“I like to hear you say it,” she answered simply, “and it cannot be wrong, can it? Is there any wrong in my listening to you? Yet why do I feel that it is not quite right?—sometimes I do feel that.”
“One thing will make all right,” he said eagerly; “one thing. I love you, Guida, love you devotedly. Do you—tell me if you love me? Do not fear to tell me, dearest, for then will come the thing that makes all right.”
“I do not know,” she responded, her heart beating fast, her eyes drooping before him; “but when you go from me, I am not happy till I see you again. When you are gone, I want to be alone that I may remember all you have said, and say it over to myself again. When I hear you speak I want to shut my eyes, I am so happy; and every word of mine seems clumsy when you talk to me; and I feel of how little account I am beside you. Is that love, Philip—Philip, do you think that is love?”
They were standing now. The fruit that hung above Guida’s head was not fairer and sweeter than she. Philip drew her to him, and her eyes lifted to his.
“Is that love, Philip?” she repeated. “Tell me, for I do not know—it has all come so soon. You are wiser; do not deceive me; you understand, and I do not. Philip, do not let me deceive myself.”
“As the Judgment of Life is before us, I believe you love me, Guida—though I don’t deserve it,” he answered with tender seriousness.
“And it is right that you should love me; that we should love each other, Philip?”
“It will be right soon,” he said, “right for ever. Guida mine, I want you to marry me.”
His arm tightened round her waist, as though he half feared she would fly from him. He was right; she made a motion backward, but he held her firmly, tenderly. “Marry—marry you, Philip!” she exclaimed in trembling dismay.
“Marry—yes, marry me, Guida. That will make all right; that will bind us together for ever. Have you never thought of that?”