“And there are haunts in that green land, oh! who may dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell,
By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,
And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves?”
There is an enchanted flavor about the days that follow. They are
the very cream of all our summer idling. We are “on the hills, like
gods together, careless of mankind,” and this exaltation has a charm
difficult to define. The clouds which discharge themselves upon the
valleys below, while we sit serene and secure on the mountain’s crest,
are types of many other things. Down on that heavenly-looking plain all
the vexations and troubles of existence are rife, while we are uplifted
above them, and hardly disturb ourselves to wonder how the world is
pursuing its course. We even grow indifferent to the mails—sure sign of
content!—and scarcely glance into a newspaper.
“There is no telling when we shall be more than four thousand feet
above the sea again,” says Sylvia, “so let us make the most of it.”
There can be no doubt that we _do_ make the most of it. The air of
Cæsar’s Head stimulates to exertions which would be impossible in a
less bracing atmosphere, and we soon become accomplished pedestrians,
taking our way, alpenstocks in hand, to all places of interest and note
around the mountain. These places are almost inexhaustible. People
who come and see only the view from the Head have no idea that they
leave unseen behind them tenfold more than that. It is only a part—and
a small part—of the abounding loveliness which lies within reach of
all who do not fear a little exertion. Being in the midst of the Blue
Ridge—which makes here its sweeping curve between the Carolinas—one can
wander in no direction without finding scenes of the grandest beauty:
cliffs and palisades of rock, great sweeps of wooded mountains at hand,
with blue ranges afar, fairy-like glens where the cool plash of water
is never still, and the limitless expanse of the azure low-country.
But, however far we may have wandered, however steep the way may have
been, we never fail to gather on the Head when evening comes, to watch
the sun sink behind the western hills. What magical coloring we see on
land and sky at these times, what wonderful cloud-effects, what visions
of a glory that seems almost celestial, only a poet could tell, and
the poet who shall sing to the world of these fair scenes has not yet
arisen.
On an evening of this description we are scattered over the rocks, and
the sun is sinking among clouds that remind one of the cohorts of the
Assyrian king, so gorgeously are they “gleaming with purple and gold,”
when Mrs. Cardigan directs our attention to a silver crescent, shining
faintly out of the sky above.
“There is the new moon,” she says. “It is good luck to see it for the
first time in a clear sky. I hope the good luck is for my journey
to-morrow.”
“Are you going to-morrow?” Sylvia asks. “What a pity! Why should you
end anything so pleasant as these golden days?”
“Because my friends are going,” the lady answers, “and I don’t know
that there is any reason why I should remain behind. This life is
delightful, and I dislike exceedingly to leave you all, with whom
I have spent so charming a time, but there comes an hour when all
pleasant associations must end. I have come so far with you that I wish
I could induce you to come with _me_ now.—Mr. Markham, is there no
chance of such a thing? Let me see how many inducements I can offer!
First, the North Georgia scenery—my friends talk of stopping for a
glimpse of Tallulah and Toccoa.”
“I fear that we must defer seeing Tallulah and Toccoa until we take our
trip next summer to the Balsam,” Eric answers. “It is necessary for
us to turn _our_ faces homeward. In a day or two we shall start for
Hickory-Nut Gap.”
“These are the last days of September,” says Mr. Lanier. “The summer is
very nearly ended—in fact, may be said to _be_ ended.”
“But autumn is better than summer,” says Sylvia, “and I want—oh, I
desperately want—to spend October in the mountains. It is beautiful
everywhere, but it must seem divine here, when—
‘... his winds blow fresh, and his sunsets flame,
And the whole earth burns with his crimson fame—
The prince of the months—October.’”
“There can be no doubt that people, as a rule, leave the mountains much
too soon,” says Eric, “but the claims of business take me home, and I
shall take the rest of you.”
“If they will be taken,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “But I offer a warm
welcome and two or three weeks of further idling to all deserters.”
In making the offer, she looks directly at Mr. Lanier, and it strikes
me as a little odd that this gentleman seems a trifle embarrassed as he
pulls his mustache.
“Can there be any kind of an understanding between them?” I think—and
then I look at Sylvia.
The countenance of the latter is altogether inscrutable. She is gazing
calmly into space, and, if there is a suspicion of an amused smile
dimpling the corners of her mouth, it is the only sign she gives of
appreciating the game of the fair widow.
Presently the sunset fades, and the different members of the party
begin to straggle back toward the hotel. Neither Charley nor Rupert is
with us. Two or three days before they went down to Buck Forest for
hunting, and have not yet returned. Mrs. Cardigan and Eric leave the
Head first. Sylvia lingers to watch the crescent moon brighten from
silver to gold as the glowing tints die out of the sky, and of course
Mr. Lanier lingers with her. I leave them on the rocks to go down the
winding path which leads to the Mouth, remembering that I left my
sketch-book there earlier in the day.
I stay a few minutes and then climb leisurely back. When I have nearly
reached the top, I pause in consternation. What is this?—Words full of
significance reach my ears. Believing that they are alone, Mr. Lanier
has plunged into his long-deferred declaration, and has plainly met his
certain rejection.
“I do not wish to press anything which is unwelcome upon you,” I hear
him say, in such tones of mingled mortification and pride as rarely
come from a man’s lips on any other occasion. “But if you would take
time to consider—”
“It is useless,” Sylvia interrupts. “You would have a right to consider
me a coquette if I gave you any hope that my answer could ever be
different from what it is now. If I have seemed to encourage you,
I hope you will pardon me. It is not always easy to know one’s own
mind—and I have not known mine until lately.”
“And are you quite sure that you know it now?” he asks, anxiously.
“I am quite sure,” she answers, decidedly.
There is a moment’s silence after this.
“Dear me!” I think, “what an uncomfortable situation for me! Shall I
go back to the cave and try to skirt round the bowlders and get away
without their seeing me?”
While I hesitate, in doubt which plan to adopt, Mr. Lanier’s tones
again break on the stillness.
“I suppose that means,” he says—his voice betraying all the sore
jealousy which he feels—“that Kenyon has been more fortunate than
myself.”
“It is not necessary,” says Sylvia, haughtily, “to introduce any other
name into this— conversation. I am very sorry for the pain which I may
be forced to give you; but you must believe that my answer would be the
same under any circumstances.”
“If he believes _that_,” I think, “he has less penetration than I give
him credit for.”
Mr. Lanier does not believe it. If the unpleasant fact of rejection is
certain, what man is going to lose the satisfaction of believing that a
prior infatuation for some other man is the cause of it?
“Your preference for Mr. Kenyon has been so marked,” he says, stiffly,
“that others besides myself have remarked it.”
“That means Mrs. Cardigan, I suppose,” answers Sylvia, scornfully. “But
may I beg to know why you thought it worth while to ask your question
of a few minutes ago, if my preference for Mr. Kenyon seemed to you so
‘marked’?”
“This is becoming stormy,” I think. “Really I must get away.” Then I
succeed in skirting the bowlders unobserved, and take my way to the
hotel through the falling dusk.
I have not been seated on the piazza fifteen minutes when the others
appear in sight—walking silently, as I observe with an inward laugh.
They bear themselves very well, however, when they join the company,
who greet them with inquiries about their late stay.
“We were watching the new moon,” says Sylvia. “It is lovely.”
“But it has the old moon in its arms, which I have been told is a sign
of bad weather,” says Mr. Lanier.
“How can you make such a disagreeable prophecy,” says Mrs. Cardigan,
“when we all want the good weather to last until we are out of the
mountains?”
“You will be out of them to-morrow,” he says, “and on reflection I am
inclined to accompany you. I think I have had enough of the beauties of
Nature for one season.”
“Indeed!” she says—and the interjection is full of significance. “In
that case you will not feel inclined to go with us to Tallulah?”
“No—only as far as Greenville,” he answers. Then he turns to Eric. “You
are going to Flat Rock, are you not?” he asks. “May I trouble you to
take my horse that far and return him to my uncle? One of your servants
can ride him, can he not?”
“Certainly,” Eric answers. “There is no difficulty about that, but I am
sorry you mean to leave us.”
“I am sorry to be obliged to do so,” the young man answers, with a
commendable attempt at civility, “but I—ah—have business which calls me
away.”
After this there is nothing to be said, and consequently silence falls.
Everybody knows what has happened as well as I know it. Aunt Markham
grasps my arm with painful force, and, muttering something about
“night-air” and “rheumatism,” leads me into the house and faces me
solemnly.
“What does this mean?” she asks, as if _I_ were accountable for the
vagaries of a young man in love. “Can it be possible that Sylvia has
discarded Mr. Lanier?”
“I am afraid she has,” I answer. “He would hardly be likely to go away
unless something of the kind had occurred.”
“Good heavens!” says Aunt Markham. For a minute she can say no more
than that, her feelings being too deep for utterance. Then she shakes
her head in wrathful indignation. “The misguided girl!” she says. “I
give her up! I will have nothing more to do with her affairs! She will
never have a better offer—never! And to refuse it—for what?”
She asks the question with tragic effect, but I am not provided with an
answer; so I only shake _my_ head, and, since some one comes in at the
moment, further conversation is impossible.
Mr. Lanier adheres to his resolution, and Mrs. Cardigan has the
pleasure of carrying him off in her train the next morning. It is a
pleasure much lessened, however, by the consciousness that he is a
rejected suitor, and that everybody in the little world which she
leaves behind is aware of the fact. She shrugs her shoulders aside when
she bids me good-by.
“I suppose I shall have to play consoler,” she says. “It is not at all
in my line. Can you suggest any appropriate form of consolation?”
“I have no doubt you will soon find one,” I answer—and so we part.
The last I see of Mr. Lanier he is pensively pulling the ends of his
mustache, and gazing down at his boots. Perhaps he is reflecting on the
mountain-sides up which he has toiled, the end whereof is weariness and
disappointment.
A few days later we find it necessary to leave this dwelling in the
sky. There comes a morning when the carriages and horses stand before
the door, when the trunks and boxes, the grasses and ferns, the wraps
and umbrellas, are brought out, when hands are shaken and last words
uttered, when we bid a cordial farewell to our kind hosts, and roll
away.
We pause on the Head for a view of the wonderful prospect, but a gray
mist is shrouding it—a mist which later in the day will lift with
soft and beautiful effect, and which wavers to and fro, now revealing
the sea of dark-green foliage below, and the massive outlines of the
neighboring mountains, then capriciously closing over them again; but
we cannot wait for it to disperse.
“After all, perhaps it is better so,” says Sylvia. “Nature wears a veil
in order that her loveliness may not make it too hard for us to go.”
We accept this explanation and return to the carriages. Before we have
gone halfway down the mountain, all signs of mist have vanished, and
the sun is lighting up the depths of the woods with streams of gold.
The drive to Buck Forest is delightful, and when we reach the latter
place we find Charley and Rupert, who have not troubled themselves to
return to Cæsar’s Head, ready to join us.
“We’ve had glorious hunting!” the latter declares at once, while the
former brings a pair of antlers which he presents to Sylvia. “You spoke
as if you might like them,” he says, “so I thought I would offer them
to you. I am sorry that I have not been able to get the fawn for which
you expressed a desire.”
“_I_ am not sorry,” she answers with a laugh. “It would have been very
troublesome to carry; but thank you for the antlers. I am glad to have
them, and I shall keep them in memory of our pleasant expedition.”
While she speaks, I see that Charley is surveying the party with an
expression of surprise. After a minute he falls back, and I hear him
say to Eric:
“What the deuce has become of Lanier?”
“He went down the country a day or two ago with Mrs. Cardigan,” Eric
answers. “I think he has had enough of mountains to last the rest of
his life.”
Charley laughs—half amused, half scornful.
“What did such a muff ever come to them for?” he asks.
This is all the sympathy which the muff in question obtains from the
person whom he esteems his fortunate rival. Indeed, Aunt Markham is the
only member of the party who mourns his departure. Sylvia is evidently
relieved, and something of a tacit reconciliation takes place between
Charley and herself. So, in a state of amicable good-fellowship, we bid
our friends at Buck Forest farewell, and set our horses’ heads toward
Hickory-Nut Gap.
The road leads us through the pass where the Little River pours in
foaming rapids down to the house where we spent the night on our way
to Buck Forest. Then we bear away to the right, and, leaving the
fertile valleys and wooded hills of Transylvania behind, ascend to
the high plateau of Henderson. The highways here are as admirable as
any traveler could desire—white and firm, and flecked with shade.
The horses appreciate them after the hard service which they have
recently seen, and carry us along at so good a rate of speed that the
afternoon is not half gone when we find ourselves in the midst of the
settlement of Flat Rock. Country-seats appear on all sides; avenues of
white pines, beautiful park-like grounds, surround them; sometimes the
house is invisible, and we see only the broad gates and the sweeping
carriage-drive that leads to it. There are signs everywhere of the rock
formation which gives a name to the region. On the hillsides are great
sheets of brown-stone, and everything indicates that the same stone
forms the foundation of the country.
“I suppose you are aware that this is a provincial Charleston,”
says Eric. “Long ago, a number of the wealthy planters of the South
Carolina coast built summer residences here, and made a society within
themselves. A spirit of change has passed over the place since the
war, I understand, and a few outsiders have come in and bought some of
the residences; but, on the whole, it is still, socially as well as
picturesquely, attractive.”
“And the climate is perfect,” says Aunt Markham.
There can be no doubt of this fact. Almost on a level with the summit
of the Blue Ridge lies the plateau, and though not much higher than
Asheville, its atmosphere is very much drier, owing to the absence
of streams. The peculiar brilliancy of the air, to which we have by
this time become accustomed, is nowhere more marked, and the average
temperature is remarkably even.
There is an excellent hotel here, which we find filled with South
Carolinians. The distinctive Charleston face appears, the distinctive
Charleston accent is heard on all sides.
“We have got back to civilization,” says Aunt Markham, complacently
looking round on the carpets and easy-chairs, which we have not seen
since we left Asheville.
“If this is civilization, it seems very tame after our life in the
woods,” says Sylvia, discontentedly.
“Civilization always seems tame to outlaws,” remarks Charley.
“No doubt you all feel like resting this afternoon,” says Eric,
addressing the company, “but we will spend to-morrow here and you may
like to visit some of the places in the neighborhood.”
At this suggestion Sylvia expresses disdain.
“As if, after all that we have seen, we could care about mere parks and
pleasure-grounds!” she says.
“I shall be glad to see them,” says Aunt Markham. “I may obtain an idea
for the new flower-garden at home.”
Consequently we set forth the next morning on a round of sight-seeing.
It is not worth while to record our impressions of the different
places to which we are conducted. Country-seats with lawns and
terraces, artificial lakes and flower-gardens blazing with brilliance,
are to be found in many parts of the world besides Flat Rock. Aunt
Markham is greatly interested, but the rest of us are unequivocally
bored, and find it difficult to repress a sentiment of contempt for the
“views” which we are called upon to admire. In truth, many of these are
very charming—but they strike us as tame after the wilder scenes from
which we come. This is not the fault of the views, however, as we are
magnanimous enough to admit.
When we think of returning to the hotel, Eric says: “There is one more
place where we will go. It is called ‘the old De Choiseul House,’ and
was built by a certain Count de Choiseul, who lived in Charleston
for some years and had a summer residence here. The place has a very
foreign aspect, and was uninhabited when I heard of it last.”
We turn into a disused road leading across an old field thickly set
with goldenrod and wild-asters. This leads up a gradual slope, and
finally through a fallen gate into what has obviously once been a park,
but is now an overgrown wilderness.
A wilderness of singular beauty, however—a domain so fair, so deserted,
so still, that we think of the legends of knights and ladies wandering
in enchanted woods. Shall we meet Una here, or _Rosalind_ in her boyish
masquerade, or _Jaques_ pouring out his melancholy to the trees? So we
ask each other, smiling at our own folly in associating these fables
of the Old World with this New World beauty. Yet there is something in
the aspect of the wood suggestive of such thoughts. The road which we
are following has plainly once been laid off with great care and regard
to effect, but now the untrimmed boughs droop so low over it that more
than once they threaten danger to our eyes, and the mouldering leaves
of many autumns are crushed by our passing wheels.
No sign of any habitation appears as we go on, following windings and
curves which seem endless, farther and farther into the world of fairy
greenness. Golden sunshine streams softly into the gloom, crimson
touches appear here and there on the trees, ferns and mosses grow
luxuriantly on the damp hillsides, down a rocky glen a stream comes
flowing in a lovely cascade. There are traces of paths around this, and
a rustic bridge falling to decay.
Not far from this spot we obtain our first glimpse of a house through
the dense verdure. A few minutes later we emerge on a broad, sunny
terrace, and find that we have approached from the side a château of
gray stone, with a finely-arched doorway and handsome wings. The style
of architecture is altogether French, and the house appears to be in
a state of very good preservation. The doors and windows are securely
fastened, so we cannot enter; but it is easy to tell that the rooms are
spacious and lofty, while the windows of the ground-floor are wide and
tall, and open on the terrace.
The situation is simply superb. The house faces toward the west,
crowning a hill, which, from the terrace already mentioned, slopes
abruptly down for at least a hundred feet. Below is a stretch of
meadow-land, through the midst of which a stream marked by fringing
willows takes its way. Beyond are woods rich with autumnal beauty,
their varying tints making a glowing background. Behind are bold hills,
and again behind these the blueness of distant mountains.
“What a place to drink after-dinner coffee, and talk after-dinner
gossip!” says Sylvia, regarding the terrace with approval.
“What a place to talk sentiment by moonlight!” says Charley.
“A very good place for luncheon, I think,” says Aunt Markham.—“Rupert,
bring the basket from the carriage.”
“Eric, tell us something interesting about the people who lived here,”
cries Sylvia. “Make up something if you don’t know anything to tell.
It is a place which bears every appearance of having a story connected
with it. Why should it be deserted in this melancholy fashion? Is it
haunted?”
“If so, I am not aware of the fact,” says Eric. “The Count de Choiseul
was an elderly gentleman of elegant habits, who lived here—with his two
daughters, I believe— and no doubt often took coffee on this terrace.”
“An elderly gentleman, indeed!” says Sylvia, with scorn. “I know better
than that. He was young, and handsome, and melancholy, like all poetic
exiles, with dark eyes and a fascinating smile.”
“And a snuff-box,” says Charley.
“Being wealthy and charming,” Sylvia goes on, “he soon persuaded a
young American beauty to discard countless adorers and marry him. They
lived here very happily until the arrival of a mysterious stranger from
France.”
“There is too much mystery in the story,” says Rupert. “I object to it.
Come and take some chicken. It is very good.”
“After this,” proceeds the narrator, “a change came over the young
bride. She seemed to shrink from her husband; she grew pale and lost
her beauty. In the end she died mysteriously, and her ghost walks up
and down this terrace every night.”
“What killed her?” asks Rupert, with his mouth full of the chicken he
had praised.
“The loss of her beauty, probably,” says Charley. “That is a death-blow
to some women.”
“The best story-telling is that which leaves a margin to the
imagination,” says Sylvia. “I should like to enter this house. I
have no doubt I should find her chamber in one of those wings, with
everything exactly as she left it—even to a pair of blue-satin
slippers.”
“I should like to find _those_,” says Rupert. “If you will indicate
which wing you think her chamber likely to be in, I’ll climb up and
break open a window.”
“I don’t wonder that anybody, whether in the flesh or out of it, should
come to admire this view,” says Eric, who is seated in the shade of
the arched door, with a sandwich in one hand and a chicken-wing in the
other.
It is difficult to say how long we linger after luncheon is over,
watching the loveliness of the shadow-dappled scene. The beauty, the
subtile sadness, are too deep for expression. Save for the occasional
notes of birds, everything is profoundly still. The bright sunshine
seems full of pathos. On each side of the silent house is the
interlacing shade of the park—
“Now dim with shadows wandering blind,
Now radiant with fair shapes of light.”
At last we wander off to explore further. Behind the house, on the
slope of a hill, we find a conservatory and grapery, with a broken
flight of steps leading to them. Both are falling to decay, the glass
broken, the flowers and vines dead. The grapery is large, and must have
been beautiful, I think, as I stand within, picturing green leaves and
purple clusters of fruit, with the sun beating warmly on the glass
roof. The reality is very different from this picture—a melancholy
vine with a few yellow leaves clinging to it, and a bird distressfully
fluttering to and fro. The conservatory looks quite as sad. Round the
door a few petunias have taken root and are flourishing. Sylvia stoops
and pulls one.
“For a souvenir,” she says.
I want a souvenir also, but I prefer one from the house, so I turn my
steps in that direction. Over the rear of the building a growth of
English ivy spreads, climbing to the very roof. It is in bloom, and I
have seldom seen any thing more beautiful than the deep green of the
leaves and the delicate tint of the blossoms against the soft gray
stone. I pull a long spray, and, thus laden, go back to the carriage
where Eric is calling us.
“I am glad that we came here,” says Sylvia, as we drive
away. “The other places which we have seen are only ordinary
country-seats—charming enough in their way, but thoroughly commonplace.
_This_ is a deserted castle in an enchanted wood.”