"As she fled fast through sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her played,
Blowing the ringlets from the braid;
She looked so lovely as she swayed
The rain with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."
To be mounted on a good horse, to have a pleasant companion who is equally fortunate, and a good stretch of rbefore one—there is nothing in the whole list of physical enjoyments so absolutely exhilarating and delightful.
Those who are aware of this will not be surprised that Sylvia gives little thought to the disconsolate escort and forsaken party whom she has left behind, as Cecil and Bonnibelle press eagerly forward at a sweeping canter. The morning is superlatively fresh and fair, the sunlight is bright without oppressive heat, 55the river-breeze wafts the soft hair back from her face, the hedges and wayside fences, overhung with clematis, flit past, the horses keep pace admirably and enjoy the race as much as—or more than— their riders. Altogether, it is a bit of the most genuine pleasure, which ends only when it is necessary to check their impetuous course at a steep descent around one of the limestone cliffs which begin here.
"Oh, was not that heavenly?" says Sylvia, drawing a long breath. "Was there ever before such a charming creature as Bonnibelle? And Cecil is worth his weight in gold! Now"—a sigh—"ought we not to wait for the others?"
"Wait for them!" repeats Charley. "They must be at least two miles behind. You've no idea at what a rate we have come. Instead of waiting, let us see how soon we can get down to the Paint Rock. I'll wager any thing we reach there an hour and a half ahead of them."
This cool proposal surprises the young lady—and amuses her. There is a large spice of mischief in her composition, and the idea of Miss Hollis and Mr. Lanier left in the lurch, and consigned to each other's tender mercies, appeals irresistibly to her sense of the ludicrous. She looks at Charley, and bursts into a gay laugh.
"Did you mean this deliberately?" she asks. "There never was any thing more shameful. Poor Miss Hollis!—Poor Mr. Lanier! How inconsolable they must be!"
"Don't flatter yourself with any such idea," says Charley, coolly. "Miss Hollis is at this moment making eyes at Lanier, and he is bearing his fate with the philosophy which distinguishes him. We are the scapegraces; so, like scapegraces, let us be jolly together."
"You are the scapegrace, sir. Do you suppose I had a thought of riding to Paint Rock with you when you proposed a short run to keep the horses from pulling our arms off?"
"Not the least in the world; but I had a thought of the kind. I knew that, if we were once fairly started on a gallop, you would not have resolution enough to stop until you were obliged to do so."
"How well you know the weak points of my character! After all, it is pleasant to be separated from the rest of the party, and able to do exactly what one likes. You don't deserve to have me say such a thing, however."
"Why don't I deserve it?" asks Charley, looking very virtuous. "Haven't I schemed and plotted and made two mortal enemies in order to enjoy this ride with you?"
She lifts her eyebrows.
"You schemed and plotted to escape the necessity of holding in Cecil by the side of that animal Miss Hollis is on," she says.
"Of course that was it," answers Charley, meekly. "How very astute you are!"
"I am astute enough to understand you, at least," says Sylvia. "Why, you are as transparent as—as that spring yonder."
"Which, by-the-way, is worth stopping to look at," says Charley, checking his horse. "Did you ever see as large a spring before? It must be ten feet across, and is only one of a succession. Look! There are half a dozen of them, and the stream which rises here and empties into the river after a short course across the field is almost a creek. Do you know the reason? We entered the limestone region about a mile back, and these are limestone springs."
"Are limestone springs always mammoth? I wonder why? But I don't admire the limestone cliffs half so much as those of granite."
"I should not think that an artist would; the gray rock is much the most picturesque.—Now, here is the ferry just before us where, according to the programme arranged by Commander Eric, we are to cross. But, if you would like to do something adventurous and altogether different from the others, I have another plan to propose."
Sylvia's eyes brighten immediately. Something adventurous and altogether different from the others—what does she desire more ardently?
"Propose your plan, by all means," she says eagerly. "What is it?"
Charley, to his credit be it said, hesitates an instant. But it is only an instant. The spirit of adventure is too strong in him for his powers of resistance. Besides, he knows the mettle of Sylvia's courage, and that where he chooses to go she will follow; so he answers:
"By going a mile lower, we can ford the river. Should you like that?"
"Like it!" She clasps her hands. "I 56should like it of all things. But I did not know that the French Brcould be forded."
"There are two or three places on the river where it is practicable. This is one of them. There is usually thought to be some risk about it—therefore I am not sure that I ought to take you. Perhaps, after all, we had better cross at the ferry."
"That is nonsense!" says Sylvia. "Of course you know that I am going to ford the river. Nothing would induce me to cross in that humdrum ferry-boat. Come!—here is a good stretch for a canter."
A mere suggestion sets the horses off. They sweep forward with spirit. The rjust here is remarkably good—level, and not very rocky. Hills dark with foliage rise on one side; on the other, fields intervene between the turnpike and the river. The mountains on the opposite bank of the stream are dappled with cloud-shadows that move slowly across their great shoulders and wooded sides. Looking up the river, there is a beautiful curve and a vista of heights softened into blueness. Overhead the sky is flecked with fleecy white clouds.
"What a thing it is to be alive—and on horseback—such a day as this!" says Sylvia, as they ride "through sun and shade" without drawing rein.
"What a thing it is to have left Lanier and Miss Hollis behind!" says Charley.
Presently they reach the ford, which is their point of destination. As they pause, Charley springs down from his horse and looks at the r which, overarched with shade, leads into the water. Then he glances up at his companion with rather a grave expression on his face.
"I see no trace of anybody having passed here recently," he says. "Sylvia, I don't fancy the idea of taking you in."
"Very likely nobody has forded to-day or yesterday," says Sylvia, composedly. "Have you ever crossed here?"
"Several times—two or three years ago."
"Was it deep fording?"
"As well as I remember, it was rather deep fording—too deep for you, I am afraid. We must go back to the humdrum ferry."
But Sylvia stands her ground and looks undauntedly at the brriver, with its swift, turbulent current.
"I have no desire to be drowned," she says; "and if you think there is real danger, I will go back. But if you only hesitate on my account—and because you fancy, perhaps, that I shall be frightened by a little deep fording—I insist upon going forward."
"I can't imagine that there is any real danger, but still—"
"Then we will go. Forward!"
She waves her hand with an imperious air that her companion knows well. The idea of turning back is as disagreeable to him as to herself. He springs on Cecil.
"Follow me, then," he says, and rides into the river.
Sylvia does not hesitate a moment. She gathers up her habit and follows. Bonnibelle, however—remembering her late experience at Laurel—does not like the look of things. She pauses, snorts, would fain draw back, but a sharp cut of the whip urges her forward. Down she plunges into a rocky hole, and the turbid water rises up over Sylvia's boot. She confesses afterward that her courage sinks a little. If this is "deep fording" at the shore, what will it be in mid-stream? She says nothing, but lifts the mare into shallower water, and follows Charley closely as he slowly splashes ahead. A few yards from the shore they begin to feel the force of the current—a force which increases with every step and makes the horses totter as they breast it. For the first time in her life Sylvia grows a little giddy as she looks down at the swift, eddying river. A fear of falling from her seat comes over her, and she clutches the saddle, but does not utter a word. On they go, the horses stumbling over the rocky bottom, the current growing momentarily stronger, the water rising momentarily higher. It is permanently over and above Sylvia's boot now, and sweeps the skirts which she vainly attempts to lift out of it. Brave as she is, she begins to feel dismayed, and wonders how this will end, when suddenly Charley stops. She knows at once that something is wrong by the expression of his face as he looks round.
"We must go back," he says. "I dare not take you farther. I fear I have mistaken the ford, and another foot of water will swim the horses."
"Go back!" repeats Sylvia. She looks around. They are in the middle of the stream, which sweeps tumultuously down upon their swaying horses. She never forgets 57the sight—which is one of terror as well as of majesty. The distance to either bank seems as great as the width of the entire river when regarded from one of those banks, while the view up and down is wildly beautiful. Just now she does not think of the beauty, however. She realizes fully the danger of their position, but she lifts her hand and points ahead. "We are as near that shore as the other," she says. "Let us go on."
"'Follow me, then,' he says, and rides into the river."
The quietness of her tone reassures Charley. He has evidently no burst of terrified hysterics to dread.
"I hope this is the deepest water," he says, "but if it is not—if the horses lose bottom and are forced to swim—don't be frightened! If you keep your seat, Bonnibelle will carry you safely through. Cling to her neck if the worst comes. Now!"
Forward again—the horses breasting the impetuous current, which nearly sweeps them off their feet, gallantly and steadily. Still higher the water rises. In another minute they must be forced to swim, Sylvia thinks, gathering all her resolution and courage to her aid. The water is at this time nearly on a level with Bonnibelle's back, and it is probable every instant that she will lose bottom. Charley glances round in anxiety, and meets a brave, bright smile.
"You were right in describing this as 'deep fording,'" says Sylvia. "She'll swim in another moment, I think."
"Can you keep your seat?" he asks. "Shall I come and hold you on?"
Even under these circumstances, Sylvia resents this as an imputation on her horsewomanship.
"No, indeed!" she answers. "I'm quite capable of keeping my seat without being held on."
Two or three yards farther of deep wading—and then—blessed relief!—the water grows a little shallower. The horses splash on resolutely, yet cautiously, pausing on every stone, as Sylvia afterward says, to feel for the next. As they approach the shore, the current grows less strong, the stream more shallow. At length they reach the bank, ride out of the water, and find themselves safe on dry ground.
"Thank God!" says Charley—who is not usually devout—with a sincerity that cannot be doubted. "Laurel was child's-play to that!" he goes on, flinging himself from 58his horse and coming to Sylvia's side. "What a heroine you are!" he says. "But I shall never forgive myself."
"Why not?" she asks, with that slight, nervous laugh which is so significant of a tension removed. "We have come through safely, and I have to thank you for another adventure. Charley, I am going to confess something—I was frightened for a little while in the middle of the stream."
"So was I—horribly!" he says. "I thought I had lost the ford, and that, weighted with boots and heavy clothing, I should have to swim with you to the bank. Lanier would have taken better care of you."
"He would have taken better care of himself—there's not a doubt of that," she answers coolly. "But you and I love danger, and some day, perhaps, as the Bible says, we shall perish in it."
"I hope we may perish together, then."
"'You don't mean to say that you've forded the river!' she says."
"What pleasure or profit would that be to either of us? But does it not occur to you that we are rather wet?"
"Wet! I should think so." He touches her heavy, dripping skirts with his hand. "What shall we do? You must dry yourself, or our adventure may end by making you ill."
"I must dry myself—and so must you—or the others will know what we have done—and I don't want them to know."
"They are bound to know, for the ferryman will tell them that we have not crossed there."
"But they need not be told how deep the ford was, or what danger we were in. I should never, never hear the last of it from Aunt Markham if she knew."
"And she would never trust you with me again. You are right—it is best to say as little about it as possible. We will describe the ford as admirable. Now, I think I see a house yonder where we can go and dry ourselves."
They ride up to the house, which stands a little back from the r with steep, cultivated hills rising immediately behind. A woman is seated in the door with a spinning-wheel. She stops spinning and looks at the equestrians as they pause. Charley uncovers like a cavalier.
"Good-day, madam," he says. "We have just forded the river below here and found it high—so high that this lady is very wet. Will you let her come in and dry herself?"
The eyes of the spinner open wide—her countenance expresses the extreme of stolid astonishment.
"You don't mean to say that you've forded the river!" she says. "Well, I wonder! Why, there ain't but one man 59forded there for months past—and he came near havin' his team drowned. You see the river, it's been awful high all summer, and they say the ford's dreadful washed out by the big fresh last spring."
Charley and Sylvia look at each other. They feel more than ever that it is necessary they should keep the knowledge of their adventure to themselves.
"May I come in and dry my clothes?" the young lady asks, with the courtesy which never fails to win courtesy from others. "I shall not be long."
"To be sure—come in," says the woman, moving her wheel back. "Sakes!—but you air wet—wet clean to your waist!" she exclaims, as Sylvia, having been lifted from her horse, comes in. "I'll make up a fire—here, Matildy, you and Jake bring some wood—so you kin dry yourself."
Matildy and Jake—members of a band of stirring, tow-headed children—disappear immediately, but Sylvia's mind is more bent on escaping detection than on drying herself.
"Pray tell me," she says eagerly, "have a party from the Springs passed here on their way to Paint Rock—two carriages and several people on horseback?"
"No," the woman answers, shaking her head. She has seen no such party—whereupon Sylvia darts back to the door.
"They have not passed yet," she says to Charley, "but, of course, they will before long, and they will see the horses and come in and find us, if you don't take care. Put the horses out of sight—anywhere! I won't be found in such a plight as this!"
"You kin take the horses to the stable yonder ef you've a mind to," says the hostess, coming forward. "I'm sorry none o' the boys is about fur to help you."
"Thanks—I don't need any help," says Charley; and, obedient to orders, he marches off, leading the two horses.
Sylvia watches him with a smile. Then she retires to an inner room, and, taking off her wet garments, puts on some coarse but clean ones of her hostess, whose heart is quite won by her bright face and sweet manners. Scarcely has this been accomplished and the dripping clothes hung before the fire to dry, when a roll of approaching wheels is heard, and she rushes to the window in time to see the phaeton and wagon drive past, laden with their merry crowd. Next come two gentlemen on horseback, and then Miss Hollis and Mr. Lanier appear—the former making an heroic effort to smile as she is bumped to and fro in her seat by a horse that will trot despite her frantic tugs at his rein; the latter wearing an air of the most unmistakable sulkiness.
It is sad to relate that Miss Norwood laughs over this spectacle until tears stand in her merry eyes, and she has by no means recovered her gravity when, several minutes later, Mr. Kenyon—very damp about the lower extremities, but insouciant as ever—appears.
"O Charley! did you see them?" she cries. "Is your conscience torn by remorse? Don't you know that at this moment Miss Hollis could drown me, and Mr. Lanier could drown you, with the greatest pleasure?"
"We came very near gratifying them both," says Charley. "Yes, I looked round a corner of the stable and saw the cavalcade. Lanier seemed uncommonly cheerful. I am afraid that, between her horse and her escort, Miss Hollis is hardly enjoying her excursion."
"You can make amends for all by riding home with her—only, if she was of my mind, she would not let you do so."
"She will not be of your mind," says Charley, with an air of resignation.
The duty of riding home with Miss Hollis is in the future, however, so he does not suffer it to weigh on his spirits.
There can be no doubt that these two scapegraces enjoy the hour which they are forced to spend in this manner. There is a freedom from restraint, a flavor of adventure in it which pleases the taste of both.
"I vote that we go somewhere and spend the day by ourselves," says Charley. "Those people down at Paint Rock are all more or less bores."
"How kind of you to say so! I shall tell Alice and Eric."
"Of course I didn't mean Alice and Eric. But some of the rest—that puppy Lanier, for instance.—See here, Sylvia, do you intend to marry him?"
He breaks off abruptly in this way—they are sitting on the piazza alone together—and looks at her with an appealing glance in the blue eyes she knows so well. A tide of crimson comes to her face.
"What do you mean by asking me such a 60question, Charley?" she demands indignantly. "Do you think it likely that I 'intend' to marry a man who has not asked me to do so?"
Charley utters a low whistle, expressive of intense incredulity.
"That is beating the devil about the bush," he says. "You know as well as I do what Lanier means, and what he hopes. As for me, I've never made any secret of what I feel for you. I don't pretend that it gives me any claim on you; I'm perfectly aware that you don't care two pins for me; but still, for the sake of our old comradeship, you might let me know whether you contemplate becoming Mrs. Lanier."
The color still remains on her face. She looks down and beats nervously on the side of her foot with her riding-whip.
"Honestly, I don't know," she says, "but—I—don't—think—I—do. It is impossible to tell, however. The world and the devil may prove too strong for me. One thing is certain—I don't encourage him. You see for yourself that I snub him constantly."
"Your clothes are dry, miss, if you want to put 'em on," says a voice behind.
The dry clothes having been assumed and the horses brought out, they set forth with renewed spirit in search of their party. The day has advanced considerably toward its zenith, but heat in this altitude is rarely oppressive. Moreover, the ris very shaded—the same turnpike along the bed of the river, overhung by hills and cliffs, with which they have become familiar—and their rapid motion creates a breeze. One fair, wild scene succeeds another, like enchantment. Here and there the winding river grows still and glassy as a mountain lake, sweeping softly by banks that are shadowed by drooping trees and draped with graceful vines. Again it breaks into tumult once more— though not such tumult as that above the Springs—or flows in eddying ripples around the greenest of green islands. Presently the rpasses beneath a magnificent cliff, the surface of which is broken into irregular escarpments like layers of stone, and Charley says:
"Here is the Paint Rock. Notice the streaks of color from which it takes its name. Is it not singular that anybody could be so ignorant as to fancy that this, which plainly is part of the composition of the rock, was laid on by human hands?"
"Does anybody really think so?"
"Yes, a great many people think that the Indians painted it—at least they say so. The mingling of colors is certainly peculiar, is it not?"
"Very peculiar and very beautiful. I wish you were a geologist, that you might tell me what gives that deep-red tint. Hark! what is that?"
It is a shout, apparently from the clouds.
"Halloa!" says a voice from above. "Here we are!"
Charley looks up and waves his hat by way of reply. Sylvia also glances up. A hundred and fifty feet above, a group of figures stand, outlined like silhouettes against the blue sky. Riding a little farther, they find the carriages and horses in the shade by the river-bank, with Harrison reclining comfortably on the seat of the wagon. Seeing the riders approach, he lifts himself and descends to the ground.
"Mass Eric and all of 'em's been wonderin' what's come of you, Mass Charley," he says, taking Cecil, as Charley springs down. "They told me to tell you they'se up on the rock."
"So I see," says Charley.—"Now, Sylvia, pin up your habit well, for we have some steep climbing to do."
"Here?" asks Sylvia, looking a little aghast at the face of the great rock which towers over them.
"No, this way," he answers, passing round the corner of the cliff to the side where Paint Creek comes down to the French Br reflecting in its clear water the varied tints of the ledges of rock that rise over it.
A winding path—and a very steep one—leads from here to the summit of the cliff. When, breathless and exhausted, the two truants appear on top, they are received with a storm of greetings and inquiries:
"Where on earth have you been?"—"What have you been doing?"—"Are you not ashamed of yourselves?"—"How is it that they told us at the ferry you had not crossed the river?"— "How did you get behind us when you started in front?"
These and many like inquiries are asked all at once. Sylvia lifts her hands with an air of appeal. "Spare us, good people," she says. "Just now we have no breath to tell you any thing. Will somebody lend me a fan?"
"I have been seriously uneasy about you," 61says Eric to Charley. "Not hearing of you at the ferry, I was afraid you had attempted to ford the river where we were in the habit of doing so a year or two ago, and the ferryman says the ford is dangerous now."
"We can testify that he is mistaken," says Charley, with the most admirable nonchalance. "We did cross at the ford, and here we are in safety."
"Crossed at the ford!" repeats a horrified chorus. "Good heavens, what a risk!"
"Are you in earnest?" asks Eric, suspiciously. "If you crossed at the ford you ought to have been ahead of us, and here you are an hour behind."
"We spent that time eating muscadines on the bank of the river. It does not answer to hurry one's self on an excursion of this kind."
"No, it seems not," says Eric, dryly.
Meanwhile, Mr. Lanier and Miss Hollis are conspicuous by their absence. Sylvia glances round and presently sees them at the farther end of the rock. "We must go and make amends for our rudeness," she says to Charley. "They have really cause to be offended."
Neither of them proves implacable, and harmony is soon restored, only Mr. Lanier grows pale when he hears that Sylvia has added to her list of adventures the feat of having forded the "racing river."
The Cliffs.
"If I had been with you, I should never have suffered you to run such a risk," he says.
"So I told Charley," answers the young lady, demurely.
The view from the top of the Paint Rock, without being grand or extensive, is very beautiful, especially on one of the summer days, when white, billowy clouds lazily follow in the wake of the sun. It is exactly such a day when we stand on the breezy height and see the French Brwith its fairy islets far below. Chains of hills melt softly into each other in every direction, for our elevation enables us to overlook those walls of green which, from the level of the river, bound the gorge, and blue peaks stand outlined against the sky. Over all the wide panorama shifting shadows fall with charming effect, and the variety of tints baffles analysis or description. We are now in view of that great range of mountains, known at different points as the Smoky, the Unaka, and the Roan, which divides North Carolina from East Tennessee; and wherever we turn, some scene of striking beauty arrests the attention. Half a mile farther down the river are the Chimneys—rocks in formation very like the one on which we stand, broken by some caprice of Nature into isolated, chimney-like 62shapes; but the rto them has been washed away by the turbulent river, and never replaced. Hence they are almost inaccessible. A portion of our party go as far as practicable, and report that by standing on some tilting stones in the bed of the river, and craning their necks around a cliff-like projection, they are only able to obtain a partial and unsatisfactory view. Those who remain behind, therefore, congratulate themselves on their wisdom. Certainly to sit on the summit of the great rock under the shade of the pines that grow here and there, with the boundless, sapphire sky above and the lovely, outspread world below, is a pleasure that must be put in the list of those which are as great in memory as in reality.
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