Chapter XVII: Neva

It is a strange and awful sensation, when, after having enjoyed to the full the powers and energies of manhood, we find ourselves suddenly reduced by the unnerving hand of sickness to the feebleness of infancy: when giant strength lies prostrate and busy activity is chained to the weary bed. It is strange and it is awful, for it shows us most sensibly how frail a thing is that vigour which, in our boisterous days of health, we madly think an adamantine armour against all adversity. It is strange and awful, for it leads us to the brink of that fatal precipice over which all must fall, and displays, as if from the very verge, the inside of our future grave.

From a stupor, in which all memory and every power of thought had been at an end, Theodore woke as feeble and incapable as when, in the nurse's arms, he moved his mother's heart by his first infant cry. The same feelings of tenderness; the same mingled emotions, where pity, and hope, and the pleasure of protecting, all unite; the same sensations of affectionate interest for the thing we rear, and guard, and watch for, as those which fill the breast of a mother towards her child, affected, though in a less degree, those who attended the couch of the young Roman during his illness and convalescence. It was but slowly he recovered: for the fever which had seized upon him had been fierce and powerful; and it had been only unfaded youth's tenacity of life and the natural vigour of his frame which had finally conquered that terrible assailant.

The persons who attended him were entirely women, except when his faithful Cremera took his daily turn to watch by his bedside; and though an elder and more matronly dame came in and out, and frequently remained in his chamber for an hour or more, still his principal attendant was the lovely girl whom he at first had seen, or a maiden who seemed to be her sister, still younger than herself.

Often would he keep his eyes closed, to listen, uninterrupted, to the sweet singing of the barbarian girl; often when he woke would he find that graceful form bending over him, and those deep, intense blue eyes gazing upon his countenance, as if to mark the outposts of victorious health, spreading life's rosy banner where the pale flag of sickness had been advanced so lately. As he recovered strength also, and his tongue became more capable of its office, he would converse with her from time to time in the language which she had used in singing and though she spoke it not as her native dialect, yet they could thus converse fluently.

With the matron it was different: she was kind, but not conversable; yet, when she did speak, it was always in the pure Alan tongue; and Theodore could almost have fancied that he heard once more the voice of his mother. Under kind care and skilful management he at length reached that point where his recovery became certain; and from that moment his convalescence proceeded rapidly. He was soon able to quit his chamber; and going forth, though with wavering and unsteady steps, he walked along, enjoying the fresh air of the morning, beneath the rude portico of unshaped stems of trees which shaded one side of that long low dwelling, while his heart was raised with fresh gratitude to Heaven at every sweet sound and sight that he was permitted again to enjoy. There had been a time, not very long before, when life had seemed to him a weary burden, which he desired not to retain; the earth a dreary and a desert dwelling-place, in which he was but little anxious to remain. But such feelings had only existed while the body remained in strength and vigour, oppressed and impatient under a mind overcharged with sorrows, anxieties, and cares. Now, however, the corporeal frame had been weakened and cast down; the body as well as the mind had been humbled and chastised; the blessings of life were more valued, the past could be regarded with resignation, and the future looked forward to with hope.

As he walked forth one day under the shadow of that portico, his eye wandered over the whole plain, on which, at a little distance, appeared some horsemen, whom he afterward found to be those who had attended him thither. In the shade, however, were collected a number of women, comprising all those whom he had hitherto seen; and Neva, the blue-eyed daughter of the house, smiled gayly to see his wavering steps. The next moment she greeted him with, "Come, sit you with the women till you have strength enough to join the men;" and she made room for him on the bench on which she sat between herself and her mother.

All were employed in some domestic occupation; and the distaff, and the spindle, and the wheel went on, while Theodore, sitting beside them, began to ask the first questions which he had hitherto ventured, regarding the place and the family in which he then was. He found that the village which he saw stretching along under the forest contained not less than two or three hundred wooden cottages; and his eye at once showed him that the one in which he had found shelter and received so much true kindness was by far the most extensive and most ornamented of the whole. When he came to ask, however, whose was the house in which he dwelt, and whose the family that tended him so carefully, they answered him at once that it was that of Bleda, the brother of Attila.

His countenance changed, and he asked no more questions. Ere he had sat long there the horsemen returned from the field, bringing with them some game which they had procured; and eagerly, and with signs of much regard, they gathered round Theodore, and wished him joy on his recovered health. Towards evening two herdsmen drove home from a distance a large flock of diminutive cattle, and a shepherd brought some sheep into the fold. Two or three other lesser flocks were driven slowly across the plain to different houses in the village; but the men who drove them formed the only male population, with the exception of his own attendants, which Theodore had yet seen since he entered Dacia.

As the days passed on, and he mingled more with the people, he found that this first view was fully confirmed, and that almost all the men of the land, except such as were too old or too young to bear arms, had gone forth with Attila in his invasion of the Roman empire.

"Were Rome now," thought Theodore, "what Rome once was, while this barbarian monarch invades and ravages the East, the legions of the West would pour across Pannonia, and, sweeping the whole land, take as hostages the women and children here left unprotected. But alas! I fear me that neither the legions of the East will have power to withstand the myriads of Attila, nor the West have energy to hasten his return, by invading his territories, and taking hostages for his future tranquillity. 'Tis true they may not know that the land is left in such a state; but, alas! I must not point out its weakness. Even to save my country, I must not return the mercy shown me, and the kind hospitality received, by base ingratitude. Doubtless, when strength returns, I could escape; doubtless I could bear to Valentinian, or, better still, to [AE]tius, tidings of the condition in which this land is left, and thereby, perchance, deliver the empire itself. But it must not be! No, no! such a task must not be mine."

The situation, however, was a painful one; and the knowledge, too, that he was dwelling in the house of Bleda, of the man who had striven to take his life, and whose enmity--though he knew not why--was evidently fiercely raised against him, added to the gloom he felt, and made him anxious to proceed farther into the country.

Ruga, the wife of Bleda, however, was herself one of the Alani, from a tribe which had remained amid their original valleys on the Georgian side of Caucasus. She had by this time learned that the mother of the young stranger had been a daughter of the same nation, though sprung from a different tribe; and, little aware of the enmity of her husband towards him, she now pressed Theodore anxiously to stay with them till the armies of the Huns returned. Her daughter, too, urged the same request with all the native simplicity of a guileless heart; and Theodore himself, as innocent in thought and purpose, believed that he could there remain happily, without risk or danger to the peace of any one, were it not for the enmity of Neva's father. He made inquiries, however, and he found that no chance existed of any of the Huns returning for several months; and he determined to remain for a time, hoping that, if he could win the regard of the chieftain's family, the causeless animosity of Bleda himself might by their report be done away.

There, then, he stayed, increasing in the love of all, and habituating himself to the language, the sports, and the manners of the people. He had found, on his recovery, that the purse of gold pieces which he had borne with him from Dalmatia, and which had been but little diminished on the journey, had been carefully preserved during his sickness; and, though the amount was not very large, yet the difference in the value of everything among the Huns and among the Romans was so great, that his small store seemed grown into an inexhaustible treasure. The attendants whom Attila had given him would receive no recompense for their services; and the sports of the chase, which he pursued in company with them and Cremera, afforded more than sufficient provision for his followers and for himself. Ruga declared that her house had never been so bountifully supplied, even when Bleda himself was present; and the simpler food, to which the women of the Huns were accustomed, received no slight additions from the hunter skill and bold activity of their guest.

For several weeks Theodore pursued this course in peace, proceeding to the woods or plains, or to the mountains, early in the morning with his followers, and retuning ere nightfall to the village. To those followers, indeed, the young Roman endeared himself every day more and more. His courage, and the dexterity with which he acquired all their wild art in the chase and in the management of the horse, won their reverence; while his kindness, his gentleness, and his easy suavity, touched another chord, and gained their hearts. If stag, or wolf, or bear turned upon him, every one was ready to defend him; and Theodore soon found that on any enterprise which he chose to undertake, except, indeed, where some higher duty forbade, he might lead those men to danger, or to death itself. Nor did he make less progress in the regard of the villagers. The old men took a pleasure in teaching him their language, and in telling him wild tales of other days, and other lands; the children clung to him, and gathered round his knee; the shepherds brought him whatever they found in their wanderings, which seemed to their rude eyes either rare or valuable. To, his cultivated opinion all questions were referred; and when they found that, ere two months were over, he could wield their arms, and speak their language, with as much facility as they could themselves, adding to their barbarian dexterity all the arts and knowledge of a civilised nation, they seemed to think him something more than mortal.

The wife of the chieftain forgot her matronly state, so far as to hold long conversations with him on the nation whose blood flowed in both their veins; and her fair daughter sprang forth with eager gladness to welcome him back from the chase, or if he went not thither, wandered with him in the mornings to show him fair paths through the wood, and teach him what fruits were hurtful, what beneficial to man, in those wild solitudes; or sat near him in the evenings, and, with her long lashes veiling her cast down blue eyes, sang all the songs which she knew he loved to hear.

It was those deep blue eyes, and their look of devoted tenderness, which first woke Theodore from his dream of peace. Neva was lovely, gentle, kind, noble in all her feelings, graceful in all her movements, frank, simple, and sincere. Pure in heart and mind, the elegancies of polished life seemed scarcely needful to her native grace. In whatever task employed, she looked, she acted, as--and no one could doubt she was--the daughter of a king: and yet Theodore's thoughts were seldom upon her. Sometimes, indeed, when he saw a flower of peculiar beauty, or when his arrows struck some bird of rare plumage, or some beast of a finer fur, he thought, "I will take this home for Neva;" but his fancy never strayed amiss to warmer feelings or more dangerous themes than those.

Oh, no! his thoughts were far away! The one deep-rooted passion, strong and intense as life itself--that one bright passion, as pure, when it is noble, in man as in woman, as incapable of falsehood either by thought or act--left not one fond fancy free for any other than her, his first, young, early, only love. When the sun in floods of glory went down beyond the western hills, he thought of her lonely in that distant land, and willingly believed that with her, too, memory turned to him. When the bright moon wandered through the sky, and poured her silver flood of light over those wide plains, he would gaze forth, and call to mind that first peculiar night when he heard the dear lips he loved breathe answering vows to his beneath the palace portico on the Dalmatian shore; he would call up again before his eyes the scene in all its loveliness; he would fancy he could feel that soft, dear form pressed gently to his bosom; he would seem to taste the breath of those sweet lips as they met his in the kiss of first acknowledged love; and he would imagine--justly, truly imagine--that at that hour the same treasured remembrances might fill the bosom of Ildica with visions as entrancing, and that memory might with her, too, give to hope a basis whereon to raise her brightest architecture. When the morning woke in the skies, and when, ere he went forth to taste the joys of renewed existence, he knelt down to offer to the God of his pure faith adoration, and thanks, and prayer, the name of Ildica would first rise with his petitions to Heaven, and her happiness would be the subject of his first aspirations.

Could he think, then, of any other I could he dream that it was possible to love any one but her? No! he did not, he could not; but, as time wore on, and summer sunk glowing into the arms of autumn, there came a deep light into the eyes of Neva, which pained, which alarmed him. He would sometimes, when he suddenly turned towards her, find her gazing upon him with a look of intense, thoughtful affection, which was followed by a warm and rapid blush; and, without one feeling of empty vanity, Theodore began to see that his stay might produce evil to her who had so kindly tended him.

Still, however, Neva's regard assumed that air of simple, unrestrained frankness, which is less frequently the token of love than of friendship. In her pure mind, and in her uncultivated land, all seemed clear and open before her. She felt no shame in the sensations which she knew and encouraged towards the young stranger. She saw no obstacle to prevent her from becoming his bride. She was the daughter of a king, but she knew him to be worthy of her love; and as that love became apparent to her own eyes also, she only felt proud of her choice. The sole difference which that knowledge of her own heart's feelings wrought in Neva was, that with her bright brown hair she now began to mingle gold and gems, and that, from time to time, a bright but transient glow would tinge her cheek when her eyes and Theodore's met. Far from shrinking from his society, far from trembling at his approach, she gave way at once to all the feelings of her heart as they arose; greeted him with glad smiles in the morning; sprang forth to meet him when he returned from the chase; sat by him in the lengthening evenings; and, feeling the deep earnest love of first affection burning at her heart, she took no means to hide or to conceal it from others or herself.

Theodore had pondered over these things for some days, and considered how it were best to act; but he deceived himself in regard to Neva; and the very openness with which she suffered her passion to appear made him believe that it was as yet unconfirmed. He compared it with the shy and trembling love of Ildica. He remembered the same kind affection in her, too, when a girl, ere their feelings took a warmer tone than brotherly regard; the candid display of preference for his society, and the interest in all his pursuits which she had then evinced. He recollected, also, the change that had taken place as simple affection grew into intense love--how timid, how retiring, how apprehensive that love had been! and by comparing those two stages of a passion he had known and marked, with the conduct of the lovely girl under whose father's roof he had dwelt--as pure, as innocent, as full of real modesty as Ildica herself--he judged, that whatever her feelings might become, they were not yet such as might ever render them painful to herself.

As the period for which he had promised to remain had not yet expired, and he could assign no cause for suddenly absenting himself, he determined to seek the first opportunity of speaking, in the presence of Neva, of the ties which bound him to her he loved. Little mention had hitherto been made of his family or his circumstances in his own land. The wife of Bleda seemed to take no further interest in his former life than was connected with his mother and her nation; and Neva herself, in the present happiness which she derived from his stay among them, appeared never to remember that there was such a thing as a past, affecting him in a way she knew not--though that past was unfortunately destined to affect all the future for herself. She asked nothing, she thought of nothing but of the present; and thus Theodore felt that he would have to commence the subject himself. Though it was one he loved not to speak on upon every light occasion, yet he resolved to do so. But still, after long hesitation, he determined not to tell the tale of his early days, when, sitting in the family of Bleda, every eye might be ready to mark his own emotions--or, indeed, those of others; for although to his own heart he put forward the motive of concealing the expression of his feelings, his real inducement was consideration for the fair girl, who might be more moved, he feared, by the words he had to speak, than he was willing to admit even to himself.

After two long days of unsuccessful hunting, having found nothing within several miles of the village, he threw down his spear and arrows, declaring he would go no more; and on the following morning, while the dew was still upon the grass, Neva offered to lead him up to the fall of a river in the woods, whose roar he had often heard at a distance, but which he had never seen, so deeply was it buried in the intricacies of the forest. He gladly followed, resolved to seize that moment to tell her all. And yet Theodore was agitated, for he wished not to pain or grieve her; but still he feared, from her whole manner, and from the tender light which poured from her blue eyes, that the words he had to speak would be displeasing to her ear. It was a bright morning, and between the tall trunks of the trees, over bush, and underwood, and mossy turf, the slanting sun poured his golden light, in the first bright freshness of the rising day.

"What a lovely morning is this!" said Theodore, after they had walked on some way, for Neva had remained silent under emotions of her own. "What a lovely morning!--how clear, how beautiful!"

"Have you not such in your own land?" demanded Neva.

"Oh yes," answered Theodore, "we have many; and these mornings and the evenings are our chief hours of delight, for the heat of the risen day is oppressive. I remember such a morning as this," he added, willing to lead the conversation to the matter on which he desired to speak--"I remember such a morning, some four or five months ago, so bright, so beautiful, shining upon my path as I returned from Constantinople towards what I have always called my home."

"And was it not your home?" demanded Neva. "Did no one wait you there to welcome you?"

"Oh, several," answered Theodore--"several that I loved, and still love more dearly than anything else on earth." Neva cast down her eyes, and her cheek grew deadly pale. "There was my mother," continued Theodore--"I mean the mother who has adopted me, and ever treated me as one of her own children." The colour came again into Neva's cheek. "Then there was my sister," he went on. "And last," he added, in a lower tone, "there was my promised bride, my Ildica, who will one day be my wife."

Neva spoke not, but the rose again left her cheek. That, however, was the only sign of emotion she displayed, except, perhaps, that she walked on more rapidly, and that her small feet brushed the dew from the grass on either side of the path, wavering, as she went, with an unsteady pace. Theodore followed close to her side, scarce knowing how to break that painful silence. It had continued so long, that, ere a word was uttered, he heard the roar of the waterfall, and he resolved to speak, let it be on what it would. But at the first word he breathed, the fair girl pressed her right hand upon her heart with a convulsive sob, and fell fainting at his feet.

Theodore caught her up in his arms, and ran on upon the path. He could not find the cataract, but the stream which formed it soon caught his eye; and, laying Neva on the bank, he bathed her brow with water from the river, and strove to recall her to herself by words of comfort and consolation.

At length she opened her eyes; and finding herself lying in the arms of the man she loved, with her head supported on his shoulder, she turned her face to his bosom, and wept long and bitterly. Theodore said little, but all he did say were words of kindness and of comfort; and Neva seemed to feel them as such, and thanked him by a gentle pressure of the hand. At length she spoke. "I had thought," she said, in the undisguised simplicity of her heart, "I had thought to be your first and only wife. I was foolish to think that others would not love you as well as I."

Theodore had now the harder task of explaining to her, and making her comprehend, that in his land and with his religion, polygamy, so common among her people, could not exist; but the effect produced was more gratifying than he could have expected.

"Better, far better that it should not," cried the girl, raising her head, and gazing full in his face with those earnest, devoted eyes. "Better, far better that it should not. Had you asked me, I could not have refused, feeling as I feel; but I should have been miserable to be the second to any one. To have seen you caress her, to have known that you loved her better, and had loved her earlier than you loved me, would have been daily misery; but now I can love you as a thing apart. You will marry her, and I will have no jealousy, for I have no share: I will think of you every hour and every moment, and pray to all the gods to make you happy with her you love. But oh, stranger, it were better, till I can rule my feelings and my words, and gain full command over every thought, that you should leave me."

"Would to God!" said Theodore, "that I had never beheld you, or that you could forget all such feelings, and look on me as a mere stranger."

"Not for worlds," she exclaimed, "not for all the empire of my uncle Attila. I would not lose the remembrance of thee if I could win the love of the brightest and the best on earth. I would not change the privilege of having seen, and known, and loved thee, for the happiest fate that fancy could devise. Oh, Theodore, would you take from me my last treasure? But perchance you think me bold and impudent in thus speaking all that is at my heart; but if you do so, you do not know me."

"I do, I do indeed," cried Theodore--"I do know, I do admire, I do esteem you; and had not every feeling of my heart been bound to another ere I saw you, I could not have failed to love one so beautiful, so excellent, so kind. Nay, I do love you, Neva, though it must be as a brother loves a sister."

"Hush, hush!" she said. "Make me not regret--and yet love me so still. Forget, too, that I love you better, but oh, believe that no sister ever yet lived that will do for you what Neva will; and in the moment of danger, in the hour of sickness, in the time of wo, if you need aid, or tendance, or consolation, send for me; and though my unskilful hand and tongue may be little able to serve, the deep affection of my heart shall find means, if they be bought with my life's blood, to compensate for my weakness and my want of knowledge;" and, carried away by the intensity of her feelings, she once more cast herself on his bosom and wept. "But you must leave me," she continued, "you must leave me. Yes, and when I see you again, I will see you calmly--not as you now see me. Yet you must have some excuse for going, and whither will you go?"

"When your uncle Attila bade me come into Dacia till his return," replied Theodore, "Edicon, who remained with me, affirmed that it was the monarch's will I should proceed to his own usual dwelling-place, on the banks of the Tibiscus."

Neva thought for a moment as if she did not remember the name; but then exclaimed, "Ha! the Teyssa--what you call the Tibiscus we name the Teyssa. That is much farther on; but let my mother know that such were the directions of Attila, and she will herself hasten your departure; for my father and my uncle often jar, and my mother would fain remove all cause of strife. Or I will tell her," she added, with a faint smile, "I will tell her; and you shall see how calmly I can talk of your departure."

She then spoke for some time longer, in a tranquil tone, of all the arrangements that were to be made; and as she did so, still, from time to time, her eyes were raised to the young Roman's face with a long, earnest glance, as if she would fain have fixed his image upon memory, so that no years could blot it out. Then in the stream she bathed the traces of the tears from her eyes; and looking up calmly, though sadly, said, "Let us go, my brother. It is sweet, but it must end."

They took some steps homeward; but, ere they had gone far, she paused, and laying her hands upon his, she said, "Oh, Theodore! promise me, that if ever, while you are in your land, you need help or aid, you will send to me. Send me this trinket back by a messenger;" and she gave him one of the small golden ornaments which she wore in her hair; "send it me back, and I will come to you, be it wheresoever it may. Deeply as I love thee, I would not wed thee now for worlds; but, oh! I would give life itself to render thee some service, which should make thee say in after years, 'Alas! poor Neva! she loved me well indeed!'"

Thus wandered they homeward; and often did she pause to add something more, and to give some new token of that deep and all unconcealed, but pure affection, which had taken so firm a hold of her young heart. Theodore, too, strove to sooth and to comfort her; and all that was kind, all that was tender--except such words as only the ear of the beloved should ever hear--he said, to give her consolation. As they came near the village, however, she spoke less, for she seemed to fear that her emotions might leave traces behind for other eyes than his; but she gained courage as they went on; and, to Theodore's surprise, when they joined the household, no sign of all the busy feelings which he knew to be active in her breast was in the slightest degree apparent, except, indeed, in a shade of grave melancholy, which was not natural to her.

She chose the moment while all were assembled at the morning meal to announce to her mother the necessity of Theodore's departure. The matron had made some observation upon the young Roman's recovered health, when she replied, "We shall lose him soon, my mother. He has been telling me that the commands of Attila the King were strict, that he should go on to the king's own dwelling by the Teyssa."

She spoke calmly; so calmly, indeed, that there were but two persons among all the many who seemed to notice that she touched on things more interesting than ordinary. Theodore could not but know all the emotions which that calm tone concealed; and her mother, as soon as she heard the subject of her discourse, fixed her eyes upon her with a look of mingled wonder, tenderness, and surprise, as if she, too, could see into her daughter's heart, and asked, by that glance, "Can you, my child, talk thus calmly of his going?"

After that momentary pause, however, she replied aloud, "If Attila bade him go forward, the king must be obeyed. My son, you should have told us this before; for though my husband is also a king, yet Attila is his elder brother, and we wish not to offend him."

"If fault there be," replied Theodore, "the fault is mine. The commands of the king affixed me no certain time; and I do, indeed, believe that he named his own residence as my dwelling-place only for my greater safety."

"'Tis not unlikely," said the wife of Bleda; "but still, my son, you must obey: tarry not here more days than needful; for we know not when Attila or Bleda may return."

Theodore, too, knew that it was needful he should go, and yet he felt regret at leaving those who had treated him with so much kindness and tenderness; at leaving scenes in which he had known a brief interval of tranquillity and peace, after having undergone so long a period of grief, of horror, and of danger. He gave himself but the interval of one day, however; and then, in the early morning, his horse and his followers stood prepared at the door. The wife of Bleda gave him her blessing as he departed with motherly tenderness; and Neva herself stood by, and saw him mount without a tear wetting the dark lashes of her tender blue eyes, without a sigh escaping from her lip. All she said was, "Farewell, my brother: remember us."

Theodore himself could have wept; and as he saw her stand there in her beauty, her innocence, and her devoted love, deeply and bitterly did he regret--ay, and reproach himself, for having, however unwittingly, brought a cloud over her sunshine, and first dulled the fine metal of her bright and affectionate heart. He sprang upon his horse and rode away, turning back more than once to gaze upon them as they stood gathered round the door of their dwelling, and to wave his hand in token of adieu.