A Literary Courtship/Chapter 12

by Anna Fuller

XII.

Her Cañon.

FOR a few days we did not see as much of Miss Lamb as John, for one, would have liked. We found we knew a good many people, and there were dinners and picnics and tennis galore. Sometimes we met Miss Lamb on these occasions, and sometimes we did not, but even when she was of the party she was usually taken possession of by people who seemed to think they had a prior claim.

One night there was a heavy fall of snow and, the next morning, the sun was shining like mad and all the world was glittering white. The mountains were much improved by this dispensation, and though the snow in the streets had vanished by noon, and the foothills soon shook it off, the high mountains were not so bare after that, and the nightcap had turned into a superb snowy canopy which was immensely becoming to Pike's Peak.

We had promised Miss Lamb not to visit North Cheyenne Cañon until she should give us leave. She said, when we first came, that there was too much ice for a comfortable ride, and, as she justly observed, one could not appreciate nature with one's thoughts all bent upon one's horse's feet.

The snow having blanketed the ice and rendered the road passable, we took advantage of the favorable circumstance, and one morning soon after, we found ourselves cantering, I and the two Lilians, through the town and out toward Cheyenne Mountain. It was an exhilarating ride in the frosty air, with the sun blazing upon our backs and the buttresses of Cheyenne frowning down more and more superbly as we approached them.

"Mr. Dickson told me of your Indian war-whoop out on the plains," Miss Lamb said, as we rode along three abreast. "I know just how you felt when you did it."

"Try it yourself some time," said John. "It will do you lots of good."

"Oh, no! That is one of a woman's disabilities. If I were to try to shout, the result would be a shriek. Women are always in danger of doing something shrill if they allow themselves the slightest intensity."

"Yes, a 'slight intensity' might be shrill," John admitted with a laugh. "Did you ever run across anything so phenomenal?"

"Indeed I have," she rejoined, good-humoredly. "It is the most common form of weakness. Have you never met with it?"

"You convince me that I have," said John, who is always delighted if he can get anybody to talk in riddles to him. "Is it not a characteristic of Lila Jean in Spoils?"

"Precisely," she agreed. Then turning to me: "That was rather well parried, don't you think? Henceforth 'slightly intense' is promoted from the level of bad English to that of an elaborate theory."

"Speaking of Spoils," she said later, as the horses fell into a walk, "you have never told me, Mr. Brunt, how you like the book."

"I think it an unusually strong novel. Do not you?"

"Oh, there can be no doubt about that."

"But you do not altogether like it?"

"Yes, I think I do. Yes, I like the book very much indeed. I am not sure that Maud is not my favorite heroine. It is Lansinge whom I am not quite reconciled to."

"Why not?"

"I suppose, because he is not enough of a hero to suit my romantic notions."

"He is surely the central figure of the book. I think myself he is the best-conceived character in it."

"That may be. Indeed, I am sure it is. But he is not straightforward enough for my taste."

"He does finesse, I grant you. But he is never dishonorable."

"Dishonorable? Oh, no! There are many degrees between dishonorableness and the sort of transcendent integrity one requires in a hero. I suppose Lansinge is pretty honest as men go. I mean humans in general—and—here is the cañon."

We had been walking our horses for some time through the snow which was deep in the shade of the evergreens. The entrance to the cañon was not so marked as to be fixed at any one point, but at Miss Lamb's word a sort of hush seemed to descend upon us, much as though we had entered one of those solemn old cathedrals in South Germany. The road was narrow, so that we soon went single file. Miss Lamb led the way, her horse making the first marks in the unbroken snow. Not strictly the first marks, however, for soon our guide turned and pointed out to us the tiny footprints of little creatures who had crossed the open space in search of water from the icethatched brook. Some of them we thought must have been coyotes, the tracks being as large as a child's shoe. But oftener the little marks suggested rabbits and squirrels, timid, furry bits of wild life, the thought of whose bright eyes and quick, sensitive motions seemed to animate the lonely scene. Once in a while we came to a bridge over the frozen brook, whose course the road followed. In the shadow of the gigantic gray and red walls on whose perpendicular heights there was no chance for the snow to cling, the network of leafless bushes, bending over the brook, was glittering with ice, while the branches of the blue-green firtrees, drooped beneath their feathery burden. The way those walls towered up above it all was astonishing, with the sky like a blue roof spanning the interval.

I rode last, and it was pretty to see the other horses winding on ahead. I do not know that I ever saw a woman ride so well as Miss Lamb. If you notice, lots of women make a good appearance when the horse canters or trots. When the motion is marked they get going with it very well. But there was a litheness about Miss Lamb's figure, even when the horse was laboring up hill with his head hanging, which was rhythmic as music.

After a while we came to a widening of the cañon, where a cloisteral group of trees made a natural resting-place. Here our guide turned and waited for us. She had a brilliant color which quite flashed upon one, after having watched her dark hair and habit so long. At the moment I could not but admit that there was something incongruous in the supposition that she was the author of those metrical laments.

"Your cañon is very fine," said John, lifting his hat in chivalrous style.

"I am glad to see that you acknowledge my ownership," she responded, gaily. "I took formal possession here long ago."

"It is good of you to admit the general public," said I.

"It is only the initiated who ever really get in," she replied. "But those who are kept out do not know it."

"I wonder whether we are in?" John queried.

"At least you know it if you are not!"

"Oh! Brunt's in, fast enough," said I. "You can see that at a glance. But seriously, Miss Lamb, this is mighty fine. Can we go any farther?"

"Won't you let me go ahead?" John begged, as we put our horses in motion. "There were some places back there where I didn't enjoy seeing you feel your way."

"Very well. I will try to be more philosophical, and to take pleasure in any perils which may threaten you. But don't try to keep in too close to the wall. There is a treacherous slant in the road."

"Thanks. I will court destruction on the outer verge. Will you engage, if I go over, to watch the catastrophe with a 'slight intensity'?"

"I will engage that you do not go over. It is not Mr. Brunt's way to go over precipices; is it, Mr. Dickson?"

"Not usually. But there might be a first time."

This part of the cañon was as wild, but not nearly as solemn as the other, and we got quite sociable again. We passed a waterfall, which made a bold plunge into a rocky basin below us. The two Lilians stopped to examine it at rather an unfortunate spot for me, as it obliged my horse to linger on an ugly shelf where his hind leg kept slipping out, and I felt myself in danger of making a more intimate acquaintance than I wished, with said waterfall. But just as we were about to descend gracefully, hind quarters foremost, into the abysm, Miss Lamb, turning to speak to me, saw my predicament, and crying, "Go on, quick, Mr. Brunt," touched up her horse, kindly giving me another chance of life.

"Why didn't you tell us to go on?" she asked, reproachfully, when we were on safe ground again.

"I couldn't be so rude," said I.

"What was the matter, Dick? Were we in your way?" asked John.

"Not in the least," I replied. "It was the wall of the cañon that was incommoding me."

I always make a point of appearing especially nonchalant when my heart is in my mouth.

The descent was just a little less exhilarating than the ride up, but altogether it was a fine trip, and when we were cantering again, three abreast, toward the town, we all agreed that it had been a success, and that we would have another ride soon.

"Unless we disturb your tête-à-tête," I suggested, with a glance at the tiger-eye head and neck.

"Oh! Aunt Bessie has been telling tales," cried Miss Lamb. "It isn't often that Tiger and his mistress get a chance to play the guide—to two such appreciative tourists," she added politely.

"Dick," said John, thoughtfully, after we had left Miss Lamb at her gate, "do you think Miss Lamb would consider us models of 'transcendent integrity'?"

"My dear fellow," said I, "That was her definition of a hero. I had no idea you were so ambitious."

"I am ambitious of common honesty," he replied, with some warmth, "and I begin to feel remarkably like a pickpocket."

"Rubbish, Jack! You are all right! Don't go bothering your head about the romantic notions of a highstrung poetess and blighted being."

"I don't more than half believe that Miss Lamb is a poetess. If she is, she is an uncommonly good one, and she is not the kind of woman whom it is altogether pleasant to be playing tricks upon. Confound that novel! I wish I had never written it."

It was like Jack to confound the novel, and not his "experiment"; but I merely called his attention to the fact that, if he had not written the novel, he would never have ridden up Cheyenne Cañon with Miss Lamb—and me—and then I left him at the livery stable and went and took another look at the Bengal tiger before luncheon. In those days of dawning insecurity about John, it was always a solace to commune with the Bengal tiger. It would be such a peculiarly fitting gift if the occasion should arise, that the thought of it was superficially soothing to my gravest apprehensions.