# A Literary Courtship/Chapter 9

NOW that I have once begun describing things, I find I have quite a taste for it, and I should like nothing better than to try my hand on the Garden of the Gods. How the huge red "Gateway" appears as you drive across the Mesa,—in fact the Mesa itself, that splendid natural boulevard away up in the air, with the plains below on the one hand, and the mountains rising up on the other, and the silvery line of leafless cotton​woods, running like a brook from the entrance to Glen Eyrie along the road to the Gateway. But what I should like best would be to describe the Gateway itself, made of two thundering great red rocks standing up on end, with Pike's Peak looming in fine style beyond, and a delicious blue sky overhead. We liked it better than we had meant to, for, as John said, it was undeniably theatrical, and it ought not to appeal to a refined taste. But Miss Lamb said she hated a refined taste, and Mrs. Ellerton remarked that she couldn't see anything exactly unrefined about the Garden, though she often wished the rocks were of a quieter color.
"O Aunt Bessie!" Miss Lamb cried, "you don't know what you are saying! It is the color that makes Colorado so adorable. I am sure that when we go East we shall find green quite tame by comparison."
"Oh! I wouldn't have the rocks green," Mrs. Ellerton replied, with a gleam of ​humor. "Only sometimes when the sun strikes them they seem to glare at one."
Before going through the Gateway we drove to the northern end of the massive wall of rocks and stopped in the shadow. They call the view there, where only the narrow upright end is visible, the Tower of Babel; but, as John said, it looked more like the prow ofa great ship bearing down upon us.
"That is what I always think of," said Miss Lamb. "I sometimes feel quite afraid to stand here in the shadow. It seems as though it must come rushing upon one, or topple over from the shock of arrested motion. In the summer, when it doesn't cast a shadow just here, you don't have at allthe same impression. I never come here in summer."
"Then you enjoy the feeling of imminent destruction?" John asked.
"I like power," she answered.
"Then," thought I to myself, "you are pretty sure to like John, for he is power personified."
​Mrs. Ellerton and I, meanwhile, talked plain English on the back seat.
"I never before knew Lilian to let any one else drive," Mrs. Ellerton observed. "She is not usually happy unless she holds the reins."
I hoped John did not hear this remark, for I thought it would make him conceited. But Miss Lamb must have heard it, for she immediately turned to John and asked: "Does the make-believe Miss Lamb like to drive?'"
"She never gives up the reins," John replied.
"Does she drive well?"
"She thinks she does."
"And you?"
"I think she does too."
"Is there anything she does not do well?" asked Mrs. Ellerton.
"According to John, I don't believe there is," I answered.
"There are a good many things she does not do at all," said John.
"What are they?" queried Miss Lamb.
​"Oh, all sorts of womanly accomplishments. Needle-work and piano playing and sketching in water colors."
"She writes a very good note."
"Do you claim that as a womanly accomplishment?"
"Not exclusively. But it is an accomplishment of hers."
Everything seemed to conspire to tickle John's vanity.
"The critics think she has an 'almost masculine power,'" I observed, casually. "Do you see anything of that in her letters?"
"Oh, no! Her letters are extremely lady-like. Don't you think so, Aunt Bessie?"
"I beg your pardon," said Aunt Bessie. "I am afraid I was not listening. I was trying to make out whether that rock was Ben. Butler or the Irish Emigrant."
"It is too good a rock for either," her niece protested. "Isn't it a shame," she continued, turning to me, "to call these splendid rocks names!"
​Miss Lamb always had a very kind way of referring things to me, but I did not deceive myself for a moment.
"Speaking of names," I said, "what a pity that Pike's Peak could not have been called something else."
"Yes," said John. "Aside from its ugliness, it is absurd to call a great round dome like that by such a spikèd name."
"We thought so, too, at first," said Miss Lamb. "We decided it ought to be called the 'Manitou.' That would have been both sonorous and significant. But after a while we got to like Pike's Peak, perhaps because it was so grotesquely inappropriate, and when our Swedish parlor-maid called it 'the Pike,' we felt that that could not be improved upon, and 'the Pike' it has remained in our vocabulary."
Undeniably Miss Lamb had humor. But then, so had Leslie Smith. Some of the poems were as sparkling as others were lugubrious. They were evidently the work of a many-sided genius. It ​was perplexing and it was ludicrous too, I must admit. The young lady was so unconscious of the scrutiny she was undergoing, and she made her little remarks so totally unaware of the way they were being twisted and turned by two inquiring minds! I do not think, however, that John listened in the same spirit of investigation that animated me. Occasionally some chance word of hers may have aroused his suspicions. It was probably in a spirit of speculation that he suddenly asked Miss Lamb if she remembered Leslie Smith's poem comparing Colorado to Egypt.
"Yes, indeed," she said; "I remember it perfectly. The resemblance is very striking."
"Were you ever in Egypt?" I asked.
"Yes, I went there with my uncle and aunt before we came to Colorado. We were all impressed by the similarity in climate and general aspect when we came here."
How coolly she said it! Yes, women are deep.
​But while John may have found food for reflection in such coincidences and suggestions, I think that, as a rule, when in Miss Lamb's society, he was too much occupied with her as she chanced to reveal herself, to revert to any surmises as to her concealments.
We had driven the length of the "Garden," and were passing out by what Miss Lamb called the "Back Gate," a passage between two huge boulders, one of which is quite the conventional balance rock, excepting that it is brick-red. After that, there was no scenery to speak of (for we turned our backs to the mountains) until, as we returned over the lower Mesa, we got a broad view of the plains to the eastward. The vast, undulating expanse, streaked with mysterious currents of light, looked wonderfully like the sea, with the bluffs or "buttes" rising here and there like rock-bound islands, and the smoke from a distant railway train simulating an out-going steamer.
​"To return to the ever interesting author of Spoils," said Miss Lamb, as we crossed the bridge over the totally dry bed of the Monument River. "Do you not think Miss Lamb's handwriting very like a man's?"
"Oh, all literary people write alike," I made haste to say. "I wish you could see Mrs. Raynor's handwriting. It is so like Brunt's that you could scarcely tell them apart."
This was pure fiction, but the moment was critical.
"I think you must be right," Miss Lamb replied. "Do you know, I find Mr. Brunt's hand and Miss Lamb's of exactly the same character. His is naturally a little larger and bolder, but there is exactly the same turn in both."
"I have noticed it myself," said Brunt, imperturbably. "It is really singular that two people of such different temperament should write so much alike. It is enough to refute all theories as to the ​significance of the handwriting in character-reading."
"Have you heard from Miss Lamb recently?" Mrs. Ellerton asked.
"Dickson hears from her oftener than I do," was John's reply. "What was your last news, Dick?"
"My last news of her," said I, promptly, "was that she thought no beings so enviable as those who were in Colorado. She inquired very particularly for you, Miss Lamb, and said she wished she might hear from you again. She said you were too chary of your letters."
"She is very kind, I am sure," said Miss Lamb, a little coolly I thought, "but I should be sorry to encroach upon her time without even a poor pretext."
"I should think your time and attention were to be considered also," said John. "Believe me, Miss Lamb, you get the best of authors in their books. It does not often pay to correspond with them."
"What heresy!" cried I. "You are ​areal dog in the manger, Jack. You know there is no one whose letters you enjoy as you do those of the author of Spoils."
"Perhaps I have a pretext for writing," said Miss Lamb, relenting. "She would be interested to hear my account of your visit. Do you really think it would not be a bore to her if I were to write?"
As I assured her of the pleasure it must give, especially with such subjects as ourselves to expatiate upon, we drove up before Mrs. Ellerton's door, and John, handing Miss Lamb from the buckboard, said: "When are we to have a business talk?"
"Whenever you will be so kind as to come and see me," she replied, graciously.
"May I come this afternoon?"
"Pray do. I am sure I could not wait much longer before talking over our book."
"Dick," said John, as we drove down the avenue, "I did not know you were such an unconscionable villain."
​"I did not know it myself, dear boy!" said I, without looking at him. I did not particularly care to see the expression of his face. But I went on, callously: "I don't know when—I have been so pleased with myself. Couldn't you make use of my character in your next work of fiction? 'The Traitor Confidant' would be a capital title, and I shall take great pleasure in furnishing more 'copy' for the character."
"But, Dick, don't you see what a shabby trick you have played upon Miss Lamb?"
"Of course I do. That is where the villainy comes in. And won't it be nuts when the letter arrives!"