“The velvet grass seems carpet meet
For the light fairies’ lively feet;
Yon tufted knoll with daisies strown,
Might make proud Oberon a throne;
While hidden in the thicket nigh
Puck should brood o’er his frolic sly;
And where profuse the wood-vetch clings
Round ash and elm in verdant rings,
Its pale and azure penciled flower
Should canopy Titania’s bower.”
It is not possible to imagine a stronger sense of contrast than that
of which we are conscious on coming to this gay watering-place out of
the wild gorge through which we have passed, and after the rough life
of which we have had a glimpse. We feel as if we had entered by magic
into another world. Here is a large hotel, with all the appliances of
civilization: well-dressed people in every direction on the piazzas
and lawns; stir, movement, and all that air of do-nothing gayety which
pervades such places.
No summer resort in the country possesses greater advantages than the
Warm Springs—if these advantages were only made the most of. Even now,
despite the constant annoyance which bad management causes, the place
is very popular, especially among the people of Tennessee and the Gulf
States, who go there in numbers. Nature has certainly done every thing
for it. The great hills recede, forming a beautiful basin. There is a
green, well-shaded lawn in front of the hotel, at the foot of which the
French Broad sweeps, chanting its everlasting refrain, while on the
other side bold cliffs and mountains rise. In the rear of the hotel
flows Spring Creek, one of the brightest and loveliest of mountain
streams. It runs down a picturesque gorge in crystal rapids and falls,
with the laurel-clad cliffs towering so sheer and steep on each side
that it is only by springing from rock to rock in the bed of the
stream that one is able to explore its wild beauty. The warm springs
are large pools that bubble up near the river and range in heat from
98° to 102° Fahr. They are almost of miraculous virtue for rheumatism
and neuralgia, and one sees helpless cripples who have the entire use
of all their limbs in the bath, when out of it they cannot move hand
or foot. The worst cases of rheumatism are always alleviated by these
waters, and many persons are wholly cured.
We cross the river in a ferry-boat—the bridge not having been yet
rebuilt—and in doing so are the objects of many stares from a party of
equestrians who are waiting on the other side. At a place of this kind
newcomers are always certain of being stared at— generally in a very
ill-bred manner—but on this occasion there is more than ordinary excuse
for the starers. Evidently they are at a loss to imagine where we can
possibly have come from. They know that Laurel is “up,” for the stage
from Asheville has not crossed since Monday, and this is Thursday. As
we approach the bank, we hear them exchanging wonders and conjectures.
“The waters must be down,” says one.
“Of course the stage will come to-night,” remarks another.
“We could assure them to the contrary, if we chose,” says Sylvia. “Our
boatman told us, you know, that the stage cannot possibly cross until
to-morrow—if then.”
We drive into the grounds and up to the door of the hotel with the air
of people who feel that they have a right to make a sensation.
Our appearance certainly excites a great deal of wonder and interest
among the lounging groups on the long piazza.
“From Asheville?” says the astonished clerk who opens the carriage
door. “How is it possible you’ve crossed Laurel? The stage hasn’t been
here in a week.”
“People can generally accomplish what they want to do,” says Eric. “The
stage-drivers are probably not so anxious to cross as we were. Here we
are, and we want good rooms immediately.”
Thanks to this young gentleman’s somewhat arbitrary energy, the good
rooms— and they are excellent ones—are obtained. In this respect we
are more fortunate than many others. Let people show any capability of
being imposed upon, and hotel proprietors are commonly the people to
take advantage of the fact.
“It is the most disagreeable feature of this place,” says a gentleman
a few days later, “that you can obtain nothing without such a great
amount of unpleasant bullying.”
Not alone at the Warm Springs, however, does such short-sighted policy
prevail. Who that has traveled has not suffered often in this manner,
and been wrought to indignation by the deception and imposition which
the keepers of many places of resort delight to practise, and injure
themselves more grievously than they know by practising them?
The rooms at the Warm Springs are admirably furnished, as far superior
in size, comfort, and upholstery to those of the famous Virginia
White Sulphur as a first-class hotel is superior to an ordinary
boarding-house. And the table is as good as can reasonably be desired.
Sylvia, it is true, casts a discontented glance over the bill-of-fare
and remarks that she sees no mention of venison or pheasants—but Eric
and Charley laugh at her.
“You’d like a bear-steak, also, wouldn’t you?” the latter asks. “You
must go a little farther from cut-glass and damask before you find
those things, _ma belle_.”
“Is there no game around here?” asks Mr. Lanier. “There ought to be.”
“There is none for amateur hunters,” answers Eric. “I was here for a
week last summer, and I soon saw how the thing was managed. A party
of gentlemen went on a deer-hunt. Being ignorant of the country and
having no dogs, they engaged some of the mountaineers to ‘drive’ for
them. These fellows regard the deer as their monopoly, so they station
the strangers at certain stands, then take the dogs and drive the deer
in the opposite direction, receive their pay in the evening, and have
probably also a deer which has been killed by one of their own number.
After trying this lively amusement for a few days, the would-be hunters
are generally disgusted, and firmly persuaded that there is no such
thing as game in the mountains.”
“Is there no chance of a stranger _ever_ killing a deer, then?” asks Mr.
Lanier.
“Not unless he is one of a party who know the country and drive for
themselves. Even under those circumstances, however, game is scarce
around here—so scarce that it is not worth hunting. I knew that, so I
left my gun in Asheville. We shall not have a good deer-hunt until we
go to Buck Forest—eh, Charley?”
“What is Buck Forest?” asks Sylvia.
“The jolliest place in the mountains,” answers Charley. “Let that
suffice until you go there.”
It does not take us long to fall into the groove of watering-place
life—the most absolutely idle and aimless life in the world. Who
does not know the routine? A vast amount of lounging and promenading
on piazzas, a considerable amount of flirtation under lawn-trees,
much smoking on the part of the men, unlimited gossip on the part of
the women, idle hours in the bowling-alley, idle hours by the river
pretending to fish, idlest hours of all in the ballroom, criticizing
faces and costumes, and dancing to poor music. This order of existence
pleases only two of our party—Aunt Markham, who likes comfort and
the baths, and Mr. Lanier, who likes comfort and society. Sylvia
tolerates it—being young and pretty, and not averse to admiration and
belleship—but she wears a wistful look when the horses are brought out
for a ride or drive, and she confides to me that she is longing to be
“up and away” to the wild, fair regions that lie yet unexplored before
us. Eric and Charley make no secret of the fact that they are bored,
and the latter relapses into his usual state of indolence—out of which
our day or two of roughing it temporarily roused him. He finds it too
much trouble to contend with Ralph Lanier and half a dozen other old
friends and new admirers for a share of Sylvia’s society, so he calmly
relinquishes all of it, and devotes himself to a flirtation with a
pretty Memphis belle. I see them for hours together on the lawn—Charley
lying lazily on the shadow-dappled grass. I find them by moonlight in
remote nooks of the piazzas, and see them stroll away for long walks
together. Sylvia says nothing, but her color heightens once or twice
when some one remarks on Mr. Kenyon’s “devotion” to Miss Hollis, and she
is more gracious than I have seen her yet in her manner to Mr. Lanier.
This gentleman expresses himself very much pleased with the Springs and
the company.
“It would be much more sensible to spend the rest of the summer here,
instead of wandering about the mountains, encountering all manner of
hardships,” he remarks one day, with the air of one who has fully made
up his mind.
Eric utters a long, low whistle.
“If you have any intention of that kind, mother,” he says, “pray give
me warning, and I’ll be off to-morrow.”
“To Buck Forest, I suppose,” says Sylvia, glancing round.
“To Buck Forest or some other place where there is something to be done
besides lounging and smoking. To a man who flirts—Charley there, for
instance—a place like this may be tolerable; but to me—”
“I beg to observe,” says Charley, “that not even flirting can make it
tolerable. A man must do something in self-defense—and flirting is one
of the easiest things to do— but, as for finding pleasure in it, that’s
another matter.”
“Don’t try to make us believe, my good fellow, that you haven’t found
pleasure in Miss Hollis’s society,” says Mr. Lanier, with the amiable
pleasantry of a victorious rival.
“It is not a matter of the least importance what you believe,” answers
Charley, more brusquely than he usually speaks.
“Have you all forgotten,” I interpose hastily, “that we have not seen
Paint Rock yet? Let us go down there to-morrow.”
“Let us go somewhere, by all means,” says Sylvia. “This kind of
tread-mill existence begins to oppress me with a sense of weariness. I
want to ride, to cross a swollen stream, to climb some rocks—to do any
thing that has the thrill of adventure in it.”
“There is not much adventure in climbing the Paint Rock,” says Eric,
“but if you are very anxious for a thrill, you may throw yourself off.”
“Thanks for the permission—but didn’t somebody talk of crossing the
river and going to Lovers’ Retreat this evening?”
There is nothing else to be done, so we all decide to go, and Charley
invites Miss Hollis to join our party. We cross the river, which
is beginning to lose its turbid tinge and wear its emerald tint
again—those of us who are prudent take the ferry-boat, those who are
imprudent use a small craft that lies at the foot of the lawn. The
latter crew consists of Charley, Miss Hollis, and Rupert. Sylvia would
like to be with them, but she does not say so—I only know as much by
the expression of her eyes as she watches the little boat shoot across
the rapid current, while our slow old ferryman has not pulled us half
across the stream.
We land on the other side at length, however, and stroll along the road
for some distance; then, turning, enter a narrow, shaded ravine. A
musical stream comes dashing over its rocks to meet us, up the bank of
which we take our course. There is no perceptible path, and the way is
very rough, but only Mr. Lanier complains of this.
“If these people had any enterprise,” he says, “they would have all
such places as this made accessible by good paths.”
“May a kind Fate keep such an idea from ever entering their heads!”
says Sylvia. “Can’t you see how much more delightful this is? Who cares
for a pleasure that costs no effort? We enjoy the cascade a great deal
more—my dress is caught, if you please— because we have trouble in
reaching it.”
“Do you think so?” asks the young man, a little skeptically, as he
unfastens the dress from the bush on which it is caught.
“O Mr. Kenyon, _how_ shall I ever climb over this?” cries Miss Hollis,
hesitating at the foot of a large rock which it is necessary to mount.
“There’s no difficulty at all,” says Rupert. “If you just put your foot
on that ledge and spring.”
[Illustration: “‘Let me lift you,’ says Charley.”]
“There will be still less difficulty if you let me lift you,” says
Charley. And he _does_ lift her—a very substantial weight she is,
too!—over the formidable obstacle. Then he stands, ready to assist
Sylvia in the same manner.
“I won’t trouble you,” she says, waving aside his offered hand. “I
don’t consider this any thing at all in the way of trial. Is that the
cascade yonder?”
Yes, it is the cascade—filling all the stillness with its fairy-like
murmur. Over rocks, across fallen trees, and through the dense growth
of laurel that fringes all these watercourses, we make our way to the
bank and go out on the rocks below the fall. The glen is only one of
thousands equally beautiful; but, as we stand, with the sheet of spray
and foam before us—a cascade that might be Undine herself—dense foliage
on each side, towering mountains above, and an atmosphere of green,
shadowy twilight— though we left the sun shining on the outside world,
pervading every thing—we are enchanted by its loveliness.
“It is like a miniature of Linville,” says Eric. “Fancy these walls of
rock two thousand feet high, and this stream a river, and you have an
idea of Linville Gorge.”
“I wish I could go there,” says Sylvia. “Is it quite impossible for us
to do so this summer, Eric?”
“Quite impossible—according to our present plan of travel. Don’t you
know that it is an important part of sight-seeing to know what must be
left unseen?”
“And this is Lovers’ Retreat!” says Rupert, standing on a mossy,
slippery rock in the middle of the stream. “If I were a lover, it seems
to me I should select a retreat that was not so damp—or so snaky.”
“What do you know about the sentiments of lovers?” asks Charley. “Let
me tell you that, when one is a victim of the tender passion, one does
not consider snakes.”
“Unless you see them,” says Eric. “And Rupert is right: this looks as
if it might be one of their favorite retreats.”
“I wish that the people who name places of this kind would consider
some other class of the world’s population besides lovers,” says Sylvia.
“They are the most interesting class, are they not?” asks Mr. Lanier.
“On the contrary, I think they are the most uninteresting,” she
answers, decidedly. “They are always selfish, absorbed in their own
affairs—and silly!”
“Dear me! What a list of charges,” says Miss Hollis, with an affected
laugh. “Take warning, gentlemen! Miss Norwood will have little sympathy
for you if you fall in love.”
“Then we can come to this retreat and find some kindly rattlesnake to
put an end to our pain,” says Charley. “Here’s a pretty flower. Will
you have it?”
It is Miss Hollis to whom he offers the flower—a delicate wild
azalia—and she accepts it most graciously.
“I am so fond of flowers,” she says. “I see a scarlet lobelia growing
yonder on the rocks by the cascade. I wish—oh, I _do_ wish I could get
that!”
“But you can’t!” says Rupert, looking at the indicated flower, which
grows in an inaccessible place—on the face of the rock over which the
cascade tumbles, with a deep pool below.
“Here is a lobelia,” says Mr. Lanier, who has been prying about among
bushes and stones. “Will it not do as well?”
“Oh, no,” says Miss Hollis, shaking her head. “It is not _that_
lobelia.—Mr. Kenyon, can’t you find any way to get it for me? I should
be so delighted, and would wear it in my hair to-night.”
“With such an inducement, I must certainly make an effort to get it,”
says Charley, gallantly—but he looks doubtfully at the position of the
flower.
“Charley, don’t be a fool!” says Eric, aside. “You can’t possibly get
it without risking a plunge-bath, and it will be no joke to fall into
that pool. It must be six or eight feet deep.”
“I feel as if I can never be satisfied if I don’t have it,” says Miss
Hollis, with the prettiest air of appeal.
“Then you shall have it,” says Charley, springing up the bank.
“What on earth is he going to do?” I say.
What he is going to do is soon apparent. We hear him breaking through
the bushes by the side of the stream, and presently he appears on the
top of the fall. Lying down there, and holding by a laurel-shrub, he
leans far over the rock, and tries to gather the flower. It is a most
precarious position, and one which it is not pleasant to contemplate.
“Go back!” Eric, Rupert, and I cry in chorus. “You can’t reach
it—you’ll certainly fall over. Go back!”
“O Mr. Kenyon, pray don’t!” cries Miss Hollis. She turns away and
covers her face with her hands. “I can’t look!” she says. “I really
can’t.—Please tell me if he falls.”
Sylvia looks on steadily—her color bright, her lips set.
“I hope he _will_ fall!” she says. “He deserves it for such folly.”
“He’ll go over head-foremost in a minute,” says Mr. Lanier,
philosophically.
Meanwhile Charley, deaf to our warnings, leans farther and farther
over the rock, reaches nearer and nearer the flower. At last his hand
touches it.
“By George, he’s got it!” cries Rupert, triumphantly.
The words are scarcely uttered before the laurel-bush, on which he
has bent his whole weight, breaks suddenly. He tries to recover his
balance—he catches desperately at another shrub—fails to reach it—and
goes, all in an instant, down into the pool!
[Illustration: A Mishap.]
The tremendous splash which he makes informs Miss Hollis—even before
our exclamations—what has occurred. She turns and screams, of
course—the women who make mischief are the women who always scream over
it. Nobody heeds her. Eric and Rupert spring forward just as Charley’s
head rises like a cork. A stroke or two brings him to water where he
can wade. Then the others assist him out and deposit him, dripping, on
the rocks.
“I’ve a great mind to say ‘Serves you right!’” remarks Eric. “I hope
you are satisfied.”
“I believe I am,” replies Charley, as soon as he can speak. “But I
have the flower.—You’ll excuse my coming near you in my present moist
condition, Miss Hollis—but here it is.”
He gives it to Rupert, who presents it to the young lady.
“I can’t tell you how much I shall prize it,” she cries, “nor how much
I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble to gratify me; but I
would give _any thing_ if you had not fallen into the water. I was
horribly frightened, for I felt _sure_ you would be drowned.”
“Thanks,” says Charley. “I might have been, perhaps, if I had struck my
head against the rock. Luckily I had presence of mind enough to turn a
somersault, so I escaped a fractured skull.”
“You’ll not escape a cold, if you don’t go at once to the hotel and
change your dress,” I say anxiously. “Miss Hollis will excuse you,
since you have suffered such a misadventure in her service.”
“I will go with him!” cries Miss Hollis, eagerly. “Since he suffered in
my service, I should be _very_ ungrateful to send him back alone.”
“You are exceedingly kind,” says Charley, “but I must deprive myself of
the pleasure of your companionship, for once. You would not fancy the
rate at which I must walk—not to speak of my excessive dampness.”
He rises as he speaks—a ludicrous figure, certainly—and moves away. In
reaching the bank he passes Sylvia, who has not uttered a word since he
fell.
“I hope you were not very much startled,” he says, pausing before her,
with a laugh.
“Not at all,” she answers, looking at him with a cool, bright glance.
“You know my nerves are very good. I had no idea that you would be
drowned.”
“And would not have cared very much if I had been, I dare say,” he
remarks carelessly. “Good nerves are capital things—in their way.—Well,
_au revoir_ to you all!— Miss Hollis, I shall have the pleasure of
seeing you in the ballroom to-night.”
He disappears, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog as he goes. When
the last glimpse of his figure has vanished, we look at each other and,
yielding to an overmastering inclination, burst into a peal of laughter.
Miss Hollis appears in the ballroom with the lobelia in her hair that
night, but Charley’s devotion is by no means so excessive as it has
been. Whether the plunge-bath has cooled his ardor, or whether he is
alarmed by the melting glances with which the young lady favors him, it
is impossible to say, but the change in his manner is very evident. I
remark this when he comes down and sits by me.
“One can’t keep a flirtation at high-water mark all the time,” he says.
“There must be ebbs in all tides. To tell you the truth, Miss Hollis is
pretty, but insipid to an appalling degree.”
“You must have made that discovery very recently.”
“No, I have been aware of it for some time; but there are certain moods
in which one is more intolerant of insipidity than in others.”
“I am afraid you bear malice for your plunge in the pool; but you had
your own folly to blame for that, as well as hers. By-the-by, do you
think you will suffer from it?”
“Suffer!” he laughs. “Not in the least. How well Sylvia is looking
to-night! I suppose it is not worth while for me to ask her to
dance—she would certainly be ‘engaged.’ Does she mean to marry that
fellow Lanier?”
“You had better ask her if you are curious on the subject. I have no
patience with men who try to obtain such information at second hand. A
faint heart never yet won a woman—and never deserved to win one!”
“Ah!” says Charley, calmly. “But suppose the woman is not to be won by
any kind of a heart? If I asked Sylvia such a question, she would tell
me that it was no affair of mine.”
“And that is all you know about it!” I think, as he saunters away.
Puck’s words occur to me with great force—“Lord! what fools these
mortals be!”—and never such fools as in a matter that would seem to
demand, above all others, the exercise of the soundest sense.
The next day is appointed for the excursion to Paint Rock—distant seven
miles from the Springs, and consequently three miles over the Tennessee
border. Several additions to our party make it quite large. Aunt
Markham declines to go—seeing no attraction in rocks—but Eric fills
both carriages with sight-seers, and two or three equestrians swell
our number. Sylvia, as usual, is on horseback and looking her best—a
best which quite extinguishes Miss Hollis, who also rides, but whose
steed is poor and whose horsemanship is very defective. Eric places his
handsome Cecil at her service, but she is afraid to mount him; hence
Charley has the satisfaction of riding him. A better horse than Cecil
on which to “show off” graceful horsemanship it would be difficult to
find. He has not a single vicious trait, but his spirit would turn the
hair of a timid rider gray with terror. He dances as if he had been
reared in a circus, and, if he is required to stand for a minute, will
rear straight up on his hind legs and paw the air with his front feet.
He repeats this performance several times before we start—varying it
by waltzing on the same hind legs; all of which makes Charley (who is
a capital rider) appear to great advantage—to such advantage, indeed,
that I wickedly suspect him of inciting Cecil to some of the feats.
“O Mr. Kenyon, is _that_ the horse you wanted me to ride?” cries Miss
Hollis, pale with consternation. “Good heavens! what should I have
done!—He will break your neck—I am sure he will! Oh, pray don’t ride
him!”
Charley only laughs at this appeal.
“Soh, Cecil—steady, old boy!” he says, patting Cecil’s beautiful arched
neck. “He is gentle as a lamb,” he adds. “You could ride him without
danger. He is only spirited and anxious to be off.”
“I don’t think I like so much spirit,” says Miss Hollis, drawing her
own steed away and looking askance at Cecil’s curveting bounds.
Meanwhile, Sylvia’s pretty mare has caught the contagion, and is
champing her bit and pawing the ground.
“Neither of them likes to stand,” says Charley, looking at her.
“Suppose we give them a run to keep them from pulling our arms off?”
Sylvia—not perceiving all that lies behind this suggestion—assents.
The horses only need permission to go. Side by side they start, and,
keeping pace admirably, sweep down the carriage-drive along the front
of the hotel, and vanish around the corner of the building.
“I suppose they will be back in a minute,” says Mr. Lanier, looking
after them uneasily, “but it is very wrong of Kenyon to encourage Miss
Sylvia in riding so recklessly. There is always danger of an accident.”
[Illustration: The Runaways.]
“Sylvia can take care of herself,” says Eric, gathering up the reins—he
is to drive the phaeton—“and Charley is not likely to lead her into
danger.—Now, are all ready?”
“All ready,” answers a chorus of voices from the “jersey,” which is
filled to-day with other freight than trunks.
“No, no,” cries Miss Hollis; “Mr. Kenyon has not come back.”
“We must wait for Miss Sylvia,” says Mr. Lanier.
“Not at all necessary,” says Eric. “We can follow them.”
“But they went a different road from ours.”
“No—they took the right road. The turnpike on the other side of the
river is badly washed by the late rains, so we keep on this side for
two or three miles, then cross at a lower ferry.”
“They will wait for us, then?” says Miss Hollis.
“I presume so,” answers Mr. Lanier.
These expectations are doomed to disappointment. We drive around the
hotel, leave the grounds, cross Spring Creek, and follow the stage-road
which leads along the river toward Wolf Creek, but the eyes which are
strained eagerly ahead discover no sign of the runaways.