"HOW WILL IT END?"
What a civiliser is the railroad, preceded by the missionary, and
followed by the speculator!
How changed is the country, since the time when the journey from
Kimberley to the coast was made by ox-wagon, by stagecoach, or Cape
cart, with its Malay driver and Hottentot guard, with a possible
passenger hurrying to the sea to catch the English steamer.
Here the Kafir, with his coating of blue clay, once wound his way over
the path worn by his ancestors, through the Karoo, across the sluit, the
swamp, over the Kopje, telegraphing his approach by that soft,
melodious, far-reaching cry peculiar to himself, on his pilgrimage to
the great ocean, his goal. Not until certain sacred rites were carried
into effect and he was cleansed in the great waters, was he considered a
man by his tribe, and his approach to a kraal was but the signal for the
younger women to hide themselves.
Strange creatures, and stranger customs, that are as strictly adhered
to, as were the Mosaic laws of old, which in some respects they
resemble. The scientist in the country finds the native life a weird,
never-ending mystery, and the iron horse seems a trespasser.
In these days the traveller lounges in a luxurious Pullman coach, which
in thirty hours hurries to the coast at Port Elizabeth, across sandy
plains, and treeless mountains, passing slowly and gracefully over the
"Good Hope" bridge, over a thousand feet in length, built upon nine
arches that span the Orange River, a treacherous stream fifty-five feet
below the rail, rushing onward to that omnivorous mouth, the Sea.
During a few months of the year the upland rivers come rolling down like
cataracts, over huge boulders, and dragging great gnarled trees with
them, as if they were no more than a feather's weight; thus leaving the
riverbeds dry during the remaining months of the year, or with a mere
brooklet trickling along between wide yawning walls of clay.
On reaching Port Elizabeth, that enterprising city of Cape Colony, Dr
Fox proceeded immediately to the long jetty, built well out into the
sea, and there boarded a tug that lay alongside, and was soon steaming
out to the "Arab," riding at anchor in Algoa Bay.
Many passengers were aboard, a number having come from Natal, and their
faces expressed satisfaction at the prospect of a visit home to England.
Soon the heart of the great "Arab" began to beat, and the pulsations
could be heard and felt by the passengers sitting on its deck watching
the sunlight reflected on the wooded shores of the African coast, that
seemed to glide by, while the "Arab" stood still.
A few days at sea seems a very long time, and social reserve drops off
with the taking of the log. The seats arranged at table, the constant
personal association in the confines of the ship, together with the
hundred of incidents that arise during a long voyage, soon reveal the
characters of fellow passengers. If there is congeniality the voyage
comes to an end almost too soon.
There is no life that can tell of its romances and its heart-burnings
like the life at sea.
A man's soul must be living indeed in a cold atmosphere, that can be so
gently rocked in such a richly carved and gilded cradle as one of those
Southern steamers, and not find sentiment growing in his soul.
Especially if he is fortunate to meet there what may appear to be an
affinity.
On reaching Cape Town the following day, and entering the stone dock,
the doctor disembarked to pay a flying visit to the Eden-like suburbs,
where the houses, covered with passion-flowers, growing in wild
profusion and surrounded by orchids, peep out, overlooking the beautiful
waters of Table Bay. With the mauve-tinted, golden-rimmed mountains
lying in the distance, it is a veritable paradise in which to hide one's
self away from the world.
Taking a hansom and returning to the steamer, the doctor stood on deck
watching the sailors depositing the luggage in the hold, and thinking
what that voyage might mean in the lives of many of the passengers.
As this thought sprang up, he looked toward the dock, and saw three
persons in tourist garb, hastily approaching the gangplank, then in
course of being hauled on deck.
Their faces were familiar. They were Donald and Dainty Laure, with Herr
Schwatka, and they came hastily on board, and disappeared in the deck
cabins allotted to them.
This was the beginning of a new act, not anticipated by the doctor, in
the drama of which, so far, he had been a spectator.
"What will be the end of it?" was his mental query.
Here in the Southern hemisphere, with the clearly defined outline of
majestic scenery, the great "Arab" again began slowly to swing away from
her moorings out into the boundless ocean, soon to glide over its bosom,
as swiftly as a swan in its native lake.
Hardly a ripple disturbed the waters, and the air kissed the cheek like
the touch of an angel's wing.
Here, where "The heavens are telling the glory of God," and the Southern
Cross and the eye of night throw out a light unequalled in our Northern
hemisphere, to simply live is a delight.
That great deck seemed unnecessary for those quiet waters, but there are
times when the sea changes its moods with a suddenness like that of
Southern storms in the upland regions of Africa, where the whirlwinds of
dust come with unexpected fury. Those tropical winds, on both land and
sea, are treacherous and capricious.
To attempt to describe a sea-voyage from Africa to England, through the
summer voyage of the world, is like attempting to describe a dream that
had been one long, sweet draught of perfect happiness, where the spirit
seemed to go wherever it willed, and was in company with people with
whom it felt in harmony.
There are usually musicians, or accomplished people aboard, who have no
thought of hiding their light under a bushel, but who cheerfully
contribute to the entertainment of their fellow passengers.
To Dainty Laure what would not this experience have been, had her heart
been at rest. But she looked at the new world with strange experiences
distracting her soul, and the unwonted surroundings made her condition
but more pitiful.
Unable to control the harassing conditions of her life, she was like a
sick, suffering creature denied the quiet and rest needed for recovery.
In her full strength, and with her former capacity for enjoyment, she
would have taken a child's delight in change.
But now, removed from her accustomed places, kept by circumstances from
putting her trust for the future where her heart prompted, and unable to
feel toward Donald the reliance of love, she was never at rest.
Often she would sit long by the side of the doctor, not saying a word.
He was the one man she knew well whose presence satisfied her. The
doctor never questioned her, for the agony of her spirit was written on
her face, which grew sadder day by day. She knew not how to wear a
mask.