"Love to the mountains led his sheep,
Once on a summer day,
Into a valley green and deep,
Under rock-ramparts gray;
"Sat on a stone where the waters run
Rippling the hours away,
Touched his lute in the light of the sun—
That was a summer day."
We return to the hotel through the soft, starlit dusk, and find that the company has changed during our absence. Several newcomers have arrived, Mr. Charlton has taken his departure.
"He has an attraction at Csar's Head," observes Mr. Brandon, when Mrs. Cardigan remarks this fact. "Miss Tyrrell is there—you know her, Markham. She is an uncommonly nice girl."
"Who is she?" asks Mrs. Cardigan, with the interest that some women are quick to feel in any other woman who is reputed attractive.
While this question is answered, and Eric is sounding the praises of Miss Tyrrell and her family, the supper-bell rings, and we go in with appetites sharpened by the fresh mountain-air.
After supper, the piazza is not less attractive than by day, and, with shawls wrapped around us, we adjourn thither. The stars are brilliant, and against the steel-blue sky the dark crest of Rich Mountain is distinctly outlined.
"Don't you wish we were there now?" asks Sylvia, wistfully. "How silent and awesome it must be!"
"Some of us don't fancy awesome things," says Charley, who is seated on the steps smoking. "I prefer my present quarters very much."
"You have no poetry in your soul," says the young lady. "Mr. Lanier, now—I am sure he would like to be there."
She glances round as she speaks, but there is no Mr. Lanier to answer the jesting words. His place is vacant, so likewise is that of Mrs. Cardigan. At the far end of the piazza two dark figures in close proximity are dimly visible—star-gazing, no doubt. Eric laughs.
"'Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!'"
he says to Sylvia. "There seem suspicious signs of treachery and desertion in the camp."
"Two things which one should never condescend to notice," she answers, carelessly.
Notwithstanding this sentiment she expresses herself with less reserve on the subject when we are alone for the night.
"Have you ever seen anything to equal the manner in which Mrs. Cardigan is trying to flirt with Raph Lanier?" she asks. "She has given up Eric as a hopeless subject, and turned her batteries on the other."
"It is certainly a bold invasion of the rights of property," I say, "considering what an admirer of yours he has been for some time. No woman with self-respect would act in such a manner—but Mrs. Cardigan has little of that quality. Nevertheless, you have yourself, not her attractions, to blame for Mr. Lanier's desertion."
"Perhaps I have," she says, carelessly. "I know that I could bring him back by a word—but I don't think I shall speak the word. I have lost any faint liking I may ever have had for him, and as for making a cold-blooded marriage of convenience—I could not do that if my life depended on it."
"Take care!" I say, warningly. "I grant that Mr. Lanier does not appear to great advantage on a tour of this description—he is, in fact, altogether out of his element. But you don't expect to spend your life in Arcadia, and when you go back to the world, where fine dresses, fine jewels, fine equipages, will assume again their place of first importance, you may be sorry for having discarded a man who represents all these things."
"What a feminine Mephistopheles you are!" she says. Then she throws back the cloud of dark hair which she is combing, and looks at me with her shining eyes. "Perhaps it is a good thing to wander in Arcadia for a little while and realize that life may be happy, and healthy, and free, without any of those things," she says. "It is something I have needed to learn."
"Which means, I suppose, that you are going to marry Charley, and try living in Arcadia for good. You are a simpleton—but never mind! Stop talking, and go to bed."
"You are mistaken," she says, with dignity. "Because I don't choose to marry one man is no reason for supposing I mean to marry another."
106"You are an arrant flirt, and a shameful impostor!" I say; and then I go to bed myself.
The next morning at breakfast we find that there are grave signs of desertion of another kind. The gentlemen in a body are missing—having taken an early departure for a deer-hunt. Sylvia is much injured and incensed by this proceeding.
"I should not mind it so much if they had not known that I wanted to go!" she says. "It is mean and shameful of them to act in so—so underhand a manner. They must have stolen away; they could not even have sounded a horn, or it would have waked me."
"You are mistaken about that," says one of the ladies. "There was a great deal of noise—blowing of horns and barking of dogs. You must have slept soundly not to have heard it."
"How can anybody help sleeping soundly in this climate?" asks Sylvia, aggrieved.
It is the middle of the day before the hunters return, empty-handed—having failed altogether to start a deer, which fact is full of balm to Sylvia's feelings. She is standing on the piazza with a (to which she has been forced to betake herself) in her hand when they ride up, and she proceeds at once to empty the vials of her indignation upon their heads.
"Are you not ashamed of yourselves?" she says. "If you had told me that you did not want me, of course I should not have pressed my society upon you; but to go off in this manner, and leave me behind without a word—that I call mean in the extreme."
"Look here!" says Eric, "you surely did not expect to be taken on a regular deer-hunt? Why, you would find nothing entertaining in it, and you would be amazingly in the way besides."
This remark wounds Sylvia deeply. In the way! She is evidently unable to imagine that such a thing could be within the remotest range of possibility. A flush comes over her face; she draws herself up.
"In that case, I have nothing more to say," she remarks, and moves away like a queen.
With a laugh, Charley springs from his horse and follows her. She has retreated to the end of the piazza, where Mrs. Cardigan and Mr. Lanier conducted their flirtation the night before, and opened her with the air of one intensely absorbed—an air, however, which does not impose upon the young man, who comes up smiling.
"Don't be vexed, Sylvia!" he says. "Eric is a sort of mis—what do you call it?— woman-hater, you know. I should not have found you in the way at all; but it would have been a pity to disturb you so early in the morning. Why, we started at daylight, and you know you are not partial to rising with the lark—unless it is for a horseback flirtation."
Sylvia's eyes are fastened on the pages of "The Wooing O't." She takes no notice of the apologies, or of the last assertion, and Charley has an excellent opportunity to observe the length and color of her lashes, as they droop steadily downward. He laughs again.
"How shall we pacify you?" he says. "Shall we take you to Rich Mountain again? By-the-by, did you leave anything on the top of Castle Rock yesterday evening?"
"I lost a piece of blue ribbon from my hair," she answers, glancing up now—and then she sees the identical knot of ribbon pinned on the front of his coat. "So you have found it!" she says, holding out her hand.
But he draws back.
"Treasure-trove!" he says. "I was passing the rock with Lanier, and we both observed it lying on the side. I suggested that whoever could get it should have it, but he declined to climb, so I risked my neck alone—and here it is. You could not think of asking me to give it up after that!"
"It is not of much importance," she says carelessly, "but I don't see what you want with it."
"Ah! don't you? Well, Lanier does. I doubt if there is a more angry or jealous man on the face of the globe just now. This is my order of merit, and—and blue is the color of hope, isn't it?
'Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!'"
"If you think," says Sylvia, majestically, "that by climbing—no great feat, I am sure—the Castle Rock for a piece of blue ribbon, and by paying foolish compliments, you can make me forget my just grievance, you are very much mistaken!"
And then, with a crushing air, she returns to "The Wooing O't."
107"The woman who would not be flattered when a man climbs a rock for a ribbon which she dropped, simply for the pleasure of possessing it, and of aggravating another man, has—has no poetry in her soul!" says Charley. "What will make you forget your grievance, then? Should you like to go to the falls behind Cedar Mountain this afternoon?"
She looks up laughing—finding it impossible to keep her face in order any longer.
"'One does not come to Arcadia to stay in the house and read .'"
"You know I should!" she says. "It is doubly mean of you to treat me in this way, because one does not come to Arcadia to stay in the house and read ."
So it is arranged, and, after an early dinner, we start to the falls of the Little River, which are chief among the sights around Buck Forest. Charley still wears his "order of merit" conspicuously on his coat, and Mr. Lanier devotes the chief of his attentions to Mrs. Cardigan. That lady is in the highest possible spirits, and I think would be perfectly happy if she could induce Sylvia to show any signs of pique. But the latter is unaffectedly indifferent—culpably indifferent, Aunt Markham thinks—to Mr. Lanier's defection, and her eyes shine as brightly, her sweet laugh rings as gayly, as if his devotion was all that the heart of woman could desire.
With affairs in this condition we start—a long cavalcade—toward the falls. Aunt Markham, seated in state on the piazza, gives us her blessing, but declines to accompany us.
"Eric," she says, "pray take care that nobody is shot, or drowned, or killed in any other way."
The allusion to shooting is on account of the guns which several of the gentlemen carry, for the dogs are taken along, and there are faint hopes entertained of "jumping" a deer. Eric, who is accustomed to being addressed as a kind of general policeman, answers with commendable gravity that he will endeavor to see that no accident of the kind occurs, and then we ride off.
The sun is shining brightly, but there are one or two ominous-looking clouds on the mountains, which make several persons prophesy rain. We heed the prophecies as little as possible. When people have been drenched in every conceivable manner, and at every conceivable time, it would be remarkable if they did not become indifferent to the weather. Our way lies over Cedar Mountain—not because it is the way to reach the falls, but rather because it is not.
"Most people follow the r" says Charley, "but that is stupid. Come this way and we shall have the view besides."
Nobody demurs—not even Mr. Lanier. 108He seems to have resigned himself to anything that may befall him while he is with a party who value their necks so lightly. Up Cedar Mountain, therefore, we go. This imposing hill of brown rock is the first thing which attracts the attention of the traveler who arrives at Buck Forest. It rises boldly in the foreground, its sides only sparsely covered with foliage, and in many places altogether bare. As are the sides, so is the summit. Here and there sufficient soil has collected to nourish a forest-growth; but for the most part one rides or walks over immense sheets of rock, diversified by beds of the richest moss and tiny pools of water. The height of the eminence is not very great, but it commands a good view of the surrounding country, and of the mountains that stretch in azure fairness across the far horizon. This afternoon, however, the prospect is not seen to advantage—there are too many low-lying clouds in all directions, and over Rich Mountain one dark mass is rising—"boiling up" is the expressive provincial phrase—which looks as if it meant mischief.
"There may be a storm before long," says Eric. "Shall we go back and defer seeing the falls until to-morrow?"
"Go back because there is a dark cloud three or four miles away?" says Sylvia. "What an idea! No; let us go on."
"Is that the vote of the party?" he asks, looking round.
Yes, it is the vote of the party; the feminine part of which is strongly inclined to suspect the other part of wanting to secure another uninterrupted hunt.
"If the storm comes up," says Charley, "we can find a refuge at the Bridal-Veil Fall."
"What an odd place to find a refuge!" says Mrs. Cardigan. "How can a fall shelter us—unless it be on the homopathic principle of like curing like?"
"You'll see when we get there how it can shelter us," says Mr. Brandon, winding a blast on his horn.
Having ascended the mountain on one side, we go down on the other, leaving the sheets of rock behind, and plunging into the depths of a forest without ror path. We are struggling through a laurel chaparral in single file, and I am wondering if I shall emerge without having suffered the loss of any of my raiment, or without being pulled from my horse, when a vivid flash of lightning suddenly blazes around us, and a rattling peal of thunder sounds overhead.
We glance up in dismay. That the sun has been for some little time obscured we are all aware, but the suddenness with which the cloud has come over astonishes even those who are best acquainted with mountain-storms.
"I did not expect it so soon," says Mr. Brandon. "We must run for it, or we shall be drenched to the skin."
"Run! where?" asks Mr. Lanier, blankly.
"To the fall!" answers Eric, galloping ahead.
There is no time for question. Another vivid flash, another volleying peal, show us the necessity of following as rapidly as possible. Away we go, a string of racing equestrians, presenting altogether so ludicrous an appearance that I find myself shaking with laughter as I bring up the rear. It is a breathless race, under drooping boughs, through dense thickets, over fallen trees, down declivities where a stumble would send horse and rider rolling head-foremost. Presently we dash into something bearing a faint resemblance to a r and, just as the first heavy drops of rain begin to fall, come in sight of a white sheet of water rushing swiftly down an inclined plane of rock, falling abruptly in a beautiful cascade, and then shooting down another rocky slope. Here our escorts draw up their panting horses.
"Just in time!" says Charley, as he lifts Sylvia from her saddle.
The rest of us are deposited on the ground, the horses are fastened, and then, as the rain begins to pour fast and furious, we are hurried along a winding descent over and under rocks, until some one says, "Stoop!" and we find ourselves beneath a great shelving rock on a level with the lower river-bed.
"Why, this is like the Black Mountain cave!" exclaims Sylvia, "only five times as large."
"It is not near so high in the roof," says Rupert, who has given his tall head a severe thump.
It is certainly low of roof and damp of floor, this house of Nature's providing; but, despite these drawbacks, it is as excellent a shelter from storm as the heart of a wayfarer could desire. Over part of the ledge which forms the cave the stream pours 109in the perpendicular fall already mentioned, then the rock sweeps round parallel to the bed of the river, and under this we have taken refuge. The bottom is covered with large fragments of stone that have fallen from above, and on these we perch, taking care to keep our feet from the water which is everywhere. Meanwhile, the rain is pouring in white torrents, the lightning is flashing, and above the tumult of the fall we hear the thunder rolling and rattling overhead.
"Is not this delightful?" cries Sylvia, appealing to the company. "Would you miss it for anything?"
"I should like exceedingly to miss it," replies Mrs. Cardigan, holding up her dress and looking thoroughly out of humor. "I can see nothing delightful in sitting here, for who can say how long."
"Not for very long," says Eric. "The storm is too violent to last. It will be fair in an hour."
"An hour is a considerable time to spend in this manner," says Mr. Lanier, dusting his fingers, which show signs of contact with the rocks.
"It is a desirable thing to be a philosopher," says Charley, seating himself on a pile of stones and regarding the falling rain with an expression of complacency. "I am a philosopher. It is a matter of small moment to me how long the rain lasts. I am ready to sit here till dark, or to ride home through it. Meanwhile, can't we have a game of whist?"
This proposal is received with favor, but, since nobody has thought of bringing a pack of cards, falls to the ground. There is nothing to be done but to possess our souls in patience, to talk idly, to shiver slightly in the damp air, and wonder when the storm will end. As soon as it abates, Charley and Mr. Brandon go out on a ledge by the side of the river to take an observation of the sky. They return in a moist condition, and report another cloud coming over.
"At this rate," says Mrs. Cardigan, "when shall we get away?"
In a few moments the cloud comes over as prophesied, and the rain pours again in torrents. The stream begins to swell, as mountain-streams do in the shortest possible time; and we notice that the fall increases in volume.
"Perhaps we shall be overflowed," Rupert cheerfully suggests. "That would be a jolly adventure."
The second storm is of short duration. Presently the rain ceases, and a flash of sunshine lights up leaping water, gray rocks, and green hillsides.
"How delicious!" says Sylvia. "What a glittering scene! Let us go out where we can see it."
So we go out from under the shadow of the rock, and look round on the radiant, dripping world, and up at the blue sky from which the clouds have parted and fled. On the opposite side of the stream Cedar Mountain rises, covered with a wealth of tangled verdure; in front of us the Bridal Veil sweeps down and pours in a sheet of white foam and spray to the solid rock on which we stand.
"If you like," says Charley, "you can go behind the fall. It will be rather wetter than usual after such a heavy rain; but it is the regulation thing to do."
"Will anybody tell me," says Mrs. Cardigan, "what was the good of keeping dry under the rock, if we are going behind the fall now to get wet?"
"You won't get wet—only a little damp," says Mr. Brandon.
"I don't think that I care to get a 'little damp,'" she answers. "Besides, I can see the fall very well from here."
"But you can't see the view from the other side," says Charley. Then he turns to Sylvia. "Will you go?" he asks.
"That is a question which may be defined as unnecessary," she answers, drawing her water-proof over her shoulders. "Lead on!"
So he leads and she follows, while Mr. Brandon, Rupert, and I, come next. It is a trying operation, this passing behind the falls. The space for passage is very narrow, the wet stones are exceedingly slippery, the rock above shelves in a manner which makes it necessary to bend nearly double, the tumult of the falling water is almost deafening, and the spray fairly blinding. We draw a breath of relief when we emerge on the other side.
It is beautiful enough over here, however, to repay us for the inconvenience of the passage. The river does not altogether cover its bed, and we walk along the inclined rock, with the current rushing swiftly by our side and the mountain rising sheer above, covered with rhododendron, and interspersed with tapering 110juniper-trees and stately spruce-pines. The stream shoots rapidly down until it drops suddenly into the loveliest pool that ever charmed the eye of a painter. The pellucid water might serve as a bath for Diana; rocks draped with vines, and flowers, and shrubs, inclose it; graceful trees lean over the crystal depths. It is a spot fit for nymphs—or lovers.
Perhaps Charley thinks so, for he insists upon taking Sylvia to it, along a very slippery and perilous way. She does not refuse his assistance, as she has often refused Mr. Lanier's under similar circumstances. Clinging together, and laughing gayly as a pair of children, they clamber down to the side of the pool, and then she clasps her hands in an ecstasy of delight.
"How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!" I hear her say. "Charley, I should like to stay here!"
"I am at your service," says Charley. "We'll tell the others to go back and leave us. I shall be glad of the opportunity to utter a seasonable word or two."
"In that case I don't think I care to stay," she answers. "A seasonable word is one of the most unseasonable things in the world."
"Yonder is some beautiful moss," observes Mr. Brandon to me. "I'll get it for you if you like."
I do like; and, while he and Rupert are scrambling up the hillside, I watch them, and catch such scraps of the conversation at the pool as the following:
Charley. "I've stood a great deal, but, by Jove! I think it is time for me to have a definite answer of some kind."
Sylvia. "Oh, dear me, Charley, what is the good of beginning like this! You promised faithfully not to worry any more until we got home."
Charley. "I promise such a thing as that, with Lanier at hand to make love to you all the time! I'll be hanged if I did!"
Sylvia. "That was my understanding—but it does not matter. I suppose I need not expect any peace at any time. Mr. Lanier has gone over to Mrs. Cardigan; I think that ought to set your mind at rest about him."
Charley. "Fiddlesticks for Mrs. Cardigan! Lanier cares no more for her than I do! Sylvia, long as I have known you, I don't quite know what to make of you yet. Sometimes I think you are a heartless flirt!"
Sylvia. "Thank you very much."
Charley. "Then again I feel inclined to trust you with—everything. Just now that inclination is particularly strong. If you hold out a sign of encouragement, I will indulge it with the greatest pleasure."
Sylvia. "But what is 'everything?' Such an indefinite offer is rather more alarming than gratifying. Don't tell me now, however. Let us go back, and some other time—"
Charley. "That is what you always say—'Some other time,' but the time never comes, and I am half inclined to believe that it never will come. This time is as good as any other, and, if you care for me—"
Sylvia (coolly). "I never said that I did, other than 'as a younger brother,' as I heard a sentimental lady say the other day of the man with whom she was flirting."
I do not hear Charley's reply to this, for Mr. Brandon and Rupert return laden with mosses and ferns, over which we hold an animated discussion until a shout from the direction of the cave makes us turn, and we see three handkerchiefs waving a signal of recall. Then, like Lord Ullin in the ballad, we lift our voices and cry to Charley and Sylvia, "Come back! come back!"—a summons which one, at least, of them is ready enough to heed.
They come, and we walk on. I—who loiter behind my escort in order to be sure of finding safe footing on the treacherous rock—learn that their conversation has not waxed more amicable.
"I am tired of the subject!" I hear Sylvia say, petulantly, "and I will not be browbeaten into giving an answer when I am not ready to do so. You must wait my time, or do without an answer at all."
Charley (whose long-suffering patience is plainly exhausted). "You mean that I am to be kept off and on until you are tired of amusing yourself, or until you decide to marry some rich prig like Lanier. Thanks exceedingly, but I don't fancy the rle, and I am sure you could answer me now if you chose to do so. We've known each other long enough!"
Sylvia (with a sigh): "Too long for romance. There is no possibility of the illusion that ought to accompany the tender passion. Why, I know all your weak points as well as you know mine!"
Charley. "So much the better!—we'll 111have less to learn after marriage. I don't believe in illusions—I can't see that they serve any good end. I had rather love one woman than a dozen angels. Now, Sylvia, just one word—"
Sylvia (impatiently): "I won't! I haven't any word to say—do let me alone."
Charley (speaking with dark emphasis): "You had better tell me. I have made up my mind not to stand this state of affairs any longer. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll have it out with Lanier."
Sylvia (sarcastically): "Pray do! That would help matters so much."
By the time the conversation has reached this point we gain the fall, and Mr. Brandon says:
"Be careful where you step, and follow me exactly."
I am careful, and follow him exactly—hence I emerge in safety on the farther side; but there are other members of the party not so fortunate. What evil spirit possesses Charley I do not know, but he certainly pauses midway in the passage and turns—thus forcing Sylvia, who is behind, to pause also. The torrent of water is pouring in a cataract of foam and spray before their eyes, its noise fills their ears. Yet the reckless young fellow absolutely seizes his companion's hand and holds it in a vice-like pressure.
"Now," he says, "you shall answer me! I'll not let you pass until you do. Is it yes or no?"
"Charley, how dare you!" cries Sylvia, amazed and indignant. "I—I won't be bullied in this manner! Let me pass."
"I'll let you pass the instant you say yes or no," replies Charley, inexorably; "not before on any account."
"No, then!" she cries, with all the emphasis of which she is capable under the circumstances, and, snatching her hand from his grasp, she endeavors to dart past him—but the stepping-stones are slippery and unstable. She loses her footing, and he has barely time to seize her as she sinks under the Bridal-Veil Fall.
"He has barely time to seize her as she sinks under the Bridal-Veil Fall."
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