“It seemed some mountain, rent and riven,
A channel for the stream had given,
So high the cliffs of limestone gray
Hung o’er the torrent’s way.”
“I think,” says Sylvia, deliberately, “that I should like to climb that
height.”
She points as she speaks, and we all look round. Immediately behind
the Paint Rock, on which we are gathered, stands an abrupt and rugged
mountain, towering several hundred feet higher, and showing an almost
precipitous side.
“I wonder what you will propose to do next?” I say. “Who do you fancy
will risk his neck by climbing that mountain with you?”
“The view from there must be very fine,” she remarks, “a great
deal finer than this—which I don’t consider at all remarkable.—Mr.
Lanier”—she turns with her sweetest smile to that gentleman—“will
_you_ go with me?”
Mr. Lanier hesitates. Pity him, all prudent people who dislike
unnecessary exertion and avoid useless risks! He is comfortably seated
under a pine tree, fanning the young lady who proposes this feat, and,
being as averse to it as a man could be, he looks at the mountain in
troubled silence for an instant. Then he says:
“You have no idea what you are proposing. It is quite impossible for
you to ascend that hill. There is no path, and the side is terribly
steep—it would be dangerous to attempt such a thing.”
“Dangerous!” Her lip curls. “Everything is dangerous, except walking on
level ground—and even then one might fall in the river. I know I can
climb up there—and I mean to do it!”
“Bravo, Miss Norwood!” cries an unexpected voice—the voice of a gay
young widow, who has been devoting her fascinations to Eric. “If you
succeed, I’ll follow you.”
“Had you not better come with me, Mrs. Cardigan?” says Sylvia.
“Perhaps, after we have made the ascent, some of the gentlemen may feel
it safe to follow.”
“More likely we shall be obliged to go below and gather up your
fragments,” says one of the gentlemen, composedly.
“Yes, I believe I will go with you,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “It is very
stupid to do no more than hundreds of other people have done.”
“That sentiment has been the cause of more foolish risks than could be
reckoned,” says Eric, “but if you are in earnest about climbing the
hill—and are not afraid of a sunstroke—I’ll take you up.”
“Thank you,” says Mrs. Cardigan, graciously. “People never have
sunstrokes in the mountains, I believe.—Well, Miss Norwood, are you
ready?”
Yes, Sylvia says she is ready, and she rises without a glance at her
companion. But that unhappy man rises also, with an heroic attempt to
look cheerful.
“I haven’t an idea that you can reach the top—and I’m sure you’ll be
sorry that you made the attempt,” he says; “but of course I’ll do my
best to take you up.”
“Pray don’t come on my account,” says Sylvia. “I need very little
assistance in climbing.”
This is not very gracious encouragement to overheat himself in the most
unpleasant manner, besides risking his neck; but Mr. Lanier feels that
he is put upon his mettle, and he will not recede.
“Lead the way, Markham,” he says. “You understand this business of
scrambling over rocks and swinging to bushes better than I do.”
“Eric shall _not_ lead the way!” cries Sylvia, springing forward. “I
made the proposal, and I insist upon going first.”
Poor Mr. Lanier! It is impossible not to laugh at the glance with
which he regards the height before him as he follows the young lady,
who—with her riding-skirt looped to her ankles—takes her way along the
neck of land which connects the rock with the mountain.
“How much energy Miss Norwood has!” says Miss Hollis, with a little
shudder. “I do not think I should like to be her escort—on a mountain.”
“She certainly puts Lanier through a course of exercise which he would
not be likely to undertake of himself,” says a sympathetic gentleman.
“I’m sorry for the fellow, and I shouldn’t be surprised if she broke
his neck and her own too.”
“There’s not the least danger of her breaking her own neck,” puts in
Charley’s quiet voice. “She climbs like a deer, and her head is as cool
as—as an iceberg. But I wouldn’t insure Lanier’s neck,” the speaker
ends, calmly.
The ascent of the mountain is slow and very difficult. Sylvia was
correct in saying that she requires little assistance—which is
fortunate, since it is evidently quite as much as her escort can do to
assist himself. She leads the way, grasping the bushes with one hand,
and planting her alpenstock with the other. Eric and Mrs. Cardigan take
a slightly different route, and the two couples keep tolerably well
abreast of each other. Now and then they pause to rest, and once we see
Sylvia mounted on a large rock, waving her handkerchief to us in an
ecstatic manner, while Mr. Lanier leans exhausted against it.
[Illustration: “Once we see Sylvia mounted on a large rock, waving her
handkerchief.”]
“What hot work it must be!” say the lookers-on.
“I am as devoted to Nature as anybody,” remarks Miss Hollis, “but I
must say that I think such an exertion as this _foolish_—don’t you, Mr.
Kenyon?”
“I am opposed on principle to all unnecessary exertion,” answers Mr.
Kenyon, “and just now I am so well satisfied to be under this tree—with
you—that the finest view in the world could not tempt me away.”
As the adventurous climbers mount higher and yet higher, it makes one
giddy to look at them, hanging by such precarious foothold on the
precipitous height. Several times we prophesy that they will be forced
to return without gaining the summit, but they go on undauntedly,
sending showers of loose stones down the mountain at every step.
Occasionally we lose sight of them among the rocks and bushes, but
again they are in full view, and we can see them, for they have joined
forces, dragging each other up some particularly steep ascent. At last,
a faint, prolonged shout tells us that they have reached the top, and
we recognize Mrs. Cardigan in the figure that waves a handkerchief on
an alpenstock exultantly.
“The question now is, how long will they stay there?” says a member of
the party, who is anxious for his dinner.
They remain for what seems to us a long time, and it is not until
most of the gentlemen have made themselves hoarse by shouts that are
probably not heard, and certainly not answered, that they begin the
descent. This is almost as difficult as the ascent, and it is still
some time before they appear on the rock, with faces flushed scarlet,
dresses torn, and an utter insolvency in the matter of breath. Sylvia
speaks first.
“Look at my gloves!” she says, extending her hands.
We look, and appreciate fifty percent higher the difficulties of the
ascent. The gloves are dog-skin gauntlets, and the entire palms are
peeled off white.
“You should keep those in remembrance of the Paint Rock Mountain,” says
some one.
“She has plenty of mementos,” says Mr. Lanier. “Look here!”
We look and laugh. He is very much of a dandy in the matter of dress,
this hapless gentleman, and to see all his coat-pockets bulging with
stones and crammed with ferns and mosses is a sight which might move
the gravest to mirth and the most insensible to compassion.
[Illustration: “‘Look at my gloves!’”]
“She wanted to fill my hat, too,” he says, “but I humbly submitted that
I had no way to carry it except on my head, and it would have been
inconvenient to have had several pounds of stones and moss in it.”
“Not to such an enthusiast as yourself, I should think,” remarks one of
the amused by-standers.
Eric on his part is laden with a fragment of rock so large that no
pocket which was ever made would contain it, and how he has managed
to bring it down the mountain—not to speak of bringing Mrs. Cardigan
also—we are unable to imagine.
“He seemed to have no difficulty about it,” says that lady; “but, if an
emergency had arisen, I am sure he would have let me go and kept the
rock.”
“I should have been more excusable in such a case than you think,”
he answers. “I have several specimens of the Paint Rock, but none
so perfect as this. Look at the streaks of color on it—why, it is
admirable!”
“And unique, I suppose; while women are easy enough to find,” she
says, laughing.—“But I hope nobody thinks me in earnest,” she goes on,
turning to the others. “Mr. Markham is the most capable and careful
escort, and when he needed both hands to assist me, he laid his
specimen tenderly down, and then went back for it.”
“But what did you see to repay you for all this?” we ask.
“See!” replies Sylvia. “Why, twenty times at least as much as you see
here. Hundreds of mountains in _that_ direction”—a sweeping motion
toward North Carolina— “and the whole state of Tennessee as far as the
Cumberland Mountains.—Didn’t we, Eric?”
“Not exactly the whole state,” says Eric, “but the Cumberland Mountains
certainly. We were on the top of the ridge, and the view was very fine.”
Soon after this—the day having considerably passed its meridian—we
scramble down the steep path at the side of the rock and take our way
to the carriages. Standing there in the cool shade of the trees that
fringe the river, we look up at the great cliff, and are struck afresh
by its majesty. Its rugged escarpments stand out boldly, for no shrub
grows on the broken and irregular face of the precipice.
When we are about to start, Eric says:
“By-the-by, Charley, since you found the ford so good, we might as well
cross there, instead of undergoing the delay of the ferry.”
A quick glance passes between Charley and Sylvia—a glance compounded
equally of amusement and consternation—then the former answers, coolly:
“I wouldn’t advise you to do so. The ford is—well, rather deep. We
crossed there, but we decided to try the ferry-boat on our return.”
“Ah!” says Eric. He makes no further remark until we are in the
carriage; then he says: “I knew all the time that scamp was telling
what was not true when he said the ford was safe. It is certainly
dangerous, and he carried Sylvia through it.”
“How rash!” says Mrs. Cardigan. “And Mr. Kenyon is the last person I
should suspect of rashness.”
“Charley is an impostor,” says Eric. “When he throws off his
indolence—which is half affectation—he is not only energetic, but
daring to recklessness.”
“And Sylvia is as rash as he is,” I say. “They should _never_ be
allowed to go out together.”
“Sometimes they don’t ask permission—this morning, for instance, they
did not,” says Mrs. Cardigan, with a laugh.
We reach the Springs in time for a late dinner, and indemnify ourselves
for the fatigue of the morning by an afternoon _siesta_ of unusual
length. It is nearly sunset when we gather on the lawn near the
river-bank. All the tide of watering-place life is astir. People are
sitting or walking under the shade of the large trees; across a stretch
of greensward stands the hotel with a tide of well-dressed humanity
flowing up and down its long piazzas; over the river the last rays of
sunlight are shining on the crests of the hills at the base of which
the stream flows.
We are idly enjoying this picture, and Aunt Markham is telling the
latest items of gossip afloat during the day, when Mrs. Cardigan comes
up. She is very handsome, this fast young widow—a brunette of the
richest type, with a degree of style that would mark even a plain woman.
“Who will walk to Lover’s Leap to see the sunset?” she asks. “Surely
you are not all exhausted by our Paint Rock expedition?—Miss Norwood, I
find that by climbing that mountain we have enrolled ourselves on the
list of heroines—did you know it?”
“Reputation must be easily made in this part of the world,” says
Sylvia, laughing.
The stroll to Lover’s Leap is a short one, and the ascent of the cliff
comparatively easy. We soon find ourselves on top, with the narrow road
winding like a thread below, and the turbulent river chafing over its
rocks.
“If I were one of the class of lovers who make leaps,” says Charley,
meditatively, “I should prefer this place for the purpose to any other
that I have ever seen. It has several advantages. In the first place,
the height is good; in the second place, one could spring without
difficulty into the water.”
“And then swim out, if one liked,” says Mrs. Cardigan, laughing. “But
you are right—it is the best Lover’s Leap I have ever seen. And I think
we have the best view of the Springs from here.”
It is a very good view, indeed. We overlook the green valley, with
the hotel in the foreground, and a beautiful stretch of varying
landscape behind. Blue, wooded hills inclose it like the walls of an
amphitheatre, and we see beyond still bluer heights, with the pomp of
the sunset sky spread above. It is a pomp which is dazzling in its
glory. Fantastically shaped clouds of crimson and rose color are shot
with luminous splendor, and their edges are gilded with a radiance at
which we can scarcely look.
“What royal magnificence!” says Sylvia. “Sometimes the sun dies like a
sovereign.”
“Rather too much magnificence!” says Eric. “At least there are too many
clouds; I fear we shall have bad weather again.”
“That will be a pity,” I observe, “since Aunt Markham has consented to
start back to Asheville to-morrow.”
“What!” cries Mrs. Cardigan, with an expression of the most sincere
dismay, “are you going to leave the Springs? Oh, how sorry I am! I
hoped we should climb a great many more mountains together.—O Mr.
Markham! how can you be so faithless? You know you promised to take me
up _this_ mountain”—and she points to the one behind the cliff on which
we are seated.
“I am at your service,” says Eric. “Shall we climb it now?”
“You know that is nonsense; how can we climb it with the sun gone and
twilight about to fall? But, if you leave to-morrow, I shall consider
that you have broken your plighted faith, and perhaps I shall throw
myself from this rock like the ubiquitous Indian maiden who was
afflicted with suicidal mania a hundred years or so ago.”
“In that case we can’t think of leaving you behind,” says Sylvia. “Why
should you not come with us? The gorge of the French Broad from this
point to Asheville is a great deal better worth seeing than any thing
you can find here.”
“It would be a good idea,” Mrs. Cardigan answers. “If I return by
Wolf Creek—as I came—I shall fail to see the finest scenery on the
river—shall I not?”
“You will have seen none at all,” says Eric. “The grandeur of the gorge
is all above here.”
“Then I must see it!” she says. “I have only waited for a good
opportunity to do so, and I am sure I could not find a better one than
this.”
So the matter seems to be settled. I suggest aside to Charley that he
had better invite Miss Hollis to join our party also; but he does not
receive the idea with favor.
“I think we are best as we are,” he says. “I would rather vote for
decreasing than increasing our number.”
We linger on the summit of the cliff until the sunset tints have melted
into dusk and the clouds have lost their splendor. Even then it is hard
to turn and go—not knowing when we shall look on so fair a scene again.
The great hills stand around, wrapped in their everlasting silence;
the river surges along its stormy way below; soft evening shadows
have fallen over the valley; purple shades are gathering on all the
mountain-sides; a faint yet lovely glow of color still lingers in the
west; the air is delicious in its freshness.
“Why cannot one grasp such hours as this, and make them last?” says
Sylvia, with a sigh.
“Here comes the Asheville stage,” says Mr. Lanier, leaning over the
edge of the cliff.
Mrs. Cardigan looks over also, and drops a flower on the head of an
outside passenger, who glances up with a start.
“Heavens! how ugly he is!” she says. “If he were young and handsome,
now, what an opening for a romance!”
“I am sure he would be young and handsome if possible,” says Charley;
“but I beg to observe that ugly men are by no means insensible to
openings for romance. I belong to that class myself, so I know whereof
I speak.”
“Charley, such remarks are never in good taste,” says Sylvia. “Don’t
try to extort compliments, but help me down this cliff.”
“I thought you never required help in climbing,” says Mr. Lanier,
watching with some jealousy the hands which surrender themselves to
Charley.
“This is not climbing—it is descending,” replies the young lady,
coolly. “And I don’t want to fall. It is _much_ easier to mount than
to go down.”
I do not think that Mr. Lanier is altogether convinced by this positive
statement— or perhaps he remembers how often his assistance was
declined during the descent of the morning. At all events, he walks by
my side as we return to the hotel—a fact which does not seem to damp
Sylvia’s spirits, for we hear her voice chatting gayly to Charley as
they stroll in front.
The next morning we prepare to leave the Springs, but, despite the
conversation on Lover’s Leap the evening before, most of us are
surprised when Mrs. Cardigan appears in traveling dress and announces
that she has taken a seat in the stage.
“I only regret that I shall be separated from you all,” she says,
“and that I can’t go on the top of the coach. One can see so little
inside—but one does not like to mount on the top without a gentleman.”
At this we all look at Eric, who, after a moment’s hesitation, does
what is expected of him with tolerable grace.
“If you will allow me,” he says, “I will take a seat with you on the
top of the coach. You can see nothing at all inside, and you need
some-one who is familiar with the river to point out the noted places
to you.”
“Oh, how delightful that would be!” cries Mrs. Cardigan rapturously.
“But I cannot be selfish enough to consent to such a thing! You must
not leave your charming carriage to mount on that jolting stage—don’t
tempt me, please! Good-by.”
She waves her hand and turns away. Eric shrugs his shoulders slightly
and follows. There is a moment or two of laughing dispute at the door
of the coach, then she suffers herself to be elevated to the deck-seat,
and he follows.
“Please don’t blame me, Mrs. Markham!” she cries. “He _will_ go!”
“Don’t drive the horses hard, John,” says Eric. “Take the day
leisurely. We will stop at Alexander’s.”
With this the coach drives off—Mrs. Cardigan’s blue veil fluttering
like a pennon of victory in the breeze, while Eric holds an umbrella
over her. We all laugh at the sight. It is something altogether novel
to see Eric playing the part of cavalier.
“What a _taking_ way some women—widows especially—have!” says Charley.
“If Eric is not taken for good by the time he reaches Alexander’s, it
will not be the lady’s fault.”
The stage has been gone probably an hour when we start. Though it is
not much later than nine o’clock, the heat is already sultry, and there
are clouds on the mountains which betoken rain. We agree that there
will probably be a storm later in the day, but we enjoy the sunshine
while it lasts. At Mountain Island, Sylvia insists on halting; and we
go out as far as possible on the ledge of rock over which the current
pours in foaming rapids. Standing here, we look up at the island, which
rises fifty or sixty feet above us— a bold hill in the midst of the
raging stream.
“I should like to go there,” says Sylvia wistfully. But, with the
best intentions, neither of her attendants can devise any means of
transporting her over the whirling fall which intervenes between our
standpoint and the island.
“If one had a boat, one could cross at the lower end and mount to the
headland,” says Mr. Lanier.
This suggestion is not of much value, however, since we have no boat,
so we are forced to content ourselves with gazing. The sides of the
hill are covered with a growth of ferns, which literally carpet it, but
the trees have been burned, and now stand black and bare, disfiguring
the beautiful picture.
“What odious barbarian was guilty of that outrage?” asks Sylvia, in a
tone of indignant scorn.
“Some hunting barbarian, I believe,” answers Charley. “I have been told
that the trees were burned because the deer, when hard pressed by the
dogs, would swim the river and take refuge there.”
“Oh, the wretches!” says Sylvia—which complimentary epithet is
evidently not meant to apply either to the deer or the dogs.
Presently John appears on the bank, charged with a message: “Mistis say
you better come on, Mass Charley—she wants to git over Laurel ’fore the
rain comes up.”
“A fig for the rain!” says Charley—but we turn reluctantly from the
stormy rapids, the towering island, the whole wild, lovely scene, and
continue our journey. The rain does not come up before we reach Laurel,
and that river is found to be in a very satisfactory state. Aunt
Markham stops at Wash’s cabin and makes solicitous inquiries.
“Do you think it would be _safer_ if I crossed in the canoe?” she asks.
Wash grins a little.
“I’m willin’ to take you over ef you like, ma’am,” he answers, “but the
river’s down low enough for fordin’ now.”
“Go on, then, John,” she says, tremulously.
At all times Laurel is deep fording; and the current is very swift and
strong, but we accomplish the passage safely—John being the best of
drivers, and the horses true as steel.
“Good-by to Laurel!” says Sylvia, as she rides out of the clear water
on the farther side. “I shall never, never forget it.”
“I sha’n’t nuther,” says John, “fur it’s the only place I ever heard of
takin’ a carriage to pieces and carryin’ it over on a canoe.”
We have not left this famous stream—and Laurel has fame of more kinds
than one—half a mile behind, when the expected rain comes—a white, hard
shower, which all in a second, as it were, sweeps over the mountains
and pours upon us.
“Of course it begins again as soon as we start,” says Aunt Markham, who
plainly thinks that there is strong evidence of _malice prepense_ on
the part of the clouds.
We draw on our water-proofs, raise the carriage-top, and resign
ourselves to our fate. The masculine portion of the party put on their
overcoats and pull down their hats.
“Greatest country for rain ever I see!” says John, as we plod along
the narrow road, hemmed by towering cliffs and turbulent river, with
the rain pouring in a white sheet as far as our vision extends.
Before long the violence of the storm abates, the clouds pass as
quickly as they came, the sun breaks forth—Nature is drenched, but
how beautiful! Rocks, trees, ferns, and mosses—all are dripping with
moisture which the sunlight turns to diamonds. We throw off our wraps
and put back the top, careless that the drooping boughs under which
we pass rain down absolute showers upon us as the breeze stirs them.
We wind around a rocky curve, and a magnificent river-view is before
us—the stream plunging and whirling against the bowlders that bar its
way, and tossing in white-capped waves over the ledges, the great
overshadowing hills wearing a faint-blue tint as the vista recedes, and
mists like white smoke rising from the gorges. The rain has swollen
all the short mountain streams, which come leaping down the hillsides
in white cascades. One narrow creek, into which we plunge without
due consideration, is so high that the water runs into the carriage,
wetting our feet and invading our lunch-basket. Aunt Markham’s face
as she sits with her feet elevated on the front seat, while the
horses struggle through the turbid torrent—which three or four feet
lower pours over a ledge of rock into the river—is a study of mingled
expressions. “O John, how frightful!” she says, when we have gained the
steep bank and are safe.
[Illustration: A Wet Ford.]
“Yes’m—it was a considerable resk,” says John. “If these horses wasn’t
the gamest I ever drove, we’d a-gone into the river certain. I was of
the ’pinion for about a minute that we _was_ goin’.”
“There’s no good in frightening one’s self over past danger,” I say.
“We didn’t go—that’s enough.—Jump out, aunty. The carriage is full of
water, and my feet are as wet as if I had waded.”
Varied by such adventures as these—for two or three more clouds
discharge themselves upon us—we travel up the gorge, pausing now and
then when the weather chances to be propitious. There are rocks—like
those at the Devil’s Slip Gap—to be climbed; flowers, ferns, and
mountain geraniums to be gathered; muscadines to be eaten; finally,
luncheon to be taken in a green river-nook, with the half-obscured
sunshine lying on the breast of the current as it sweeps by.
“How glad I am that we have left the Springs behind!” says Sylvia. “How
delightful it is to be traveling again! Would it not be pleasant to
prolong this gypsy life indefinitely?”
“Very pleasant,” says Charley. “There might be worse things than to
‘ride, ride, forever ride,’ as the crazy lover in Browning’s poem
wanted to do. There might also be worse things than resting on the
rocks in the shade, with sandwiches to eat and claret to drink.”
“And the French Broad before one’s eyes!”
The pleasant hour ends, as all pleasant hours do, however. We start
again, and, traveling leisurely, reach Alexander’s at sunset. This
place looks pastoral in its loveliness as we approach—the embowered
house lying in the arms of encircling hills, the glassy river in front
painted with sunset hues, two figures on the bridge, and a riding-party
winding along the road.
We discover, when we approach, that the figures on the bridge are those
of Mrs. Cardigan and Eric. They cross the road as we draw up before
the gate.
“You are late,” says the latter. “What has delayed you?”
“Oh—every thing!” replies Aunt Markham. “Storms, floods, torrents
running into the carriage and nearly sweeping it away—Eric, you
need _never_ ask me to come to this country again, until there is
a railroad.”
“You may be sure that I never will,” says Eric, laughing.
We spend three or four days at Alexander’s—delightful days in which we
walk and ride, climb the hills, and go out boating on the river. Gray
rocks, rushing water, green boughs drooping—these things, in varied
combinations, frame the idle, golden hours. The sound of the stream
becomes like the voice of a familiar friend in our ears— we are almost
sorry when the day arrives for us to gather together what Eric calls
our “traps,” and set forth on our travels again.