“M-my dear old girl!” he said. “I’m dashed jolly glad I’m alive.”
Hilda said in a whisper:
“Ah, so am I!”
And then she fled—fled in panic-stricken retreat to the house. Blindly she found her way to her room, and cast herself down upon her bed. She was trembling with an ecstasy that stung her by its very sweetness.
CHAPTER XXIV
Of all the emotions, whether sublime or ridiculous, that obsess the victim of that curious malady of the heart which we call Love, none is more torturing or devastating in its effect than that of jealousy with its train of violent reactions.
Love affected and afflicted Hilda and Cheerio in different and yet in similar ways.
Hilda, kneeling by her bed, her arms clasped about her pillow, into which she had buried her hot young face, gave herself up at first to the sheer ecstasy and glow of those first exalting, electrical thrills. All she comprehended was that she was in love.
Love! It was the most beautiful, the most sacred, the most precious and the most terrible thing in all the universe. That was what Hilda thought. Gradually her thoughts began to assemble themselves coherently. Sitting upon the floor by her bed, Hilda brought back to mind every incident, every word and look that had passed between her and Cheerio that she could recall since first he had come to O Bar O.
Who was this man she loved? What was he doing at O Bar O? Where had he come from? Who were his people? She did not even know his name. The very things that had aroused the derision of the men, his decently-kept hands, the daily shave and bath, his speech, his manner, his innate cleanliness of thought and person—these bespoke the gentleman, and Hilda McPherson had the ranch girl’s contempt for a mere gentleman. In the ranching country, a man was a man. That was the best that could be said of him.