Volume 2 Chapter 12 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Smythje Eclipse
The celebrated eclipse of Columbus, by which that shrewd navigator so advantageously deluded the simple savages of Don Christopher’s Cove, is not the only one for which the island of Jamaica should be famous. It is my duty to introduce another: which, if not worthy of being recorded upon the page of history, deserves at least a chapter in our romance.
The eclipse in question, though not so important in its results as that which favoured the great world-finder, was nevertheless of considerable interest—more especially to some of the dramatis personae of our tale, whose fortunes it influenced in no slight degree.
Occurring about two weeks after the arrival of the distinguished Smythje, it seemed as if the sun had specially extinguished himself for the occasion: as a sort of appropriate climax to the round of brilliant fêtes and entertainments, of which the lord of Montagu Castle had been the recipient. It deserves, therefore, to be designated the “Smythje eclipse.”
On the day before that on which the obscuration of the sun was expected to take place, the Cockney had conceived a brilliant design—that of viewing the eclipse from the top of the mountain—from the summit of the Jumbé Rock!
There was something daringly original in this design; and for that had Smythje adopted it. Kate Vaughan was to be his companion. He had asked, and of course obtained, Mr Vaughan’s consent, and hers also of course—for Kate had found of late, more than ever, that her father’s will was to be her law.
Smythje was not without a purpose in the proposed ascent to the natural observatory of the Jumbé Rock. In that hour when all the earth would be in chiaro-oscuro—as if shrouded under the pall of infinity—in that dark and solemn hour, Smythje had determined upon popping the question!
Why he had selected such a place and time—both pre-eminently sombre—must for ever remain a mystery. He may have been under an impression that the poetical reputation of the place, combined with the romantic solemnity of the scene and the hour, might exercise a dissolving influence over the heart of the young Creole, and incline her to an affirmative answer. Or, perhaps, au fait as he was to theatrical contrivances, he may have drawn his idea from something he had seen upon the stage, and chosen his climax accordingly.
Some two hours before the expected contact between the limbs of the two great luminaries—in time to allow of leisurely walking—Smythje started out for the Jumbé Rock, of course accompanied by Kate Vaughan.
Attendants there were none; for the exquisite, on such an occasion, preferred being alone; and had so signified—declining the sable escort which his host had provided.
The morning was one of the fairest. The sun was still shining brightly. Not a speck could be distinguished upon the azure arch of a West-Indian sky; and the scenes through which the path conducted Mr Smythje and his fair companion were among the loveliest to be found in the domain of Nature.
Around the dwelling of Mount Welcome—in its gardens and parterres—the eye delighted to dwell upon a variety of vegetable forms, both indigenous and exotic—some planted for shade; some for the beauty of their blossoms; and others for their fruit. There could be seen the genip, the tamarind of Oriental fame, palms of several species, the native pawpaw, and the curious trumpet-tree. Distinguished for their floral beauties, were the cordia, the oleander, and South-Sea rose, the grand magnolia, and the perfumed Persian lilac. Bearing luscious fruits, were the cashew, the mango, and Malay apple; the sop, the guava, with every variety of the citron tribe—as oranges, lemons, limes, and the huge shaddock.
Climbing the standard trunks, and twining around the branches, were parasites of many species—rare and beautiful flowering plants: as the wax-like hoya carnosa, the crimson quamoclit, barsavolas, ipomeas, and other magnificent orchids.
It was a scene to stir the soul of a botanist to enthusiastic admiration; resembling a vast botanical garden—some grand house of palms, having for its roof the azure canopy of heaven.
To the eyes of the young creole—all her life accustomed to look upon those fair vegetable forms—there was nothing in the sight of them to beget astonishment; and the Cockney cared but little for trees. His late adventure had cured him of all inclination for a forest life; and, in his eyes, a cabbage-palm was of no more interest than a cabbage.
Smythje, however, was not unmusical. Constant attendance at the opera had, to some extent, attuned his soul to song; and he could not help expressing some surprise at the melody of the Western songsters—so much misrepresented and maligned.
In truth, upon that morning they appeared to be giving one of their grandest concerts. In the garden groves could be heard the clear voice of the banana-bird, like the tones of a clarionet, mingled with the warbling tones of the blue quit. There, too, could be seen the tiny vervain humming-bird, seated upon the summit of a tall mango-tree, trilling out its attenuated and fairy-like lay, with as much enthusiastic energy as if its little soul was poured forth in the song.
In the dark mountain woods could be heard other songsters—the glass-eye merle singing his rich and long-continued strain; and, at intervals, the wild, plaintive cry of the solitaire, littered in sweet but solemn notes, like the cadenced chaunting of a psalm—in perfect keeping with the solitude which this singular songster affects.
Above all could be distinguished the powerful voice of the New World nightingale—the far-famed mock-bird—excelling all the other music of the groves; except when at intervals the rare May-bird condescended to fling his melody upon the breeze, when the mock-bird himself would instantly interrupt his lay, and become a listener.
Add to these sounds the humming of bees, the continuous “skirling” of grasshoppers, lizards, and cicadas—the metallic cluckling of tree-frogs, the rustling of the breeze among the lanceolate leaves of the tall bamboos, and the sighing of a cascade among the distant hills—add these, and you may have some idea of the commingling of sounds that saluted the ear of Mr Montagu Smythje, as, with his fair companion, he ascended the mountain slope.
Cheerful as were the birds and brisk the bees, Smythje appeared cheerful and brisk as they. He was gay both in spirits and costume. Thoms had equipped him in one of his favourite suits; and his spirits were elevated by the prospect of his grand love triumph.
On arriving at the bottom of the ravine which conducted to the summit of the rock, Smythje showed his courage by boldly advancing to scale the steep path. He would have offered a hand to assist his companion; but in the difficult ascent he found full occupation for both; and in this ungallant manner was he compelled to climb upward.
Kate, however—who was accustomed to the path, and could possibly have given him assistance—found no difficulty in following; and in a few seconds both had arrived on the summit of the rock, and stood under the shadow of the palm.
The skeleton form, once chained to the tree, was no longer there to fray them. It had been mysteriously removed.
Mr Smythje consulted his repeater. They had arrived just in the nick of time. In five minutes the eclipse would commence; and the discs of the two great heavenly orbs would appear in contact.
It was not this crisis, however, that Smythje had chosen for the cue to his important speech. Nor yet the moment of deepest darkness; but just when the sun should begin to re-appear, and, by his renewed brightening symbolise the state of the lover’s own feelings.
He had prepared some pretty speeches which he meant to repeat by way of ushering in the declaration: how his own heart might be compared to the sun—now burning with passion—now darkened by deep despair; then once more brightening up, with rekindled hope, at the prospect of Kate making him the happiest of mortals.
He had prepared them pit-a-pat the night before, and gone over them with Thoms in the morning. He had rehearsed them more than a dozen times—ending with a dress rehearsal just before starting out.
Unless the eclipse should in some way deprive him of the use of his tongue, there could be no danger of his breaking down.
With perfect confidence, therefore, in his speech-making, and equally confident of the issue, the romantic Smythje restored his repeater to its fob; and, with sun-glass in hand, awaited the coming on of the eclipse.