The Green Ray/Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI. TWO GUN-SHOTS.
the next two or three days they saw nothing of Aristobulus. Had he left Iona by the steamer after seeing that it was only loss of time to run after Miss Campbell? No one could say; at any rate it was just as well that he kept out of the way, for the young girl was no longer indifferent to him, she absolutely hated him. To have stripped her ray of its poetry, to have materialized her dream, to have changed the scarf of a Valkyria into a horrid, optical phenomenon! Perhaps she might have forgiven him anything but this.

The brothers were not even allowed to go and make inquiries as to what had become of Ursiclos.

Besides, what good would that have been? What could they have said to him, and what could they still hope for? Could they henceforth ever expect a union between these two beings, so entirely opposed to each other, and separated by the gulf which there is between vulgar prose and sublime poetry, the one with his mania for reducing everything to scientific formulas, the other living only in the ideal, which ignores causes and is content with impressions.

Meanwhile, Partridge, at Dame Bess's instigation, had learnt that the “young old savant,” as he called him, had not yet effected his departure, and that he was still staying at the fisherman's hut, where he took his meals in solitude.

At any rate, Aristobulus did not trouble them with his company. The truth is that when he did not confine himself to his room, intent, no doubt, on some lofty scientific speculation, he went off, with his gun over his shoulder, to the farther shores of the coast, and there gave vent to his ill-humour by a great slaughter of black mergansers, or sea-gulls. Did he still retain some hope then? Did he flatter himself that when once Miss Campbell's whim had been gratified, she would return to her senses? Possibly he did, considering the vanity of the man.

But one day a very awkward accident happened to him, which might, indeed, have proved fatal, had it not been for the generous and timely assistance of his rival.

It occurred on the afternoon of the 2nd of September, when Aristobulus had gone to inspect the rocks at the southern point of the island. One of these granitic masses especially attracted his attention, so much so, that he determined to climb to the summit, which, however, was a most imprudent undertaking as the rock, was smooth and slippery, and there was scarcely an inch of foot-hold.

But Aristobulus was not to be daunted; he began to climb the steep side, helping himself up by clinging to tufts of vegetation growing here and there, and with great difficulty he managed to reach the top.

When once there, he gave himself up to his favourite pursuit of mineralogy, but when he wanted to descend, it was quite another matter. After having looked carefully for the easiest side to let himself slide down, he was about to commence the descent, when his foot slipped, and he went over the side without being able to stop himself. He would certainly have been pitched into the surf below, had not his fall been broken by a projecting shrub.

Aristobulus now found himself in a ludicrous, not to say dangerous position; he could not get up again, and at the same time it was impossible for him to descend.

An hour passed thus, and no one knows what would have happened, had not Oliver Sinclair, with his artist's knapsack on his shoulder, been passing that way at the time, and heard his cries. At sight of Aristobulus suspended thirty feet in the air, and swinging to and fro like a sign-board in front of a tavern, he could hardly help laughing, but, as one may be sure, he did not hesitate a moment in going to his assistance.

This was not done without great difficulty; Oliver was obliged to get to the top of the rock, to hoist the hanging man up again, and then help him to descend on the other side.

“Mr. Sinclair,” said Aristobulus, as soon as he felt himself in safety. “I miscalculated the angle of inclination of this side of the rock; hence it was I slipped and was suspended.”

“Mr. Ursiclos,” replied Oliver, “I am most happy that chance allowed me to be of service to you!”

“Let me thank you nevertheless.”

“Do not mention it, sir; you would have certainly done as much for me.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Oliver Sinclair did not think of mentioning this incident, which was of no consequence to him. As to Aristobulus, he never spoke of it again, but as he highly valued his important person, he took it kindly of his rival, for having helped him out of this awkward predicament.

And now as to the famous ray; it must be admitted that it was singularly loath to show itself, and yet there was no time to be lost, for autumn would soon shroud the sky with her veil of mists, there would be no more soft, clear evenings, which, in these northern latitudes, are few and far between. No more such distinctly defined horizons as might have been traced by a geometrician's compass, or an artist's pencil. Would they be obliged to give up the phenomenon, which they had gone from place to place to see? Must they put off the observation till the following year, or obstinately persist in following it under other skies?

In truth, this was as much a cause of annoyance to Oliver Sinclair as Miss Campbell; they were both incensed at seeing the horizon daily obscured in sea mists. Such was the case during the first four days of this foggy month of September.

Every evening Miss Campbell, her uncles, and Oliver Sinclair sat on some rock, with the waves softly lapping beneath them, and conscientiously watched the sun set in brilliant banks of clouds, far more beautiful, no doubt, than if the sky had been perfectly clear.

An artist would have gone into raptures at the splendour and majesty of the spectacle, unfolded every evening, at the dazzling mass of colours shading off from one cloud to another, from deep violet at the zenith, to vivid crimson at the horizon, at the glittering cascade of molten gold, showered on the aerial rocks, but in this case the rocks were clouds, and these clouds, drifting across the sun's disk, absorbed its last rays, and completely hid them from the eyes of the anxious observers. Then they would all turn away disappointed like the spectators of a fairy scene at a theatre, the last effect of which has been spoilt by a blunder of the scene-shifter, and, taking the longest route, they would return to the Duncan Arms.

“Wait till to-morrow,” Miss Campbell would say.

“Yes, to-morrow,” repeated the uncles, “we have a kind of presentiment that to-morrow—”

And each evening the brothers had a kind of presentiment which invariably ended in disappointment.

However, the 5th of September dawned fair and cloudless, the haze vanished away in the early sunbeams.

The barometer, which for some days had been rising, went up still higher, and remained at settled fine weather. It was not hot enough now for the sky to be misty as in the burning heat of summer; the atmosphere was as dry at the level of the sea, as on the top of a mountain, some thousand feet high.

To say with what anxiety the changes in this day were watched would be impossible, or with what beating hearts they observed the least cloud in the sky, or even with what feverish care they followed the sun on its daily course.

Fortunately, the breeze, which was light, but continuous, was off the land; in passing over the eastern mountains, and sweeping the surface of great prairies, it could not be charged with those molecules of moisture, thrown off by any large expanse of water.

But how long this day was in passing! Miss Campbell could not keep still in one place; braving the scorching sun, she paced feverishly to and fro, whilst Oliver Sinclair climbed the heights of the island in order to get a more extensive view of the horizon. The two uncles emptied a whole snuff-box and a half, and Partridge, as though he were on duty, stood in the attitude of a sentinel keeping watch on the sky.

It had been arranged that day that they should dine at five o'clock, in order to be in good time at the place of observation; the sun would not set till forty-nine minutes past six o'clock, so they would have plenty of time to watch its course down to the horizon.

“I believe we shall catch him this time!” said Sam, rubbing his hands.

“I think so too,” replied Sib, going through the same performance.

However, about three o'clock, there was an alarm; a great fleecy cloud had risen in the east, and was being carried towards the sea by the breeze.

It was Helena who saw it first, and she could not repress an exclamation of disappointment.

“It is but one cloud, and we have nothing to fear,” said one of her uncles; “it will soon dissolve.”

“Or it may travel quicker than the sun,” said Oliver Sinclair, “and disappear below the horizon before he does.”

“But is not this cloud the forerunner of a bank of mist?” asked Miss Campbell.

“I must go and see.”

And Oliver Sinclair immediately ran off to the monastery ruins, where he could get a better view of the eastern sky over the hills of Mull, the outlines of which were as clearly defined as a jagged black line traced on perfectly white paper.

There was not another shred of cloud in the sky, and not a particle of mist hovered round Ben More, which rose clear and distinct about three thousand feet above the level of the sea.

Oliver Sinclair returned half an hour later with reassuring words. This cloud was but a foundling lost in space; it would not even find enough to feed upon in this dry atmosphere, and so must perish of inanition on its way.

Meanwhile the fleecy cloud was making towards the zenith, and to the vexation of all, followed the sun's course, and was wafted nearer and nearer to it by the breeze. In sailing through the sky, its shape had been changed by an aerial current; from the form of a dog's head, which it had at first, it had taken that of a fish in the shape of a gigantic skate; then it turned into a ball, dark in the centre, but brilliant round the edges, and so reached the sun's disk.

A cry escaped Miss Campbell, who was standing eagerly watching its course.

The radiant orb, hidden behind this screen of mist, cast not a single ray over Iona, and the island lay in deep shadow.

But soon the shadow passed away, and the sun reappeared in all its glory; the cloud went on down to the horizon, but did not reach it, and half an hour later, it had vanished as though through a hole in the sky.

“At last it has gone,” exclainied the young girl, “and I only hope it may not be followed by another!”

“No, reassure yourself. Miss Campbell,” replied Oliver; “as this cloud disappeared so quickly, and in such a manner, it is a proof that it met with no other vapours in the atmosphere, so that the whole sky, from east to west, must be perfectly clear.”

At six o'clock, the observers took up their position in the most open place they could find.

It was at the southern end of the island, on the highest point of the cathedral hill. From this position, all the highest part of Mull lying to the east could be seen. To the north the island of Staffa looked like an enormous calabash, stranded in the waters of the Hebrides, and, beyond, Ulva and Gometra stood out from the long coast-line of Mull; towards the west lay the immense plain of the sea.

The sun was sinking rapidly; the line of the horizon might have been traced with Indian ink. All the windows in Iona were ablaze, as though they had caught the reflection of golden flames of fire.

Miss Campbell and her friends stood silent and awe-struck before the sublime spectacle, and watched with half-closed eye-lids the sun's disk, which seemed to change and swell, till it looked like an immense crimson fire-balloon on the surface of the water. There was not a sign of mist visible.

“I think we shall catch him this time,” repeated Sam.

“I think so too,” said Sib.

“Silence, uncles!” exclaimed Helena.

And they were silent and held their breath, as though they were afraid it might condense, and form a light vapour to obscure the sun.

The lower edge of the sun's disk had touched the horizon, and grew larger and larger as though it were being filled out with some luminous fluid. They all seemed to drink in its last rays, like Tel Arago in the deserts of Palma on the coast of Spain, watching the signal-shot, from the island of Ivica, which would allow him to close the last triangle of his meridian line!

At last a tiny edge of the sun's upper rim was all that remained; in less than fifteen seconds the last ray would be shot into space, and would give the eyes so anxiously awaiting it that impression of heavenly green—

Suddenly two gun-shots echoed among the rocks below the hill; a thick line of smoke followed, and then a whole cloud of sea-birds flew out, sea-gulls, wagels, and petrels, startled by the untimely reports.

The cloud of birds flew straight up, then forming a screen between the horizon and the island, it passed just in front of the sinking orb, at the very moment when its last line of light shot upwards from the surface of the water.

At that same moment, they saw the inevitable Aristobulus, gun in hand, standing on a point of the cliff, watching the flight of birds.

“We have had quite enough of this!” exclaimed Sib.

“A great deal too much,” cried Sam.

“I should have done well to have left him hanging from the rock,” said Oliver to himself; “at any rate he would have been there still.”

Helena with compressed lips and fixed gaze said not a word.

Once again she had missed seeing the Green Ray, and all through Aristobulus Ursiclos.

Le Rayon vert/Chapitre XVI Promień zielony/Rozdział XVI