica, dear Ildica," she said, again advancing, "all is ready!"
Ildica's fortitude returned. It was only in anticipation she was
timid. "And must I part with thee, too, dear Neva?" she said; "with
thee, to whom all my consolation during the last sad month is owing?
Must I part with thee, too--and for ever?"
"No, Ildica, no," answered Neva. "I go with thee, wherever thou goest.
Whatever be thy fate, dear sister of my heart, sister in misfortune
and disappointed hopes, with thee will I go, if it be to the uttermost
parts of the earth. Thy lot I will share, thy sorrows I will sooth,
till I see thee at length rewarded with happiness; and then, as a
distant gazer upon a beautiful scene, I will look on from afar, and
thank God for the brightness of the evening."
Ildica cast her arms around her and melted into tears; and then,
suddenly raising her head, she gazed upon the lovely countenance of
Bleda's daughter, and turned, as if with the inspiration of sudden
hope, towards Theodore. "Oh, Theodore, Theodore!" she exclaimed; "thou
mayst be happy yet."
He seemed to gather her meaning in a moment. "Hush!" he exclaimed, in
a tone almost rendered stern by the very vehemence of his feelings.
"Hush, hush, Ildica--by the sacred purity of thine own heart--hush!"
He cast his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom; and then,
knowing how valuable every moment of that night might be, he gently
drew her onward towards the litter which stood without, surrounded by
a large body of the barbarian horsemen. Ardaric was there, but he
gazed on Theodore and Ildica in silence; and the young Roman, raising
her in his arms, placed her himself in the double litter. He assisted
Neva to follow and seat herself by Ildica's side. "Farewell, Neva!" he
said; "gentle, excellent girl, farewell!--Theodore will ever love you
as a brother. Ildica, my bride, my promised, my beloved, farewell! Ere
two days be over, I will follow thee on thy way."
She suffered him to embrace her again as she lay on the litter, and
she returned the embrace. But, as her cheek lay on his shoulders, she
murmured, "Farewell, beloved of my youth! beloved shalt thou still be,
even unto death; but hope no vain hopes, Theodore; Ildica is vowed
unto prayer and unto repentance. Farewell for ever!"
The litter moved on; the dull sound of the horses' feet was heard upon
the grass; the last horsemen filed away over the hills; the sounds of
the departing force grew fainter and more faint; the noises of the
several camps around rose louder on the ear; and Ardaric laid his hand
upon Theodore's arm, saying, "They are gone! Let us to counsel, my
friend."