“How fair this mountain’s purple bust,
Alone in high and glimmering air,
And see yon village spires upthrust,
And yon dark plain—how fair!
“How fair this lone and lovely scene,
And yonder dropping fiery ball,
And eve’s sweet spirit, which steals unseen
With darkness over all!”
The early sunshine is lying warm and bright over the valley, and the
far mountains stand fully revealed in soft blue loveliness beneath
the radiant sky, when we bid farewell next morning to the pastoral
landscape which has charmed us so much, and continue our journey.
Not more than a quarter of a mile from the house where we spent the
night, the road turns abruptly, and, leaving the valley, enters among
the hills, winding along a mountain-side and overlooking a deep gorge
through which the Little River comes in white sheets and hurrying
rapids. Great heights, clothed with verdure, dominate the pass, so that
our way lies in shadow, only pierced here and there by rays of sunlight
that fill the dusky greenness with a shimmer of gold. The road is a
mere shelf—narrow as that along the French Broad, and more dangerous,
inasmuch as one is at least on a level with the latter river, while
here one has the pleasing prospect (in case necessity requires one to
pass another vehicle) of being pushed over a precipice varying in depth
from fifty to a hundred feet, to the rocks and rushing water below.
We do not go over, however, despite an encounter with two wagons at one
of the narrowest points of the road. It is a matter requiring much time
and ingenuity to engineer past them without an accident, but Eric and
John—having relieved themselves of their human freight as a matter of
precaution—manage to do so successfully.
The morning is all before us in which to reach Buck Forest, so we take
advantage of the pause to clamber over rocks and through laurel-bushes
to a point from which we command a view of the river as it sweeps down
at a declination of forty or fifty degrees, and—
“... like a steed in frantic fit
That flings the froth from curb and bit,”
whirls in eddying foam and spray over, under, and around the massive
rocks that bar its course.
“This stream has a troubled time of it altogether,” says Charley,
who has gone out farther than anyone else dares venture, and deaf
to our remonstrances stands on a narrow, shelving ledge overlooking
the surging current. “From its fountain until it reaches the valley
which we have just left—where the French Broad immediately swallows it
up—it flows over a bed of rock, and is broken into endless falls and
rapids—several of them exceedingly grand.”
“It strikes me that the entire country seems to have a rock
foundation,” says Mr. Lanier. “Look at that mountain over there! It is
solid rock, with a few feet of soil on the surface.”
“The effect is picturesque in the extreme,” says Mrs. Cardigan,
regarding the mountain in question with approbation.
Certainly nothing can be finer than this splendid height, as it rises
above the stream for at least a thousand feet, its great side covered
with tangled greenness save in places where the rock is uncovered and
stands forth boldly in gray cliffs, while, by throwing our heads far
back as we look upward, we can see the crest outlined against the
intense silvery-blue sky.
After leaving this point, we travel for two or three miles at a very
leisurely rate— spending more time out of the carriages than in them,
since the beautiful road tempts one to constant lingering. The flashing
water is before our eyes, its musical tumult in our ears; the rocks,
the foliage-clad hills, the beauty of the golden day, all combine
to fill us with what Sylvia calls “the Arcadian spirit,” which may
perhaps be defined as an inclination to loiter whenever loitering is
practicable.
We have entered, too, a fairy-land of flowers, and our hands are full
of them as we stroll along. On the hillsides, in the deep, ferny glens,
by the plashing streams, and among the mossy stones, grow all manner of
blossoms in profusion—large, purple passion-flowers, royal tiger-lilies
of different shades, the lovely orchis, which is locally known as
“the highland plume,” in tints ranging from orange to pale salmon and
white, delicate wild-azalias, starry flowers which no one is botanist
enough to be able to name, and trailing sprays of graceful creepers.
Wild-grasses abound, and we deck our hats with them.
“Here is the fly-trap,” says Charley, coming up with a peculiar-looking
plant—a green cup, with a top which closes over any unlucky insect that
may chance to venture within.
At this rate of progress, it is not remarkable that the day is nearly
half gone by the time we reach Buck Forest—which proves to be a large
two-story building, with a long piazza in front, shade trees drooping
all around, a mountain of brown rock near by, on which verdure only
appears in tufts, and depths of forest greenery in every direction.
“What an appropriately-named place!” says Sylvia. “And this is where
you and Charley are so fond of coming, Eric? Pray, what do you do after
you get here?”
“Do?” repeats Eric. “Why, hunt, ride, fish, make excursions of all
kinds. Buck Forest is the last place in the world where one can
possibly feel the want of something to do. It has an owner who is an
ideal mountain host, and for company one is generally sure of finding
the best of good fellows.”
“Like those good fellows who sang ‘Good-by, Sweetheart’ last night?”
she asks, laughing. “If so, I shall be delighted to meet them.”
“It is mostly a resort for hunters and sportsmen,” says Charley. “I
don’t think ladies, as a rule, like it much—at least, they like it
after a fashion, no one could help doing _that_; but they find it dull.
Poor souls! one can’t blame them. There are no mineral waters to drink,
no grounds to lounge over, no bowling-alley to flirt in, no ballroom—”
“That will do, Mr. Kenyon!” cries Mrs. Cardigan. “Stop before you
become hopelessly commonplace, for you know you were going to say ‘no
ballroom in which to display fine toilets.’ Now, I insist that one can
enjoy a ball without fine toilets—as we proved last night—and I am sure
we shall all be charmed with Buck Forest.”
“Here is a man whose fault it certainly will not be if you are not,”
says Eric, as we draw up before the door, and the ideal mountain host
comes down the piazza steps to meet us. The greetings between Eric,
Charley, and himself are warm in the extreme— old friends and comrades
have they been for many a day—and when he is presented to us, we, too,
feel the frank friendliness of his manner. As we ascend to the piazza,
Aunt Markham looks round graciously and remarks that it seems to be a
very pleasant place.
“It is not pleasant—it is delightful!” says Sylvia, whose partialities
and prejudices are both conceived with lightning-like rapidity. “This
is that ‘lodge in some vast wilderness’ for which we have been sighing
so long. Look at the ‘boundless continuity of shade’—and oh, what
splendid antlers!”
The antlers to which this exclamation refers hang against the wall
of the house, together with several hunting-horns of graceful shape,
while long-eared, soft-eyed hounds are lying about, and everything is
suggestive of woodland sports.
Presently Eric comes up enthusiastic.
“They killed one deer yesterday afternoon, and brought in another only
an hour before we reached here,” he says. “If anybody wants better
hunting than that, I don’t know where he can go to find it.”
“If they continue on at that rate, I shouldn’t think it would take long
to thin out the game,” says Mr. Lanier.
“Who are ‘they’?” inquires Sylvia. “Our host does not talk of himself
in the plural, does he?”
The motive of this question is so transparent that we all laugh. Sylvia
is not in the least disconcerted; she makes no secret of the fact that
she likes to form new and pleasant acquaintances.
“‘They,’” replies Eric, “are a party of gentlemen—one of whom is an old
comrade of mine. Yonder he comes now.—Brandon, how are you?”
The gentleman thus addressed has just emerged from the house; he
starts at sight of Eric, and they shake hands heartily. Inquiries and
greetings are exchanged. We catch the words “fine buck”—“shot him at
about forty yards”—“first-rate shot”—“made by Mr. Charlton.”
“I wonder if he is speaking of Geoffrey Charlton?” says Mrs. Cardigan.
“I know _him_. He is a writer—a journalist, or something of that kind.”
“Such people are not generally agreeable,” says Sylvia—who, a month
ago, was inclined to exalt “culture” above anything else, and esteemed
“such people” to be the cream of earth’s population. “They are too much
inclined to think that nothing is worth knowing which is not to be
found in books.”
“I am afraid that if you remain in this country much longer _you_ will
think that nothing is worth knowing which is not learned in the woods,”
observes Mr. Lanier, with rather a forced smile.
“There are worse schools of manhood,” says Charley, taking down one of
the horns and winding such a blast that the hounds all start up with an
enraptured howl.
Just then one or two ladies appear, and the sight of their fresh
toilets moves us to a sudden recollection of our travel-stained
condition—for rocks and bushes are more picturesque than beneficial in
their effect upon costumes. We retire to our rooms, and, by the time we
have made some necessary changes of dress, the dinner-bell rings.
We should be very ungrateful if we failed to record the fact that the
fare at Buck Forest is admirable, considering that we do the fullest
possible justice to it. Sylvia breathes a sigh of satisfaction when she
receives on her plate a slice of tender, well-dressed venison.
“At last!” she says.
“At last you have reached the _Ultima Thule_ of your dreams,” says
Charley. “Shall I go out after dinner and shoot some pheasants for your
supper? They abound here.”
“No,” she answers, “don’t overwhelm me! Venison is enough for the first
day—and such venison! To-morrow you may shoot the pheasants.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Cardigan has found that Mr. Charlton _is_ her
acquaintance, and she is talking to him across the table.
“What a remote corner of creation this is in which to meet you!” she
says. “Pray how do you come to be here?”
Mr. Charlton shrugs his shoulders.
“I hardly know,” he answers. “Chance, good-fortune, anything you like,
wafted me here. I have been in Transylvania for a month.”
“And like it, of course; else you would not have staid so long.”
“Could anyone fail to like it?”
“Well, yes—I am sure some people would not like it,” she replies. “But
not people of good taste, like you and me. Are you much of a hunter?”
“Not very much, but I had the good luck to kill a deer this morning.”
“So I have heard—a fine buck, they say. May I ask a favor for old
acquaintance’ sake? Will you give me the antlers?”
Certainly, Mrs. Cardigan will never need anything through lack of
asking for it. A cardinal principle of her philosophy appears to be,
‘When you want a thing, say so.’ In the present instance she makes her
request, as usual, with an engaging smile and perfect _sang-froid_. Mr.
Charlton on his part looks a trifle embarrassed.
“I should be very happy to grant you that, or any other favor,” he
says, “but I have already promised the antlers—though I had little
hope, when I made the promise, of securing such spoils—to a lady whom I
left at Cæsar’s Head.”
“Oh, indeed!” she says, opening her eyes a little. “In that case, of
course, I can’t expect you to give them to _me_. But perhaps some one
else will gratify me—Mr. Markham—Mr. Lanier—who will promise me the
antlers of the first stag killed?”
“We all promise them,” says Eric, gallantly, “provided that we are
lucky enough to kill another stag.”
“_I_ don’t promise,” says Charley, in an undertone.—“Shouldn’t you like
them?” he adds, turning to Sylvia.
“Very much—if they were offered to me,” she answers, in the same tone.
“But I don’t think anything has much value that one is forced to ask
for.”
“Some things have,” says the young man, quickly.
The place not being auspicious for a sentimental conversation, Sylvia
takes no notice of this remark.
“But if anybody wanted to make me perfectly happy,” she proceeds, “he
would get me a small _live_ fawn.”
Fortunately for Charley, before he can pledge himself to anything rash,
Aunt Markham makes the move for leaving table, and we follow. The
piazza at Buck Forest, even more than at most places of the kind, is
reception-room, parlor, card-room, and gathering-place in chief; so we
adjourn thither and discuss our plans for the afternoon.
“Suppose we devote it to rest?” I venture to suggest; but the idea is
contemptuously scouted.
“Who needs rest?” says Sylvia. “_I_ don’t. If anybody will take me
anywhere, I’ll go gladly.”
“Should you like to join a deer-hunt?” asks Eric. “Brandon thinks that
if we take the dogs through the Rich Mountain drive, we may perhaps
start a deer. At all events, it is worth trying; and the view from the
mountain is worth seeing. I know of no view so fine to be obtained with
so little trouble.”
“Oh Eric, _how_ charming you are!” cries Sylvia, starting up. “Of
course I will go.”
“And I,” says Mrs. Cardigan, almost as eagerly.
I find myself too strongly tempted by this prospect to carry out my own
proposal of rest; so it follows that in the course of the next hour we
start—a train of merry equestrians, with horns and guns and dogs.
“This is what I have dreamed of!” says Sylvia, with ecstasy.
“I hope you dreamed of starting a deer,” says Charley.
“I hope she didn’t,” says Rupert. “Dreams always go by contraries.”
Rich Mountain is three miles distant from Buck Forest, and the ride
thither is like enchantment on this September afternoon. The beauty
of the day is without flaw, and the green depths of the forest into
which we plunge are filled with a streaming glory of amber sunshine.
Mr. Brandon and Eric, who lead the cavalcade, do not follow any road
nor even a bridle-path. Straight through “the coverts of the deer,” in
other words, through the most thickly timbered woods and the densest
_chaparrals_ of laurels and ivy, they go, and we straggle after them.
There is not very much conversation. In the first place, we are too
scattered, for every rider chooses his own way; and, in the second
place, the attention of our escorts is altogether concentrated upon
the dogs. Will they “jump” a deer? That is the momentous question
which fills their minds. The dogs themselves seem anxious enough
to do so. They run to and fro with their noses to the ground, and
obediently answer any horn or whoop which may be sounded; but no deer
is unfortunate enough to be “jumped.”
[Illustration: “A train of merry equestrians.”]
Meanwhile we are mounting higher and higher in gradual but certain
ascent. So rich is the soil beneath our horses’ feet, so luxuriant the
growth upon it that we appreciate the fact that the mountain deserves
its name, and we are not surprised to hear that it is a favorite
cattle-range.
“There are hundreds of cattle on it,” says Mr. Brandon. “You’ll see any
number of them when you reach the summit.”
Presently we strike into a path which leads directly upward, winding
through the beautiful world of green and gold. Suddenly we look round
with amazement. What is this? Here on this mountain-side, in the
midst of the fair, wild forest, we find ourselves in a castle-court—a
quadrangular space, enclosed by great rocks of square, massive shape,
and soft, gray tint.
“The Castle Rock,” says Charley, pointing to the largest of these.
“Fine, isn’t it?”
It is very fine, and fully as large as a castle, which it strongly
resembles. The grandeur of these fragments is heightened by their
position and isolation. No other rocks are anywhere near, but so firmly
fixed are they that one feels they may have stood since the beginning
of time.
“When we come back from the summit,” says our host, taking a coil of
rope from the front of his saddle and throwing it on the ground, “we
can climb to the top of that rock, if you like.”
“I don’t clearly see how we can,” says Mrs. Cardigan, who has no relish
for adventures in which her neck is absolutely put in jeopardy.
“Oh, it’s easy enough,” says Charley carelessly. “You mount on the
other side with a rope.”
“So that is what the rope is for,” says Sylvia. “I have been wondering
who was to be hanged.”
From this point the ascent is very steep to the top of the knob
which crowns the mountain. Nevertheless, we ride to the summit, then
dismount, the horses are fastened, and we go to the verge of a rocky
precipice, from which, “broad, extended far beneath,” lies the view.
It is lovely in the extreme, and more extensive than can be realized
at first. Indeed, no view which is worth anything _can_ be grasped at
once—its beauties must grow upon one, its immensity be appreciated
by degrees, its charm sink gradually on the spirit. For this reason,
one cannot too strongly deprecate such hasty visits to the summits of
mountains as most people make, such rapid glances at scenes that one
might spend hours—nay, even days—in studying.
From the bold crest of Rich Mountain—which is sufficiently elevated
for a commanding view, yet not high enough to dwarf all beneath it
into insignificance, as one must confess that the Black Mountain
does—we overlook all the country south and southeast of it. At our
feet lies that upper valley of the French Broad, which is the pride
of Transylvania, while a little beyond, embosomed in green hills, the
pretty village of Brevard catches the sunlight on its white houses.
Around the horizon, one line of blue, waving mountains succeeds
another, until the farthest can scarcely be distinguished from clouds
as they stand against the sky.
“Yonder is the great range of the Balsam,” says Eric, pointing to
the most prominent chain, the dark-blue masses of which overlook the
wooded hills and smiling plains of the foreground. “Behind are the
Cullowhee and the Nantahala. Here on the left is the Blue Ridge, while
far and faint in the west are the peaks of the Smoky, with Georgia and
Tennessee behind.”
How infinitely beautiful it all is! The tints on the vast array of
mountains run through the gamut of colors, from rich purple to palest
blue. The atmosphere is so clear that beyond the gaps of the Blue Ridge
we see the misty plain of South Carolina stretching away southward. The
jewel-like day reveals the scene in all its loveliness, yet the picture
does not lack the softness that only shadows give. Far off in the
west, among the rugged heights and dark passes of the Balsam, a cloud
is discharging itself between us and the sun, while the rays of the
latter, striking through the falling rain, light it up to indescribable
glory. Over Pisgah and the mountains that divide Transylvania from
Haywood, great masses of soft white clouds are lying, wrapping here
and there the summits of the peaks, and a silver haze—half cloud, half
mist—drapes the outlines of the distant Smoky.
“If you were here in the morning you would see the sun strike the
shining side of the Looking-Glass Mountain yonder,” says Mr. Brandon,
pointing over Brevard.
“I wish we _could_ see the sun rise!” says Sylvia. “Can’t we stay all
night, as we did on the Black Mountain?”
“Would you like to bivouac in the open air?” asks Eric.
“I should not object,” she answers; “but is there no way of getting
_into_ the Castle Rock?”
“I am sorry to say that we have not yet discovered the way,” Mr.
Brandon replies.
“Perhaps if we struck the side of it and said ‘_Open sesame_,’ a door
might swing back,” says Mrs. Cardigan.
“But the people who went into such places under such circumstances were
generally unable to come out again, weren’t they?” asks Mr. Lanier.
“That would not be encouraging.”
“We’ll go and try the experiment at any rate,” says Charley. “If we
mean to ascend the rock, we have no time to spare. The sun will set in
half an hour—or less time.”
“And there is going to be a gorgeous sunset,” says Sylvia, looking at
the marshaling clouds. “Let us stay for it!”
“Just as you like,” says Charley. “The sunset or the rock. Choose
between them—for you can’t have both.”
“Put it to the vote,” cries Rupert.
It is put to the vote, and the rock carries the day. Only Mr. Lanier
votes for the sunset—partly from indolence, partly to please Sylvia.
That young lady rewards him by saying that after all she prefers the
ascent of the rock. “That will be adventurous,” she remarks. “This is
only beautiful.”
So we go down to where the rocks stand in their picturesque
massiveness, with plumy ferns covering the ground at their base,
and a world of graceful foliage drooping around. Having entered the
quadrangle, we dismount again and are led to the western side of the
Castle Rock. Here we pause and gaze at the height which we are expected
to scale.
Eighty-five feet above, the great mass towers sheer and bold, with
broken escarpments here and there, and, higher up, a shelving side,
scarcely affording foothold, one would say, for anything less active
than a squirrel. We look at each other half-laughing, half-dismayed.
“How are we ever to get to the top of that?” says Mrs. Cardigan.
“Eric is there,” cries Sylvia. “See! he is fastening the rope to a tree
that grows out of the top of the rock. If he went up without a rope,
surely we can climb _with_ one.”
“It is a great risk,” says Mr. Lanier, who has plainly no fancy for
such a feat. “I beg you, ladies, not to attempt the ascent. It is
rash—it is—”
“Hallo!”—Charley’s smiling face looks at us over a ledge of the
rock—“we are ready. Who comes first?”
“I do!” answers Sylvia. She springs forward, unheeding the fact that
Mr. Lanier grows almost pale in his eagerness to detain her. He
absolutely catches her arm.
“Pray listen to me,” he says. “Pray don’t go. If you were to fall,
nothing could save you from a severe injury. Kenyon is not to be relied
on. He risked your life once before—”
She shakes off his hand impatiently. There is a flash in her eye as she
glances at him.
“Charley thinks more of my life than he does of his own,” she says. “He
_never_ risked it. I never was in danger—not for a moment—when I was
with him. Let me go!”
He lets her go. As he falls back, biting his lip, I see a quick flush
rise to Mrs. Cardigan’s dark cheek. Perhaps at that moment it occurs
to her that many a heart—or at least many a fancy—is caught in the
rebound, and that pique is the surest cure for a hopeless passion. She
utters a low laugh as the discomfited gentleman returns to her side.
“I see you don’t appreciate,” she says, “the _tendresse_ that exists
between Miss Norwood and Mr. Kenyon—and that the best way to make a
woman do a thing is to beg her _not_ to do it.”
“Is it the best way with you?” he asks, turning with a glow—of
resentment against Sylvia—in his eyes.
“Not particularly so,” she answers lightly, “though of course I share
somewhat the infirmities of my sex.”
“And do you intend to climb that rock?” he says. “I am sure you will
find it not only dangerous but very disagreeable.”
“I don’t think I shall climb it,” she replies slowly. As she speaks,
I see plainly that she longs to follow Sylvia, who is now standing by
Charley’s side, far above our heads, while Eric instructs her how to
hold the rope when he assists her up the sloping rock which still
rises above them.
This operation is a difficult and not very graceful one. Sylvia is
escorted safely to the top, and then my turn comes—for Mrs. Cardigan
declines to venture. I am hoisted up to Charley—words fail me to
speak of the height of the steps which one is told to take, and the
manner in which the muscles of one’s arms are tested in this kind of
climbing—then Eric receives me in charge.
[Illustration: “‘Let me go!’”]
“I have only one thing to say,” he remarks, before we start, “don’t be
afraid! If you were to faint, I’d carry you safely to the top.”
This is reassuring—as is also the firm grasp on my arm, the steady hand
controlling the rope. But rocks—especially when they are shelving—are
very slippery, and I have a slightly giddy feeling in attempting to
crawl like a spider across the side of one, with only a rope to cling
to if my foot should slip. Eric does all, and more than all, that he
promised, however. I, too, am conveyed safely to the top, and deposited
in a breathless condition on a rock which it is a comfort to feel is
_flat_.
There is some further—but not very difficult—climbing, and then we
stand on the summit of the Castle, with the mountain shelving downward,
a sea of verdure at our feet, and an extensive view toward the east,
which would be beautiful in a clearer light. Now the shades of
evening have fallen, and the outlines of the distant scene have grown
indistinct. Nevertheless, our guide points at once northeast.
“There is the Black!” he says.
Truly enough, there it is—the outlines of its mighty shoulders clearly
defined, though a cloud, as usual, wraps its head.
“That is the same cloud we left there,” says Charley, who has by this
time followed us.
Rupert—who accompanied Eric in the first ascent—was already on the
top when we reached it; the rest of the party now appear, with the
exception of Mrs. Cardigan and Mr. Lanier, who remain below. Over the
peak behind us, brilliant masses of sunset clouds float—clouds which
make Sylvia almost regret that she did not remain for this sweet vesper
of the dying day—while the soft, purple veil of twilight covers like a
mantle the wide expanse which we overlook.
“Oh,” says Sylvia, turning to Charley, “this is surely better than if
you had ‘jumped’ a deer!”