CHAPTER XIX.
FINGAL'S CAVE.
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Had the skipper of the Clorinda been in any port of the United Kingdom within the last twenty-four hours, he would have been made acquainted with a meteorological bulletin, not very reassuring to vessels about to cross the Atlantic.
In fact, a heavy gale had been announced by telegram from New York. After having crossed the ocean from west to north-east, it threatened to break with terrific force over the coasts of Ireland and Scotland, before it spent itself on the shores of Norway.
But in default of this intelligence, the yacht's barometer indicated great atmospheric disturbances, of which a prudent seaman could not but take note.
On the morning of the 8th of September, John Olduck, feeling somewhat uneasy, went to the farthest extremity of the western side of the island, in order to gauge the state of sky and sea.
Clouds, or rather streaks of mist, were already chasing each other swiftly across the sky; the breeze was freshening, and before long would blow a gale. The sea was flecked with foam in the distance, and the waves were breaking with a roar over the basaltic rocks which bristle round the foot of the island.
John Olduck did not feel at all reassured by his observations. Although the Clorinda was comparatively sheltered in Clam-shell Cove, it was hardly safe anchorage even for a boat of her small dimensions. The rising tide becoming engulfed between the islets and the eastern causeway might produce a formidable surf, which would make the position of the yacht rather perilous. Something must therefore be done, and that before the channel became impracticable.
When he returned on board, he found his passengers there, and acquainted them with his fears and the necessity of their leaving the island at once. By delaying a few hours, they would run the risk of meeting a heavy sea in the straits between Staffa and Mull. Now his proposal was that they should take shelter behind that island, in the little harbour of Auchnacraig, where the Clorinda would have nothing to fear from the gale.
“Leave Staffa!” cried Miss Campbell, “and lose such a magnificent horizon!”
“I believe it will be very dangerous to remain in our present anchorage,” replied the skipper.
“If it is really necessary, my dear Helena!” said her Uncle Sam.
“Yes, if it is really necessary!” repeated his brother.
Seeing what disappointment this hurried departure would cause Miss Campbell, Sinclair hastened to say,—
“How long do you think this storm will last, captain?”
“Two or three days at most, at this time of the year,” replied the skipper.
“And do you think it absolutely necessary for us to leave?”
“Necessary and urgent.”
“What are your plans?”
“To get under sail this very morning, and with this breeze we may be at Auchnacraig before evening, and we can return to Staffa as soon as the weather clears.”
“Why not return to Iona, which we could reach in an hour?” asked Sam.
“No,—no, not to Iona!” exclaimed Miss Campbell, before whom rose the spectre of Aristobulus.
“We should not be much safer in the harbour at Iona than here,” observed the skipper.
“Very well,” said Oliver Sinclair, “you can go, captain, you can go at once to Auchnacraig, and leave us here at Staffa.”
“At Staffa!” exclaimed John Olduck, “where there is not even a house to shelter you!”
“Will not Clam-shell Cave do for a few days?” continued Sinclair. “What is there wanting there? Nothing. We have plenty of provisions on board, bedding and change of clothes, which can be brought on land, and, moreover, a very good cook who will be only too pleased to stay with us!”
“Yes! Yes!” cried Miss Campbell, clapping her hands, “you can go, captain, you can take your yacht to Auchnacraig, and leave us on Staffa. We shall be like people cast on a desert isle, and we will make believe to be shipwrecked; we shall watch for the return of the Clorinda with all the emotions, transports, and anguish of the Swiss Family Robinson, when they saw a vessel passing their island! What brought us here? A romantic idea, was it not, Mr. Sinclair? and what could be more romantic than this place, uncles? And, besides, I should regret it all my life, if I missed the sublime spectacle of a storm, on this poetical island, with the northern sea lashed into fury, and the elements raging all around us! Do go, captain, and we will stay here till you return.”
“But—” timidly ejaculated the brothers almost simultaneously.
“I believe you made some remark, uncles,” interrupted Miss Campbell, “but I think I know the way to bring you round to my opinion,” and thereupon she gave them each a kiss.
“There is one for you, Uncle Sam, and one for you, Uncle Sib. I wager now that youhave nothing more to say against my plan.”
After this they did not dream of making the slightest objection. So long as it pleased their niece to remain at Staffa, why not remain there, and how was it they had not thought at once of this simple and natural plan which would settle all difficulties?
But it was Oliver Sinclair's idea, and Miss Campbell thanked him most cordially for it.
Matters being thus arranged, the sailors brought on shore everything necessary for their stay on the island. Clam-shell Cave was quickly transformed into a temporary dwelling, under the name of Melville House.
They would be as comfortable here, and even more so, than at the inn at Iona. The steward undertook to find a suitable place for his culinary operations, at the entrance of the cave, in a recess, evidently intended for this purpose.
Then Miss Campbell and her companions left the Clorinda in one of the small boats belonging to the yacht, which John Olduck placed at their disposal, as it might be useful to them in going from one rock to another.
An hour later, the Clorinda, with reefed sails, and storm-jib set, made for the north of the Mull, in order to reach Auchnacraig, by the straits between that island and the mainland. Her passengers watched her out of sight from the heights of Staffa, and half an hour later she had disappeared behind the isle of Gometra, bending to the breeze like a sea-gull skimming the surface of the waves with its wings.
But altogether the weather was threatening, the sky was not altogether overcast, and the sun shone through great rifts in the swiftly flying clouds. They might walk over the island, and, on returning, skirt the shore at the foot of the basaltic cliffs. So they proposed at once to visit Fingal's Cave, under the escort of Oliver Sinclair.
Tourists coming from Iona in the Oban steamer usually visit this cave in boats, but it is possible to penetrate to its farthest end by landing on the rocks to the right, where there is a practicable quay.
This was the way that Oliver Sinclair resolved to make the exploration, without using the boat.
Leaving Clam-shell Cave, they took the causeway running along the eastern shore of the island which is formed by sunken rocks, and is as dry and solid a pavement as though constructed by an engineer. This walk, which took but a few minutes, was made as they chatted and admired the islets, gently washed by the surf, and the bases of which could be seen through the clear, green water. One cannot imagine a more beautiful pathway to this cave, which is worthy to have been the palace of some hero of the “Thousand and One Nights.”
Arriving at the south-east angle of the island, Oliver Sinclair made his companions climb some natural steps in the rock, which would have lost nothing by comparison with the staircase of a mansion.
At the corner of the landing-place rise the exterior columns, grouped against the sides of the cave, like those of the small temple of Vesta at Rome, but in juxtaposition, so as to hide the main building.
Supported on these columns is the enormous mass of rock which forms this corner of the island. The oblique cleavage of these rocks, which seem to be arranged according to the geometrical design of stones in an arch, contrasts strangely with the vertical order of the columns which support them.
The sea, already influenced by the approaching storm, rose and fell against the foot of the steps, and through its clear, trembling depths could be seen the dark masses of rock basement.
Having reached the upper landing-stage, Oliver Sinclair turned to the left, and showed Miss Campbell a kind of narrow quay, or rather a natural foot-path, which led along the side of the rock, right into the depths of the cave. An iron hand-rail, imbedded in the rock, ran between the wall and the abrupt edge of the quay.
“Ah!” said Miss Campbell, “I think this hand-rail rather detracts from the romance of ‘Fingal's palace.’”
“Yes,” replied Oliver, “it is an intervention of man in the work of nature.”
“If it is useful, we may as well make use of it,” said Sam.
“And I intend to do so,” added his brother.
Just as they were about to enter the cave, the visitors halted by their guide's advice.
Before them opened a spacious, lofty cave, filled with a dim, mysterious light. The space between the two sides of the cave, at the level of the sea measures about thirty-four feet; to the right and left the basaltic columns, wedged one against the other, like those in certain cathedrals of the latest Gothic period, hide the main supporting walls. From the top of these columns spring the sides of an enormous pointed arch, which, at its key-stone, rises fifty feet above the average water mark.
Miss Campbell and her companions were obliged at last to tear themselves away from the contemplation of this wondrous spectacle, and follow the ledge of rock which formed the pathway leading into the cave.
There, ranged in perfect order, were hundreds of prismatic columns of unequal height, as if produced by some gigantic process of crystallization, their cleanly-cut sides standing out as sharply as though they had been chiselled by a sculptor. The exterior angles of the one adapted themselves geometrically to the interior angles of the other; some had three sides, some four, and even up to seven or eight, which gave a variety to the general uniformity of the style, and proves the artistic order of nature.
The light, coming from without, played upon these diamond-shaped angles, and, falling upon the water inside the cave, which reflected like a mirror, impregnated the submarine stones and sea-weeds with every tint of green, red, yellow, and orange, and then shone upon the basaltic rocks, which formed the ceiling of this incomparable cavern, till they sparkled with effulgent brilliancy.
Within reigned a sonorous silence—if we may be allowed to couple these words—that silence peculiar to profound caverns which the visitors did not dream of breaking. Melancholy strains of harmony alone filled the cavern, and gradually died away as the wind rose and fell.
One could almost imagine one heard these prisms resounding in the strong gusts of wind, like the keys of an enormous harmonica. And is it not to this curious effect that it owes its name of An-Na-Vine, “the harmonious grotto,” as this cavern is called in the Celtic language?
“And what name could suit it better?” said Oliver Sinclair, “since Fingal was the father of Ossian, whose genius united poetry and music.”
“Undoubtedly,” interposed Sam, “for as Ossian has said,
“‘When now shall I hear the bard? when rejoice at the fame of my fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven. The voice of music ascends not on Cona!’”
“Yes,” added his brother Sib;
“‘Dead, with the mighty, is the bard! Fame is in the desert no more.’”
The extreme depth of the cavern is estimated at about one hundred and fifty feet. At the end of the cave appears a kind of organ case, composed of a certain number of columns, smaller than those at the entrance, but equally perfect in their moulding, before which our visitors again stopped for a moment.
From this point the prospect looking out on to the open sky was wonderfully beautiful. Through the water, impregnated with light, could be seen the submarine base of the cavern formed of the shafts of columns, fitting one into the other like the squares of a mosiac. On the sides of the rocks was a wonderful play of light and shade, which was quite lost when a cloud passed across the entrance of the cave, like a gauze curtain hung before the stage of a theatre. All again grew bright and resplendent, with every prismatic colour, when a gleam of sunshine, reflected from the crystal depths, shot up in lines of light to the very summit of the cavern.
Outside, the sea was breaking over the projecting strata of the gigantic arch, which stood out against this background of sea and sky like a frame-work of ebony, and beyond, the horizon appeared in all its splendour, with Iona lying two miles off in the distance, the ruins of its cathedral clearly defined in the white sunlight.
All stood in ecstasy before this fairy-like scene, quite unable to express their intense admiration.
“What an enchanted palace!” exclaimed Miss Campbell at last, “and what a prosaic mind must he have who would refuse to believe that it was created for sylphs and mermaids! For whom do the strings of this great Æolian harp vibrate? Is it not that supernatural music which Waverley heard in his dreams?”
“You are right, Miss Campbell,” replied Oliver Sinclair, “and, undoubtedly, when Walter Scott was seeking his imagery in the poetical past of the Highlands, he thought of the palace of Fingal.”
“I should like to invoke the spirit of Ossian here,” continued the enthusiastic young girl. “Why should not the invisible bard reappear at my call, after slumbering for fifteen centuries? I like to think that when he was chanting the glorious deeds of his time, the blind poet took refuge more than once in this cave, which still bears his father's name! No doubt the echoes have often repeated his epic and lyric inspirations in the purest Gaelic accent. Do you not think, Mr. Sinclair, that the aged Ossian might have sat in this very place, and that the music of his harp may have mingled with the harsh accents of the voice of Selma?”
“How can one disbelieve what you seem to be so thoroughly convinced of, Miss Campbell?” replied Oliver.
“Shall I call him?” asked Helena softly.
And once or twice her clear, fresh voice rose above the soughing of the wind in the cavern, repeating the name of the ancient bard.
But, however much Helena might have wished it, and though she called three times, no shade of Ossian appeared in the paternal palace.
Meanwhile, the sun had become veiled in a thick mist, the cave was gradually filling with dark shadows, outside the sea had risen considerably, and great waves were already breaking with a roar against the foot of the rocks.
The visitors retook their way along the narrow path, already wet with the spray from the waves, and as they turned a sharp corner of the inland, they met the full force of the wind, but were soon on the sheltered causeway. The weather had changed considerably for the worse during the last two hours; a stiff gale was blowing off the sea, and threatened soon to turn to a hurricane.
However, Miss Campbell and her companions were able to reach Clam-shell Cave easily, under shelter of the basaltic cliffs.
The following day the barometer had fallen very low. The wind raged furiously, and heavy, leaden-coloured clouds lowered in the sky; there was no rain as yet, but not a gleam of sunshine was to be seen for a moment.
Miss Campbell did not seem so vexed at this change in the weather as might have been expected; this life on a desert island, with the prospect of a tempest, delighted her enthusiastic nature. Like one of Walter Scott's heroines, she loved to wander, absorbed in thought, among the rocks of Staffa; more often than not she went alone, and they left her undisturbed in her solitude.
Several times she returned to Fingal's Cave, attracted by the strange romance of the place. There she spent whole hours lost in day-dreams, paying little heed to the cautions they gave her not to venture there imprudently.
The following day, the 9th of September, the tempest broke with unparalleled fury along the Scotch coast; it was a terrific hurricane, and nothing could have withstood its force on the plateau of Staffa.
About six o'clock in the evening, when dinner was awaiting them in Clam-shell Cave, the brothers and Oliver Sinclair began to feel extremely anxious. Helena had been out since three o'clock, without saying where she was going, and had not yet returned.
They waited patiently, but with increasing anxiety, till seven o'clock, and still there was no sign of Helena. Several times Oliver Sinclair had gone up on to the plateau of the island. No one was to be seen. The storm was then raging with terrific fury, and the breakers dashed madly over the south-west side of the island.
“Alas! unhappy girl!” suddenly cried Oliver; “if she is in Fingal's Cave, we must find her at once, or she is lost!”