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
_fetes_ 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
Jumbe 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 Jumbe 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 Jumbe 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.
Volume Two, Chapter XIII.