He
would storm and bluster at the idea.
Of course the Crag would let a woman love him in any old kind of new or
experimental way she wanted to, if it made her happy. He would take her
cup of tenderness and drink it as if it were sacramental wine, on his
knees. But he doesn't count. He has to be man to so many people that
there is danger of his becoming a kind of superman. Think of the old
Mossback being a progressive thing like that! I laughed out loud at the
idea--but the echo was dismal.
I wonder if Sallie will marry him.
And as I sat and thought and puzzled, the moonlight got richer and more
glowing, and it wooed open the throats of the thousand little
honeysuckle blossoms, clinging to the vine on the trellis, until they
poured out a perfect symphony of perfume to mingle in a hallelujah from
the lilacs and roses that ascended to the very stars themselves.
I had dropped my head on my arms, and let my eyes go roaming out to the
dim hills that banked against the radiant sky, when somebody seated
himself beside me, and a whiff of tobacco blew across my face, sweet
with having joined in the honeysuckle chorus. Nobody said a word for a
long time, and then I looked up and laughed into the deep, gray eyes
looking tenderly down into mine. With a thrill I realized that there
was one man in the world I could offer the chalice to and _trust_ him to
drink--moderately.
"Jamie," I said in a voice as young as it used to be when I trailed at
his heels, "thank you for letting me be contrary and independent and
puzzling.
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