The Mystery of the Green Ray

“Thank you, my boy. I’ll tell you what happened to me. You won’t be able to explain it, but you shall hear just what it was. You may think it’s silly of me to get nervous of what sounds like an absurdity, but you see it happened where – where to-day’s tragedy happened.”

“What Myra calls the Chemist’s Rock?” I asked, by this time intensely interested.

“At the Chemist’s Rock,” he replied. “It was a lovely afternoon, just such an afternoon as to-day. I had been going to fish with girlie, but I was a little tired, and – er – I had some letters to write, so I said I would meet her later in the afternoon. It was agreed we should meet at the Chemist’s Rock at half-past four. I left the house about a quarter-past, and strolled down the river to the Fank Pool, crossed the stream in the boat that lies there, and walked up the opposite bank past Dead Man’s Pool towards the Chemist’s Rock. I mention all this to show you that I was feeling well enough to enjoy a stroll, and a very rocky stroll at that, because, if I hadn’t been feeling perfectly fit, I should have gone up the back way past the stable, the way you came back this afternoon. So you see, I was undoubtedly quite well, my boy. However, to get on with the tale. As soon as I came in sight of our meeting-place I looked up to see if girlie had got there before me. She was not there. I looked further up stream, and saw Sholto come tearing down over the rocks. I knew that he had seen me, and that she was following him. I naturally strolled on to go to the rock – I say I went – ” He broke off, and passed his hands across his eyes.

“Yes,” I said softly; “you went to the rock, and Myra met you – ”

“No,” he said; “I didn’t. I didn’t go to the rock.”

“But I don’t understand,” I said, as he remained silent for some moments. The old man leaned forward, and laid a trembling, fever-scorched hand on mine.

“Ronald,” he said, in a voice that shook with genuine horror, and sent a cold shiver down my spine, “I did not go to the rock. The rock came to me.”

CHAPTER V

IS MORE MYSTERIOUS

I sat and stared at the old man in astonishment. Obviously he was fully convinced that he was giving me an accurate account of what had happened, and equally obviously he was perfectly sane.

“That is all,” he said presently. “The rock came to me.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, suddenly brought to my senses by the sound of his voice. “What an extraordinary thing!”

“For a moment I thought I was mad, and sometimes, when I have thought over it since – and the Lord knows how many times I’ve done that – I’ve come to the conclusion that I must have fallen asleep. But even now the fear haunts me that my mind may be going.”

“You mustn’t imagine anything like that, General,” I advised seriously. “Whatever you do, don’t encourage any doubts of your own sanity. There must be some explanation of this, although I can’t for the moment imagine what it can possibly be. It is a remarkable thing, and I fancy you will find, when we do know the explanation, that anyone else standing where you were at that time would have seen exactly the same thing. The rock stands out of the water; it is just above a deep pool, and probably it was a sort of mirage effect, and not by any means a figment of your brain.”

To my surprise the old man leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.

“Of course,” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that – a sort of mirage. Well, I’m begad thankful you suggested that, Ronald. I’ve no doubt that it was something of the sort. What a begad old fool I am. Let us pray that our poor little girl’s trouble,” he added solemnly, “will have some equally simple solution.”

The General was so relieved that I had given him, at any rate, some sort of reason to believe that his brain was not yet going, that he began to declare that he was convinced Myra would be better in a day or two. So we arranged that I should take her up to London the next day, and leave her in charge of her aunt, Lady Ruslit, and then, as soon as we had heard Sir Gaire’s verdict, I was to bring her back again. General McLeod had been anxious at first to come with us, but I pointed out that he would be of more use to Myra if he stayed behind, and kept an eye on her interests in the neighbourhood. I promised to wire him the result of the interview with Olvery as soon as I knew it. And just about a quarter to ten we went to bed.

“Ronald,” said the old man, as we shook hands outside my door, “there’s just one thing I wasn’t frank with you about in the matter of the Chemist’s Rock. I am anxious to believe that it’s a point of no particular importance. You know the rock is a sort of sandstone, not grey like the rest, but nearly white?”

“Yes,” I answered, wondering what could be coming next.

“Well,” said the old man, “that day when I saw it appearing to come towards me it was not white, but green.”

“No,” I said at last, when we had spent another twenty minutes discussing this new aspect in my room. “It’s beyond me. I can’t see how the two events can be connected, and yet they are so unusual that one would think they must be. I certainly think it is a point to put in detail before Olvery.”

“On the whole, I quite agree with you,” said the General. “I am rather afraid he may take us for a pack of lunatics, and refuse to be bothered with the case.”

“I’m sure he won’t do that,” I asserted confidently. “And he may have some medical knowledge that will just shake the puzzle into place, and explain the whole mystery to us. It seems to me a most remarkable thing that these two strange affairs should have happened in exactly the same place. That it is some strange freak of nature I have no doubt, but I am absolutely at a loss to think what it can be.”

It can hardly be wondered at that, as I have said before, sleep and I were strangers that night, and I was glad enough when the time came for me to get up.

Myra came down after breakfast, wonderfully brave and bright, but there was no sign whatever of her sight returning to her. The leave-taking was a wretched business, and I cannot dwell on it. Sandy started early to sail to Mallaig with the luggage, and we followed in the motor-boat, Angus at the engine, old Mary McNiven in the bows, while I took the tiller, and Myra lay on a pile of cushions at my feet, her head resting on my knee, her arm round Sholto’s neck; for she had wanted the dog to see her off at the station. The old General managed to keep up a cheery manner as he said good-bye at the landing-stage, but he was looking so care-worn and haggard that I was glad that he had been persuaded not to come up to London with us. He was certainly not in a fit state for the fatigues of a long journey. As we passed Glasnabinnie the Baltimore slid out from the side of the shed that stood on the edge of the miniature harbour which Nature had thoughtfully bestowed on the place.

“I can hear a motor-boat,” said Myra, suddenly sitting up.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s Hilderman’s.”

“Is she ahead of us?” she asked.

I looked round, and saw that the Baltimore was putting out to round the point.

“No, she’s about level,” I answered. “She’s evidently making for Mallaig. We are, if anything, a little ahead, but they will soon pass us, I should think.”

“Oh, Ron,” cried Myra, with childish excitement, “don’t let them beat us. Angus, put some life into her. We must make the harbour first.”

Angus did his best, and I set her course as near in shore as I dared on that treacherous coast. The Baltimore glided out to sea with the easy grace of a powerful and beautiful animal, and as we passed the jagged promontory she was coming up about thirty yards behind us.

“Challenge him, Ron,” Myra exclaimed; “you’ve met him.”

I turned, and saw Hilderman and two other men in the boat, one a friend apparently, and the other the mechanic. I stood up and waved to him.

“We’ll race you to Mallaig,” I shouted.

“It’s a bet,” he agreed readily, at the top of his voice, waving back.

It was a ding-dong business across the mouth of Nevis, and the Baltimore was leading, if anything, but we had not far to go, and our opponents had taken a course a good deal farther out to sea than we were. Coming up by the lighthouse, however, the Baltimore drew in at a magnificent pace, and swept in to pass inside the lighthouse rock. Hilderman, who was quite distinct at the short distance, stood up in the stern of the Baltimore, and looked at us. We were making good time, but we had no chance of outdistancing his powerful boat. But, as he looked at us, and was evidently about to shout some triumphant greeting, I saw him catch sight of Myra, lying at my feet, her face hidden in the shade over her eyes. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he swung the tiller, and, turning out again, took the long course round the lighthouse, and we slid alongside the fish-table a good minute ahead of him. Myra was delighted; she had no suspicion that we had virtually lost the race, and the trifling excitement gave her a real pleasure. Angus, I could see, was puzzled, but I signed to him to say nothing. My heart warmed to Hilderman; he had seen that Myra was not well, and, divining that it would give her some pleasure to win the race, he had tactfully given way to us. I was really grateful to him for his kindly thought, and determined to thank him as soon as I could. We had nearly half an hour to wait for the mid-day train, and, after seeing Myra and Mary safely ensconced in the Marine Hotel, I went out with Sholto to get the tickets, telegraph to Dennis, and express my gratitude to Hilderman. But when I stepped out of the hotel he was standing in the road waiting for me.

“Good morning, Mr. Ewart,” he said, coming forward to offer me his hand. “Is there anything the matter with Miss McLeod?”

“She’s not very well,” I replied. “She has something the matter with her eyes. It was very good of you to let us win our little race. Every little pleasure that we can give Miss McLeod just at this time is of great value to us.”

“Eyes?” said Hilderman, thoughtfully, with the same dreamy expression that Dennis had pointed out at King’s Cross. “What sort of thing is it? I know something about eyes.”

“I’m afraid I can tell you nothing,” I replied. “She has suddenly lost her sight in the most amazing and terrible manner. We are just taking her up to London to see a specialist.”

“Had she any pain?” he asked, “or any dizziness or fainting, or anything like that?”

“No,” I said; “there is absolutely nothing to go by. It is a most extraordinary affair, and a very terrible blow to us all.”

“It must be,” he said gently, “very, very terrible. I have heard so much about Miss McLeod that I even feel it myself. I am deeply grieved to hear this, deeply grieved.” He spoke very sympathetically, and I felt that it was very kind of him to take such a friendly interest in his unknown neighbour.

“I think you’d better join me in a brandy and soda, Mr. Ewart,” he said, laying a hand on my arm. “I don’t suppose you know it, but you look ten years older than you did yesterday.”

Yesterday! Good heavens! Had all this happened in a day? I was certainly feeling far from myself, and I accepted his invitation readily enough. We turned into the refreshment-room outside the station, and I had a stiff whisky and soda, realising how far away from London I was when the man gave me the whisky in one glass and the soda in another.

“Tell me,” said Hilderman, “if it is not very rude of me to ask, or too painful for you to speak about, what was Miss McLeod doing when this happened? Reading, or what?” I gave him a rough outline of the circumstances, but, in view of what the General had told me the night before, I said nothing about the mystery of the green ray. We wanted to retain our reputation for sanity as long as we could, and no outsider who did not know the General personally would believe that his astonishing experience was anything other than the strange creation of a nerve-wrought brain.

“And that was all?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Yes, that was all,” I replied.

“I suppose you haven’t decided what specialist you will take her to when you get her to London?” he queried. I was about to reply when I heard Sholto in a heated argument with some other dog, and I bolted out, with a hurried excuse, to bring him in. As I returned, with my hand on his collar, the harbour-master greeted me, and told me we might have some difficulty in reaching London, as the train service was likely to be disorganised owing to the transport of troops and munitions. When I rejoined Hilderman I was full of this new development. It would be both awkward and unpleasant to be turned out of the train before we reached London; and every moment’s delay might mean injury to my poor Myra.