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had been, of what might have been, of the beauty and mystery of life, of
something in nature that called sweetly and irresistibly to her. Who
could rob her of the rolling, gray, velvety hills, and the purple peaks
and the black ranges, among which she had been found a waif, a little
lost creature, born like a columbine under the spruces?
Love, sudden-dawning, inexplicable love, was her secret, still
tremulously new, and perilous in its sweetness. That only did she fear
to realize and to face, because it was an unknown factor, a threatening
flame. Her sudden knowledge of it seemed inextricably merged with the
mounting, strong, and steadfast stream of her spirit.
"I'll go to him. I'll tell him," she murmured. "He shall have _that!_...
Then I must bid him--good-by--forever!"
To tell Wilson would be sweet; to leave him would be bitter. Vague
possibilities haunted her. What might come of the telling? How dark
loomed the bitterness! She could not know what hid in either of these
acts until they were fulfilled. And the hours became long, and sleep far
off, and the quietness of the house a torment, and the melancholy wail
of coyotes a reminder of happy girlhood, never to return.
* * * * *
When next day the long-deferred hour came Columbine selected a horse
that she could run, and she rode up the winding valley swift as the
wind. But at the aspen grove, where Wade's keen, gentle voice had given
her secret life, she suffered a reaction that made her halt and ascend
the slope very slowly and with many stops.
Sight of Wade's horse haltered near the cabin relieved Columbine
somewhat of a gathering might of emotion. The hunter would be inside and
so she would not be compelled at once to confess her secret. This
expectancy gave impetus to her lagging steps. Before she reached the
open door she called out.
"Collie, you're late," answered Wilson, with both joy and reproach, as
she entered. The cowboy lay upon his bed, and he was alone in the room.
"Oh!... Where is Ben?" exclaimed Columbine.
"He was here. He cooked my dinner. We waited, but you never came. The
dinner got cold. I made sure you'd backed out--weren't coming at
all--and I couldn't eat.... Wade said he knew you'd come. He went off
with the hounds, somewhere ... and oh, Collie, it's all right now!"
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Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down upon him with a feeling
as if some giant hand was tugging at her heart. He looked better. The
swelling and redness of his face were less marked. And at that moment no
pain shadowed his eyes. They were soft, dark, eloquent. If Columbine had
not come with her avowed resolution and desire to unburden her heart she
would have found that look in his eyes a desperately hard one to resist.
Had it ever shone there before? Blind she had been.
"You're better," she said, happily.
"Sure--_now_. But I had a bad night. Didn't sleep till near daylight.
Wade found me asleep.... Collie, it's good of you to come. You look
so--so wonderful! I never saw your face glow like that. And your
eyes--oh!"
"You think I'm pretty, then?" she asked, dreamily, not occupied at all
with that thought.
He uttered a contemptuous laugh.
"Come closer," he said, reaching for her with a clumsy bandaged hand.
Down upon her knees Columbine fell. Both hands flew to cover her face.
And as she swayed forward she shook violently, and there escaped her
lips a little, muffled sound.
"Why--Collie!" cried Moore, astounded. "Good Heavens! Don't cry! I--I
didn't mean anything. I only wanted to feel you--touch your hand."
"Here," she answered, blindly holding out her hand, groping for his till
she found it. Her other was still pressed to her eyes. One moment longer
would Columbine keep her secret--hide her eyes--revel in the unutterable
joy and sadness of this crisis that could come to a woman only once.
"What in the world?" ejaculated the cowboy, now bewildered. But he
possessed himself of the trembling hand offered. "Collie, you act so
strange.... You're not crying!... Am I only locoed, or flighty, or what?
Dear, look at me."
Columbine swept her hand from her eyes with a gesture of utter
surrender.
"Wilson, I'm ashamed--and sad--and gloriously happy," she said, with
swift breathlessness.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because of--of something I have to tell you," she whispered.
"What is that?"
She bent over him.
"Can't you guess?"
He turned pale, and his eyes burned with intense fire.
"I won't guess ... I daren't guess."
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"It's something that's been true for years--forever, it seems--something
I never dreamed of till last night," she went on, softly.
"Collie!" he cried. "Don't torture me!"
"Do you remember long ago--when we quarreled so dreadfully--because you
kissed me?" she asked.
"Do you think I could kiss _you_--and live to forget?"
"I love you!" she whispered, shyly, feeling the hot blood burn her.
That whisper transformed Wilson Moore. His arm flashed round her neck
and pulled her face down to his, and, holding her in a close embrace, he
kissed her lips and cheeks and wet eyes, and then again her lips,
passionately and tenderly.
Then he pressed her head down upon his breast.
"My God! I can't believe! Say it again!" he cried, hoarsely.
Columbine buried her flaming face in the blanket covering him, and her
hands clutched it tightly. The wildness of his joy, the strange strength
and power of his kisses, utterly changed her. Upon his breast she lay,
without desire to lift her face. All seemed different, wilder, as she
responded to his appeal: "Yes, I love you! Oh, I love--love--love you!"
"Dearest!... Lift your face.... It's true now. I know. It's proved. But
let me look at you."
Columbine lifted herself as best she could. But she was blinded by tears
and choked with utterance that would not come, and in the grip of a
shuddering emotion that was realization of loss in a moment when she
learned the supreme and imperious sweetness of love.
"Kiss me, Columbine," he demanded.
Through blurred eyes she saw his face, white and rapt, and she bent to
it, meeting his lips with her first kiss which was her last.
"Again, Collie--again!" he begged.
"No--no more," she whispered, very low, and encircling his neck with her
arms she hid her face and held him convulsively, and stifled the sobs
that shook her.
Then Moore was silent, holding her with his free hand, breathing hard,
and slowly quieting down. Columbine felt then that he knew that there
was something terribly wrong, and that perhaps he dared not voice his
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