The long day drew to a close but Elsie, with the sweet steadfastness of
a nature that had hardly ever known what it was to repine, did not feel
impatient. She knew that it would be impossible for her to go to
Rondebosch until the following day, so she was content to sit in the
mild sunlight, bathing her feet in the cool stream.
The portion of cold chicken that remained she had divided into two, one
of which she ate for breakfast. When she knew from the coolness of the
air that the sun had gone down, she ate the remainder. When night came
she wondered why Kanu had not arrived, and the wild thought that he
might by some wonderful chance have seen the Governor and then gone
straight off to procure her father's release lifted her heart for one
moment's wild delight. But she soon saw the impossibility of her
imaginings, and her joy fell, broken-winged, to earth. However, her
spirits soon regained the former mean. Fear she felt not; the only
thing that had caused her terror was the mob of boys in the street of
the city, but here, where Kanu had placed her, she felt quite safe. To
those who are blind from birth darkness harbours no more terror than
day.
Although the lovely scene which lay around her was cut off from her
cognisance by the failure of her principal channel of sense, her
remaining faculties had been so sharpened by the striving of the
imprisoned individuality to apprehend its environment, that she might
almost be said to have developed a special sense which those possessing
sight have no idea of. To Elsie the evening was full of beauty and for
one short hour she was soothed in the lap of Peace.
The faint, far-off murmur of the city stole up and seemed to cluster
like a lot of echo-swallows against the sheer rock-wall that soared into
its snow-white fleece of cloud above her head. To her fine-strung ear
they made music. She wondered in what direction her father's prison
lay. Perhaps he had breathed the very air which now, full of the scents
and ichor of the sea, gently stirred her locks.
The dew-fall made everything damp; it was cold and she longed for a
fire. Why was Kanu so long in coming back?--Her mind searched in vain
for an explanation. Could it be possible, after all, that he had seen
the Governor and then gone with the soldier and the great key to effect
her father's release? Even now he might be hurrying up the rugged path,
under the faithful Bushman's guidance, to greet the beloved child who
had dared, suffered and accomplished so much for his sake. No, she
reflected with a sigh, that was hardly to be hoped. The Governor would,
doubtless, want to see and talk to herself before taking any steps.
Kanu was, after all, only a Bushman, and, although she knew how brave
and honest and true he was, and how superior to his race, it was not to
be expected that the Governor would recognise his good qualities at the
very outset of their acquaintance.
But where _was_ Kanu? It was most extraordinary that he should have
left her so long as this, all alone. Surely he could not have forgotten
that she had no food and no means of lighting a fire.
It was now, she knew, very late, for the noises had died down and the
city lay as silent as the grave. She knew also that Kanu was not
anywhere near. Last evening her supersensitive ear had been able to
detect his approaching footsteps long, long before he arrived. She was
now very hungry indeed and the penetrating dew had chilled her to the
bone. But she was accustomed to exposure and she did not suffer in this
respect as another might have done. She was crouched under the lee of a
rock. Drawing her knees up for the sake of warmth she shook her tresses
out over her like a tent, and soon fell asleep.
She awoke suddenly and started up with a wild cry, her every nerve
tingling with horror. From the krantz-ledges above her head were
issuing strident shrieks and hoarse roarings. In an instant she
recognised the sounds:--they came from a troop of large, fierce,
dog-faced baboons which had taken up their quarters on the face of the
cliff.
The baboons were having one of those noisy scuffles which, several times
in the course of a night, invariably disturb an encampment of these
animals. Down the face of the cliff came bounding good-sized pebbles
and even small rocks, dislodged by the struggling simians. These
thudded into the grass or crashed into the bushes close beside her.
Seizing the short staff which she always carried, the terror-smitten
child felt her course away from the vicinity of the cliff and began
descending the mountain with stumbling steps.
The sole and only terror which Elsie had felt on her native farm,--the
dread of these animals,--returned upon her with irresistible force. The
Tanqua Valley was full of these monsters, whose hoarse roarings, heard
from afar, haunted the dreams of her nervous childhood. In seasons of
drought they would sometimes rush in among a flock of sheep and tear
open the stomachs of the young lambs with their powerful paws, for the
sake of the newly-drunk milk. To Elsie and her kind the baboon took the
place of the dragon, the giant, and the gnome, around which cluster the
terrors of northern childhood.
Bruised, bleeding, and palpitating with horror, the poor little blind
child stumbled on down the rough, brambly mountain side until she lost
her footing and fell heavily over a ledge. Then she swooned from the
combined mental and physical shock, and for a time lay still in merciful
unconsciousness. When she revived she could not at first realise what
had occurred; then the horror came back upon her like a flood, and she
once more arose and staggered forward, groping before her with her
stick.
Then came another dreadful thought:--Kanu would not now know where to
find her when he returned. What was she to do? She had dreaded the
boys in the cruel, perplexing city--yet she felt that she could now fly
to them for protection--if she only knew the way. And Kanu might--the
thought brought a momentary gleam of cheerfulness--possibly track her
course down the mountain side, but--if she once reached the streets he
would never be able to trace her. No,--she had better remain somewhere
on the mountain.--But the baboons--thus the poor, over-laden little
brain reeled along the mazes of a labyrinth of frightful alternatives.
Now her alert senses told her that the day was breaking and the sweet
influences of the dawn brought a momentary relief from the worst of her
imaginary terrors. She thanked God with happy tears for the returning
of the blessed day. But almost immediately afterwards the ripple of
relief was swamped by a returning tide of dismay.
Even at this late day the baboons of Table Mountain sometimes assume a
very threatening attitude to persons rambling alone in the more
unfrequented spots, but in the early days of the Cape settlement these
great simians were far more daring. It was no uncommon thing for them
to raid the vineyards and gardens on the outskirts of the city in the
early morning,--and this is what they were preparing to do on the
occasion of Elsie's great travail. At the first streak of light they
began to descend from the krantzes and spread in skirmishing order over
the slopes beneath. The centre of the scattered column headed direct
for the spot where Elsie lay cowering, and it was the guttural bark by
which the animal that discovered her announced the presence of a human
being to the others, that gave her such a redoubled shock of dread.
She tried to move, but her strength failed her; so she crept under a
bush and lay there, crouched and quaking. On right and left she could
hear the harsh signals of the sentinels, from flank to flank of the
long-extended troop. Far and near she could hear the stones being
rolled over as the baboons searched for scorpions and other vermin.
She heard a rustling close to her, and then a guttural grunt of mingled
curiosity and surprise. The horrors of the situation struck her rigid,
and she ceased, for a few seconds, to breathe. The baboon was now close
to her, wondering no doubt, as to who and what she was. Then, with a
movement which combined the elements of a slap and a scratch, the
creature drove its hairy paw into her face.
With a long, shrill shriek Elsie sprang to her feet and fled down the
steep slope. A thorny shrub caught and held her dress fast. She
thought that one of the monsters had overtaken and captured her, and she
fell to the ground and lay huddled in a swoon that was very nigh to
death.
The fruit-orchard at the back of the du Plessis' dwelling had on several
occasions suffered severely from the depredations of the baboons. Thus,
whenever these brutes were heard roaring and coughing on the mountain
side--which usually happened in the very early morning, it was customary
for all the male members of the household to turn out in a body, to
repel the attack.
On this occasion the slaves, armed with whatever weapons could be
hurriedly laid hands on, and headed by the old white-headed gardener,
who carried a blunderbuss of ancient make, rushed out to protect the
fruit Mr du Plessis and his two daughters joined in the sortie a few
minutes afterwards. The girls enjoyed this sort of thing very much, and
the cry of "baviaan" would turn them out of bed earlier, and more
quickly, than anything else. The sensation of "creeps," which any
enterprise involving a small tincture of imaginary danger brings, is
dear to the youthful female breast.
On the present occasion the enemy made even less show of resistance than
usual. Driven back in disorder, they retreated to the mountain krantzes
which were inaccessible to all but themselves, hoarsely defiant and
threatening what they would do next time.
The morning was delightful as only an early morning can be when listless
Spring coquettes with impatient Summer under a cloudless, calm, and
southern sky; so Mr du Plessis and his daughters decided to spend some
of the time which must elapse before breakfast would be ready in
strolling over the flower-strewn mountain slope. The lovely bay lay
like a white-fringed purple robe cast down to earth from the couch of
some regal goddess; in the deep, deep hollows of the Drakenstein the
shattered remnants of the host of conquered night were cowering;
overhead the scarred crags of Table Mountain lent, by force of contrast,
a splendid foil to the softness of the rest of the landscape.
They had left the footpath and were wandering among the dew-bejewelled
bushes. Suddenly, with one accord they all stood still; before them lay
what appeared to be the dead body of a young girl, fallen upon its face.
Mr du Plessis stepped forward and bent over the pallid form. He
ascertained that it still contained life, and he signed to the two girls
to approach.
They turned the unconscious frame over upon its back and placed the
slack limbs in an easy position. The face was untouched, but the poor
hands had been sorely torn by thorns. The lips were almost bloodless
and the whole form as cold as the earth it lay on. The hair, sadly
tangled, glowed in the sunshine like live gold.
"The blind girl we saw with the Bushman," said Helena, in an awed
whisper.
"Yes," said Mr du Plessis,--"there has been some foul play here. You
girls rub her body as hard as you can and loosen her dress at the
throat; I will run and send Ranzo and one of the boys with a
basket-chair."
It was not long before the chair arrived, carried by two strong slaves.
Elsie was tenderly lifted from the cold earth and carried down to the
cottage, where she was soon laid upon a soft, warm bed. Her damp
clothes were removed and warm wraps substituted. The doctor had been
sent for at once, but in the meantime Mrs du Plessis poured a hot
cordial down her throat. This soon caused a glow of warmth to spread
over the almost pulseless body.
Soon the doctor arrived and ordered that the patient should be laid in a
warm bath. This caused her to revive considerably. When her eyes
opened it seemed as if they were filled with the pain of the whole
world. After swallowing a little nourishment she fell into a swoon-like
sleep, which lasted all day and into the middle of the night.
When Elsie awoke it was to delirium of the most painful kind. Ever and
anon she would shriek with terror and try to spring from the bed. This
lasted for several days, until the doctor feared brain-fever. However,
she once more fell asleep, and lay for days like a faintly-breathing
statue. She was wakened now and then and given nourishment, which she
mechanically swallowed,--immediately afterwards sank back to deepest
sleep.
The strange story of the finding of the blind girl with the wonderful
hair had in the meantime spread abroad, and the circumstance aroused
general interest. Many now recalled having seen the strange pair
wandering up and down the streets upon their hopeless quest, and
regretted, too late, that they had not rendered assistance. Public
feeling,--that mad perverter of probabilities,--was very much aroused
against Kanu, and had that unhappy Bushman been caught it would have
gone hard with him. However, Kanu, with his savage equivalent for the
emotion of grief, was straining every nerve to get as far away from
civilisation as possible, bent on hiding his suspected head in the
depths of the uttermost desert.
Many were the visitors at the cottage on the mountain slope during
Elsie's illness. When the child grew better a favoured few were allowed
to take a peep into the dimly-lighted room where, upon a bed as white as
snow, the pallid, pathetically-beautiful image of tragic suffering lay.
The wonderful hair had been carefully combed; it flowed like a golden
cataract over the headrail of the bedstead. When the light of a candle
shone upon it through the gloom of the darkened room the beholders
marvelled at a depth and richness of colour such as they had never
before thought possible.
Up from the vaults of blank unconsciousness floated the mind of the
blind girl until she became cognisant of her immediate surroundings; but
the past remained to her an utter blank. Bit by bit she recovered the
faculty of speech. It would be more correct to say that she re-acquired
it, for she picked up words from those around her almost as an infant
does--only more rapidly and intelligently. Her sweet, equable
disposition had not altered. Thus, she began to fill in the obliterated
pages of her mind with serene unconsciousness. She never laughed, but a
strain of music, a sweet scent, or a soft touch from the hands she had
learnt to love for their constant kindness would bring to her pale face
the light of a rare smile, and flood it with a soft colour that was good
to behold.
Thus blind Elsie, after her sore travail and disappointment, drifted, a
derelict, into a harbour of safety and loving-kindness.