The cave man theory interested Carley only as
mythology.
Lonelier, wilder, grander grew Glenn's canyon. Carley was finally forced to
shift her attention from the intimate objects of the canyon floor to the
aloof and unattainable heights. Singular to feel the difference! That which
she could see close at hand, touch if she willed, seemed to, become part of
her knowledge, could be observed and so possessed and passed by. But the
gold-red ramparts against the sky, the crannied cliffs, the crags of the
eagles, the lofty, distant blank walls, where the winds of the gods had
written their wars--these haunted because they could never be possessed.
Carley had often gazed at the Alps as at celebrated pictures. She admired,
she appreciated--then she forgot. But the canyon heights did not affect her
that way. They vaguely dissatisfied, and as she could not be sure of what
they dissatisfied, she had to conclude that it was in herself. To see, to
watch, to dream, to seek, to strive, to endure, to find! Was that what they
meant? They might make her thoughtful of the vast earth, and its endless
age, and its staggering mystery. But what more!
The storm that had threatened blackened the sky, and gray scudding clouds
buried the canyon rims, and long veils of rain and sleet began to descend.
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