"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 rturns 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 ris a mere shelf—narrow as that along the French Br 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 r 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 Brimmediately 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 rtempts one to constant lingering. The flashing water is before our eyes, its musical tumult in our ears; the rocks, the foliage-clad hills, the 99beauty 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 100of 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 ."
"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 Csar'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.
101"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 rnor 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."
"A train of merry equestrians."
Meanwhile we are mounting higher and 102higher 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, "br 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 Br 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 103Sylvia. "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 104the 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.
"'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!"
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