"Ida!"
It was the lover's cry of appeal, the prayer for love uttered by the
heart that loves; and it went straight to her own heart.
She put out her hand, and he took it and held it in both his.
"I have come for your answer," he said in the low voice that thrills;
the voice which says so much more than the mere words. "I could not
wait--I tried to keep away from you until to-morrow; but it was of no
use. I am here, you see, and I want your answer. Don't tell me it is
'No!' Trust me, Ida--trust to my love for you. I will devote my life to
trying to make you happy. Ah, but you know! What is your answer? Have
you thought--you promised me you would think?"
"I have thought," she said, at last. "I have thought of nothing else--I
wanted to tell you the truth--to tell you truly as I would to
myself--but it is so hard to know--Sometimes when I think that you may
go away, and that I may not see you again, my heart sinks, and I feel,
oh! so wretched."
He waited for no more, but caught her to him, and as she lay in his
arms only slightly struggling, her face upturned, he bent his own,
almost white with passion, and kissed her on the lips, and not once
only.
The blood rushed to her face, her bosom rose and fell, and, her face
grown pale again, her eyes gazed up into his half fiercely, half
appealingly; then suddenly they grew moist, as if with tears, her lips
quivered, and from them came, as if involuntarily, the words of
surrender, the maiden confession: "I love you!"
He uttered a low, sharp cry, the expression of his heart's delight, his
soul's triumph.
"You love me! Ida! How--how do you know--when?" She shook her head and
sighed, as she pressed her cheek against his breast.
"I don't know. It was just now--the moment when you kissed me. Then it
came to me suddenly--the knowledge--the truth. It was as if a flash of
light had revealed it to me. Oh, yes, I love you. I wish--almost I wish
that I did not, for--it hurts me!"
She pressed her hand to her heart, and gazed up at him with the wonder
of a child who is meeting its first experience of the strange
commingling of pain and joy.
He raised her in his arms until her face was against his.
"I know--dearest," he said, almost in a whisper. "It is love--it is
always so, I think. My heart is aching with longing for you, and yet I
am happy--my God, how happy! And you? Tell me, Ida?"