“As she fled fast through sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her played,
Blowing the ringlets from the braid;
She looked so lovely as she swayed
The rain with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.”
To be mounted on a good horse, to have a pleasant companion who
is equally fortunate, and a good stretch of road before one—there
is nothing in the whole list of physical enjoyments so absolutely
exhilarating and delightful.
Those who are aware of this will not be surprised that Sylvia gives
little thought to the disconsolate escort and forsaken party whom she
has left behind, as Cecil and Bonnibelle press eagerly forward at a
sweeping canter. The morning is superlatively fresh and fair, the
sunlight is bright without oppressive heat, the river-breeze wafts the
soft hair back from her face, the hedges and wayside fences, overhung
with clematis, flit past, the horses keep pace admirably and enjoy the
race as much as—or more than— their riders. Altogether, it is a bit
of the most genuine pleasure, which ends only when it is necessary
to check their impetuous course at a steep descent around one of the
limestone cliffs which begin here.
“Oh, was not that heavenly?” says Sylvia, drawing a long breath. “Was
there ever before such a charming creature as Bonnibelle? And Cecil is
worth his weight in gold! Now”—a sigh—“ought we not to wait for the
others?”
“Wait for them!” repeats Charley. “They must be at least two miles
behind. You’ve no idea at what a rate we have come. Instead of waiting,
let us see how soon we can get down to the Paint Rock. I’ll wager any
thing we reach there an hour and a half ahead of them.”
This cool proposal surprises the young lady—and amuses her. There is a
large spice of mischief in her composition, and the idea of Miss Hollis
and Mr. Lanier left in the lurch, and consigned to each other’s tender
mercies, appeals irresistibly to her sense of the ludicrous. She looks
at Charley, and bursts into a gay laugh.
“Did you mean this deliberately?” she asks. “There never was any thing
more shameful. Poor Miss Hollis!—Poor Mr. Lanier! How inconsolable they
must be!”
“Don’t flatter yourself with any such idea,” says Charley, coolly.
“Miss Hollis is at this moment making eyes at Lanier, and he is bearing
his fate with the philosophy which distinguishes him. We are the
scapegraces; so, like scapegraces, let us be jolly together.”
“_You_ are the scapegrace, sir. Do you suppose I had a thought of
riding to Paint Rock with you when you proposed a short run to keep the
horses from pulling our arms off?”
“Not the least in the world; but _I_ had a thought of the kind. I knew
that, if we were once fairly started on a gallop, you would not have
resolution enough to stop until you were obliged to do so.”
“How well you know the weak points of my character! After all, it is
pleasant to be separated from the rest of the party, and able to do
exactly what one likes. You don’t deserve to have me say such a thing,
however.”
“Why don’t I deserve it?” asks Charley, looking very virtuous. “Haven’t
I schemed and plotted and made two mortal enemies in order to enjoy
this ride with you?”
She lifts her eyebrows.
“You schemed and plotted to escape the necessity of holding in Cecil by
the side of that animal Miss Hollis is on,” she says.
“Of course that was it,” answers Charley, meekly. “How very astute you
are!”
“I am astute enough to understand you, at least,” says Sylvia. “Why,
you are as transparent as—as that spring yonder.”
“Which, by-the-way, is worth stopping to look at,” says Charley,
checking his horse. “Did you ever see as large a spring before? It must
be ten feet across, and is only one of a succession. Look! There are
half a dozen of them, and the stream which rises here and empties into
the river after a short course across the field is almost a creek. Do
you know the reason? We entered the limestone region about a mile back,
and these are limestone springs.”
“Are limestone springs always mammoth? I wonder why? But I don’t admire
the limestone cliffs half so much as those of granite.”
“I should not think that an artist would; the gray rock is much
the most picturesque.—Now, here is the ferry just before us where,
according to the programme arranged by Commander Eric, we are to cross.
But, if you would like to do something adventurous and altogether
different from the others, I have another plan to propose.”
Sylvia’s eyes brighten immediately. Something adventurous and
altogether different from the others—what does she desire more ardently?
“Propose your plan, by all means,” she says eagerly. “What is it?”
Charley, to his credit be it said, hesitates an instant. But it is only
an instant. The spirit of adventure is too strong in him for his powers
of resistance. Besides, he knows the mettle of Sylvia’s courage, and
that where he chooses to go she will follow; so he answers:
“By going a mile lower, we can ford the river. Should you like that?”
“Like it!” She clasps her hands. “I should like it of all things. But
I did not know that the French Broad _could_ be forded.”
“There are two or three places on the river where it is practicable.
This is one of them. There is usually thought to be some risk about
it—therefore I am not sure that I ought to take you. Perhaps, after
all, we had better cross at the ferry.”
“That is nonsense!” says Sylvia. “Of course you know that I am going
to ford the river. Nothing would induce me to cross in that humdrum
ferry-boat. Come!—here is a good stretch for a canter.”
A mere suggestion sets the horses off. They sweep forward with spirit.
The road just here is remarkably good—level, and not very rocky. Hills
dark with foliage rise on one side; on the other, fields intervene
between the turnpike and the river. The mountains on the opposite bank
of the stream are dappled with cloud-shadows that move slowly across
their great shoulders and wooded sides. Looking up the river, there
is a beautiful curve and a vista of heights softened into blueness.
Overhead the sky is flecked with fleecy white clouds.
“What a thing it is to be alive—and on horseback—such a day as this!”
says Sylvia, as they ride “through sun and shade” without drawing rein.
“What a thing it is to have left Lanier and Miss Hollis behind!” says
Charley.
Presently they reach the ford, which is their point of destination. As
they pause, Charley springs down from his horse and looks at the road,
which, overarched with shade, leads into the water. Then he glances up
at his companion with rather a grave expression on his face.
“I see no trace of anybody having passed here recently,” he says.
“Sylvia, I don’t fancy the idea of taking you in.”
“Very likely nobody has forded to-day or yesterday,” says Sylvia,
composedly. “Have you ever crossed here?”
“Several times—two or three years ago.”
“Was it deep fording?”
“As well as I remember, it was rather deep fording—too deep for you, I
am afraid. We must go back to the humdrum ferry.”
But Sylvia stands her ground and looks undauntedly at the broad river,
with its swift, turbulent current.
“I have no desire to be drowned,” she says; “and if you think there is
real danger, I will go back. But if you only hesitate on my account—and
because you fancy, perhaps, that I shall be frightened by a little deep
fording—I insist upon going forward.”
“I can’t imagine that there is any real danger, but still—”
“Then we will go. Forward!”
She waves her hand with an imperious air that her companion knows well.
The idea of turning back is as disagreeable to him as to herself. He
springs on Cecil.
“Follow me, then,” he says, and rides into the river.
Sylvia does not hesitate a moment. She gathers up her habit and
follows. Bonnibelle, however—remembering her late experience at
Laurel—does not like the look of things. She pauses, snorts, would fain
draw back, but a sharp cut of the whip urges her forward. Down she
plunges into a rocky hole, and the turbid water rises up over Sylvia’s
boot. She confesses afterward that her courage sinks a little. If this
is “deep fording” at the shore, what will it be in mid-stream? She says
nothing, but lifts the mare into shallower water, and follows Charley
closely as he slowly splashes ahead. A few yards from the shore they
begin to feel the force of the current—a force which increases with
every step and makes the horses totter as they breast it. For the first
time in her life Sylvia grows a little giddy as she looks down at the
swift, eddying river. A fear of falling from her seat comes over her,
and she clutches the saddle, but does not utter a word. On they go, the
horses stumbling over the rocky bottom, the current growing momentarily
stronger, the water rising momentarily higher. It is permanently over
and above Sylvia’s boot now, and sweeps the skirts which she vainly
attempts to lift out of it. Brave as she is, she begins to feel
dismayed, and wonders how this will end, when suddenly Charley stops.
She knows at once that something is wrong by the expression of his face
as he looks round.
“We must go back,” he says. “I dare not take you farther. I fear I have
mistaken the ford, and another foot of water will swim the horses.”
“Go back!” repeats Sylvia. She looks around. They are in the middle of
the stream, which sweeps tumultuously down upon their swaying horses.
She never forgets the sight—which is one of terror as well as of
majesty. The distance to either bank seems as great as the width of
the entire river when regarded from one of those banks, while the view
up and down is wildly beautiful. Just now she does not think of the
beauty, however. She realizes fully the danger of their position, but
she lifts her hand and points ahead. “We are as near that shore as the
other,” she says. “Let us go on.”
[Illustration: “‘Follow me, then,’ he says, and rides into the river.”]
The quietness of her tone reassures Charley. He has evidently no burst
of terrified hysterics to dread.
“I hope this is the deepest water,” he says, “but if it is not—if the
horses lose bottom and are forced to swim—don’t be frightened! If you
keep your seat, Bonnibelle will carry you safely through. Cling to her
neck if the worst comes. Now!”
Forward again—the horses breasting the impetuous current, which nearly
sweeps them off their feet, gallantly and steadily. Still higher the
water rises. In another minute they must be forced to swim, Sylvia
thinks, gathering all her resolution and courage to her aid. The water
is at this time nearly on a level with Bonnibelle’s back, and it is
probable every instant that she will lose bottom. Charley glances round
in anxiety, and meets a brave, bright smile.
“You were right in describing this as ‘deep fording,’” says Sylvia.
“She’ll swim in another moment, I think.”
“Can you keep your seat?” he asks. “Shall I come and hold you on?”
Even under these circumstances, Sylvia resents this as an imputation on
her horsewomanship.
“No, indeed!” she answers. “I’m quite capable of keeping my seat
without being held on.”
Two or three yards farther of deep wading—and then—blessed relief!—the
water grows a little shallower. The horses splash on resolutely, yet
cautiously, pausing on every stone, as Sylvia afterward says, to feel
for the next. As they approach the shore, the current grows less
strong, the stream more shallow. At length they reach the bank, ride
out of the water, and find themselves safe on dry ground.
“Thank God!” says Charley—who is not usually devout—with a sincerity
that cannot be doubted. “Laurel was child’s-play to that!” he goes on,
flinging himself from his horse and coming to Sylvia’s side. “What a
heroine you are!” he says. “But I shall never forgive myself.”
“Why not?” she asks, with that slight, nervous laugh which is so
significant of a tension removed. “We have come through safely, and I
have to thank you for another adventure. Charley, I am going to confess
something—I _was_ frightened for a little while in the middle of the
stream.”
“So was I—horribly!” he says. “I thought I had lost the ford, and that,
weighted with boots and heavy clothing, I should have to swim with you
to the bank. Lanier would have taken better care of you.”
“He would have taken better care of himself—there’s not a doubt of
_that_,” she answers coolly. “But you and I love danger, and some day,
perhaps, as the Bible says, we shall perish in it.”
“I hope we may perish together, then.”
[Illustration: “‘You don’t mean to say that you’ve forded the river!’
she says.”]
“What pleasure or profit would that be to either of us? But does it not
occur to you that we are rather wet?”
“Wet! I should think so.” He touches her heavy, dripping skirts with
his hand. “What shall we do? You must dry yourself, or our adventure
may end by making you ill.”
“I must dry myself—and so must you—or the others will know what we have
done—and I don’t want them to know.”
“They are bound to know, for the ferryman will tell them that we have
not crossed there.”
“But they need not be told how deep the ford was, or what danger we
were in. I should never, never hear the last of it from Aunt Markham if
she knew.”
“And she would never trust you with me again. You are right—it is best
to say as little about it as possible. We will describe the ford as
admirable. Now, I think I see a house yonder where we can go and dry
ourselves.”
They ride up to the house, which stands a little back from the road,
with steep, cultivated hills rising immediately behind. A woman is
seated in the door with a spinning-wheel. She stops spinning and looks
at the equestrians as they pause. Charley uncovers like a cavalier.
“Good-day, madam,” he says. “We have just forded the river below here
and found it high—so high that this lady is very wet. Will you let her
come in and dry herself?”
The eyes of the spinner open wide—her countenance expresses the extreme
of stolid astonishment.
“You don’t mean to say that you’ve forded the river!” she says. “Well,
I wonder! Why, there ain’t but one man forded there for months
past—and he came near havin’ his team drowned. You see the river, it’s
been awful high all summer, and they say the ford’s dreadful washed out
by the big fresh last spring.”
Charley and Sylvia look at each other. They feel more than ever that
it is necessary they should keep the knowledge of their adventure to
themselves.
“May I come in and dry my clothes?” the young lady asks, with the
courtesy which never fails to win courtesy from others. “I shall not be
long.”
“To be sure—come in,” says the woman, moving her wheel back.
“Sakes!—but you _air_ wet—wet clean to your waist!” she exclaims, as
Sylvia, having been lifted from her horse, comes in. “I’ll make up
a fire—here, Matildy, you and Jake bring some wood—so you kin dry
yourself.”
Matildy and Jake—members of a band of stirring, tow-headed
children—disappear immediately, but Sylvia’s mind is more bent on
escaping detection than on drying herself.
“Pray tell me,” she says eagerly, “have a party from the Springs passed
here on their way to Paint Rock—two carriages and several people on
horseback?”
“No,” the woman answers, shaking her head. She has seen no such
party—whereupon Sylvia darts back to the door.
“They have not passed yet,” she says to Charley, “but, of course, they
will before long, and they will see the horses and come in and find us,
if you don’t take care. Put the horses out of sight—anywhere! I _won’t_
be found in such a plight as this!”
“You kin take the horses to the stable yonder ef you’ve a mind to,”
says the hostess, coming forward. “I’m sorry none o’ the boys is about
fur to help you.”
“Thanks—I don’t need any help,” says Charley; and, obedient to orders,
he marches off, leading the two horses.
Sylvia watches him with a smile. Then she retires to an inner room,
and, taking off her wet garments, puts on some coarse but clean ones
of her hostess, whose heart is quite won by her bright face and sweet
manners. Scarcely has this been accomplished and the dripping clothes
hung before the fire to dry, when a roll of approaching wheels is
heard, and she rushes to the window in time to see the phaeton and
wagon drive past, laden with their merry crowd. Next come two gentlemen
on horseback, and then Miss Hollis and Mr. Lanier appear—the former
making an heroic effort to smile as she is bumped to and fro in her
seat by a horse that _will_ trot despite her frantic tugs at his rein;
the latter wearing an air of the most unmistakable sulkiness.
It is sad to relate that Miss Norwood laughs over this spectacle until
tears stand in her merry eyes, and she has by no means recovered her
gravity when, several minutes later, Mr. Kenyon—very damp about the
lower extremities, but _insouciant_ as ever—appears.
“O Charley! did you see them?” she cries. “Is your conscience torn by
remorse? Don’t you know that at this moment Miss Hollis could drown
_me_, and Mr. Lanier could drown _you_, with the greatest pleasure?”
“We came very near gratifying them both,” says Charley. “Yes, I looked
round a corner of the stable and saw the cavalcade. Lanier seemed
uncommonly cheerful. I am afraid that, between her horse and her
escort, Miss Hollis is hardly enjoying her excursion.”
“You can make amends for all by riding home with her—only, if she was
of my mind, she would not let you do so.”
“She will not be of your mind,” says Charley, with an air of
resignation.
The duty of riding home with Miss Hollis is in the future, however, so
he does not suffer it to weigh on his spirits.
There can be no doubt that these two scapegraces enjoy the hour which
they are forced to spend in this manner. There is a freedom from
restraint, a flavor of adventure in it which pleases the taste of both.
“I vote that we go somewhere and spend the day by ourselves,” says
Charley. “Those people down at Paint Rock are all more or less bores.”
“How kind of you to say so! I shall tell Alice and Eric.”
“Of course I didn’t mean Alice and Eric. But some of the rest—that
puppy Lanier, for instance.—See here, Sylvia, _do_ you intend to marry
him?”
He breaks off abruptly in this way—they are sitting on the piazza alone
together—and looks at her with an appealing glance in the blue eyes she
knows so well. A tide of crimson comes to her face.
“What do you mean by asking me such a question, Charley?” she demands
indignantly. “Do you think it likely that I ‘intend’ to marry a man who
has not asked me to do so?”
Charley utters a low whistle, expressive of intense incredulity.
“That is beating the devil about the bush,” he says. “You know as well
as I do what Lanier means, and what he hopes. As for me, I’ve never
made any secret of what I feel for you. I don’t pretend that it gives
me any claim on you; I’m perfectly aware that you don’t care two pins
for me; but still, for the sake of our old comradeship, you might let
me know whether you contemplate becoming Mrs. Lanier.”
The color still remains on her face. She looks down and beats nervously
on the side of her foot with her riding-whip.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” she says, “but—I—don’t—think—I—do. It is
impossible to tell, however. The world and the devil may prove too
strong for me. One thing is certain—I don’t encourage him. You see for
yourself that I snub him constantly.”
“Your clothes are dry, miss, if you want to put ’em on,” says a voice
behind.
The dry clothes having been assumed and the horses brought out, they
set forth with renewed spirit in search of their party. The day has
advanced considerably toward its zenith, but heat in this altitude is
rarely oppressive. Moreover, the road is very shaded—the same turnpike
along the bed of the river, overhung by hills and cliffs, with which
they have become familiar—and their rapid motion creates a breeze. One
fair, wild scene succeeds another, like enchantment. Here and there
the winding river grows still and glassy as a mountain lake, sweeping
softly by banks that are shadowed by drooping trees and draped with
graceful vines. Again it breaks into tumult once more— though not such
tumult as that above the Springs—or flows in eddying ripples around
the greenest of green islands. Presently the road passes beneath a
magnificent cliff, the surface of which is broken into irregular
escarpments like layers of stone, and Charley says:
“Here is the Paint Rock. Notice the streaks of color from which it
takes its name. Is it not singular that anybody could be so ignorant
as to fancy that this, which plainly is part of the composition of the
rock, was laid on by human hands?”
“Does anybody really think so?”
“Yes, a great many people think that the Indians painted it—at least
they say so. The mingling of colors is certainly peculiar, is it not?”
“Very peculiar and very beautiful. I wish you were a geologist, that
you might tell me what gives that deep-red tint. Hark! what is that?”
It is a shout, apparently from the clouds.
“Halloa!” says a voice from above. “Here we are!”
Charley looks up and waves his hat by way of reply. Sylvia also glances
up. A hundred and fifty feet above, a group of figures stand, outlined
like silhouettes against the blue sky. Riding a little farther, they
find the carriages and horses in the shade by the river-bank, with
Harrison reclining comfortably on the seat of the wagon. Seeing the
riders approach, he lifts himself and descends to the ground.
“Mass Eric and all of ’em’s been wonderin’ what’s come of you, Mass
Charley,” he says, taking Cecil, as Charley springs down. “They told
me to tell you they’se up on the rock.”
“So I see,” says Charley.—“Now, Sylvia, pin up your habit well, for we
have some steep climbing to do.”
“_Here?_” asks Sylvia, looking a little aghast at the face of the great
rock which towers over them.
“No, this way,” he answers, passing round the corner of the cliff to
the side where Paint Creek comes down to the French Broad, reflecting
in its clear water the varied tints of the ledges of rock that rise
over it.
A winding path—and a very steep one—leads from here to the summit of
the cliff. When, breathless and exhausted, the two truants appear on
top, they are received with a storm of greetings and inquiries:
“Where on earth have you been?”—“What have you been doing?”—“Are you
not ashamed of yourselves?”—“How is it that they told us at the ferry
you had not crossed the river?”— “How did you get behind us when you
started in front?”
These and many like inquiries are asked all at once. Sylvia lifts her
hands with an air of appeal. “Spare us, good people,” she says. “Just
now we have no breath to tell you any thing. Will somebody lend me a
fan?”
“I have been seriously uneasy about you,” says Eric to Charley. “Not
hearing of you at the ferry, I was afraid you had attempted to ford the
river where we were in the habit of doing so a year or two ago, and the
ferryman says the ford is dangerous now.”
“We can testify that he is mistaken,” says Charley, with the most
admirable nonchalance. “We _did_ cross at the ford, and here we are in
safety.”
“Crossed at the ford!” repeats a horrified chorus. “Good heavens, what
a risk!”
“Are you in earnest?” asks Eric, suspiciously. “If you crossed at the
ford you ought to have been ahead of us, and here you are an hour
behind.”
“We spent that time eating muscadines on the bank of the river. It does
not answer to hurry one’s self on an excursion of this kind.”
“No, it seems not,” says Eric, dryly.
Meanwhile, Mr. Lanier and Miss Hollis are conspicuous by their absence.
Sylvia glances round and presently sees them at the farther end of
the rock. “We must go and make amends for our rudeness,” she says to
Charley. “They have really cause to be offended.”
Neither of them proves implacable, and harmony is soon restored, only
Mr. Lanier grows pale when he hears that Sylvia has added to her list
of adventures the feat of having forded the “racing river.”
[Illustration: The Cliffs.]
“If I had been with you, I should never have suffered you to run such a
risk,” he says.
“So I told Charley,” answers the young lady, demurely.
The view from the top of the Paint Rock, without being grand or
extensive, is very beautiful, especially on one of the summer days,
when white, billowy clouds lazily follow in the wake of the sun. It
is exactly such a day when we stand on the breezy height and see the
French Broad with its fairy islets far below. Chains of hills melt
softly into each other in every direction, for our elevation enables us
to overlook those walls of green which, from the level of the river,
bound the gorge, and blue peaks stand outlined against the sky. Over
all the wide panorama shifting shadows fall with charming effect,
and the variety of tints baffles analysis or description. We are now
in view of that great range of mountains, known at different points
as the Smoky, the Unaka, and the Roan, which divides North Carolina
from East Tennessee; and wherever we turn, some scene of striking
beauty arrests the attention. Half a mile farther down the river are
the Chimneys—rocks in formation very like the one on which we stand,
broken by some caprice of Nature into isolated, chimney-like shapes;
but the road to them has been washed away by the turbulent river, and
never replaced. Hence they are almost inaccessible. A portion of our
party go as far as practicable, and report that by standing on some
tilting stones in the bed of the river, and craning their necks around
a cliff-like projection, they are only able to obtain a partial and
unsatisfactory view. Those who remain behind, therefore, congratulate
themselves on their wisdom. Certainly to sit on the summit of the
great rock under the shade of the pines that grow here and there, with
the boundless, sapphire sky above and the lovely, outspread world below,
is a pleasure that must be put in the list of those which are as great
in memory as in reality.