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.