His arms tightened about her in a clasp that robbed her of breath,—and of all will to breathe. She felt herself crushed against the man’s chest, and her upturned face was buried in fierce ecstatic kisses. Kisses wildly awkward and vehement; those of a man unused to giving or receiving caresses. Kisses that kindled in the girl a swift bliss that blinded,—enthralled her.
For a moment Desirée stood moveless, leaning back limply in the iron arms that bound her to her lover’s breast. His kisses rained down on her rapt, white face; upon her wide, starry eyes, her loosened hair.
Then, with a gasping murmur of joy she could not put into words, she suddenly threw her arms about Conover’s thick neck and gave him kiss for kiss. The rank scent of tobacco upon his lips,—the bristle of a day-old beard,—the ugly face itself with its undershot jaw, its square, crude massiveness,—all these things were nothing. Behind them she read and gloried in the love that blazed in the Fighter’s pale eyes. That was all she saw,—had ever seen,—would ever see.
Whether for a minute or for a century the two stood clasped heart to heart, soul to soul, neither could ever remember. At last the great arms released her. The triumphant love that shone in Conover’s face was again tinged with a wonder that was almost reverence.
“Why in blazes didn’t we know this before?” he demanded, hoarse and shaking.
“Speak for yourself!” sobbed the girl. “I’ve known it always, always, always! Ever since I was a child. Every minute since then. There’s just been you! Nothing else counted. And—and you never—”
“Never cared?” he guessed. “Girl, I’ve cared so much it was the life of me. An’ because it was the life I lived n’ the breath I breathed, I didn’t even guess it. Never once. Oh it’s like I’d been trav’lin’ through heaven blin’folded. Why didn’t you tell me? Why wasn’t it like this two years ago? Dey, if I’d known—if I’d understood I felt that way ’bout you, I’d a’—no, I wouldn’t, either. I’d a kep’ away for fear of breakin’ my heart. For it wouldn’t a’ seemed possible you could love me. Say you love me, girl!” he ordered, fiercely. “Say it over an’ over—a lot of times!”
“Love you?” murmured Desirée, her sobs dying away. “Love you?—Why,—!”
With a sudden passion of adoration she flung her arms again about his neck, straining him close to her. She could not speak. She could only press her soft, hot face close—ever so close—to his rough cheek; and cling fast to him as though she feared he might vanish, dreamlike, from her clasp.
“When you went away,” he continued after a divine silence, “it was like the heart of me had been torn out. I didn’t know what ailed me. I thought it was a craze to work. An’ I worked till I set all Granite to totterin’. An’ all the time it was you,—you! Then when I saw you again, there at the station in the mist, it seemed like I’d come home. I wanted to catch hold of your dress an’ beg you never to get out of my sight again. An’ I was ashamed of feelin’ that way, an’ I was afraid you’d find out an’ laugh at me. I was wild in love with you, girl,—an’ I never knew it. Did—did you know I was?”