Adrian became seriously alarmed. Like most of his cla.s.s, he was a firm believer in dreams. Jacomina became more wildly dear at the thought of losing her. His mind sought distractedly for an expedient to avert the threatened doom. Then the memory of the G.o.ddess flitted across his brain and gave him an inspiration.

"Jacomina,--I will buy that dress and we can be married at once. I will go straight back now and ask the price of it."

Jacomina feebly shook her head, but surrendered herself insensibly to her lover's embrace. Then followed hotly-pressed argument on his side, feebly, but mournfully combated on hers. Eventually she agreed to leave the matter in the joint hands of her lover and her father. She then allowed herself to be led home, leaning heavily on the arm of her enraptured adorer. Both were equally happy; each had gained that point the attainment of which was most desired.

No difficulty was experienced in obtaining Uncle Diederick's consent to speedy nuptials. Much distress was, however, felt by Adrian when he found, on calling at the emporium next day, that the nuptial robe of the G.o.ddess had been purchased by another prospective bride. When he entered the establishment he found the G.o.ddess in a lamentable state.

The dress, the veil and the wreath of orange blossoms had disappeared.

The head and face were intact, but the rest of her once-ravishing form was little else than a wiry skeleton,--not constructed upon any known anatomical principles.

Adrian's heart sank; he thought of Jacomina's dream. He had made much capital out of the garment and its accessories--he had, in fact, used the G.o.ddess as a kind of battering ram wherewith to level Jacomina's supposed objections to a speedy union; now he thought in his innocence that Jacomina would draw back from the performance of her side of the contract. After hurrying from the emporium with a sinking heart he arrived, pale and breathless, at the wagon. Uncle Diederick happened to be in the City, engaged in the selection of drugs.

"Jacomina,"--panted Adrian, "the dress is gone--sold to someone else-- and it will take a week before another can be made. Do you think Pa will wait for a few days more?"

Uncle Diederick had this peculiarity: if he announced his intention of doing any given thing on a given day, he stuck to his word; nothing short of absolute necessity would stop him. It was this that Adrian had in view. Uncle Diederick had said that he meant to start on the following Monday; it was now Tuesday; wedding or no wedding it was quite certain that he would not alter his plans.

Jacomina put on the look of a virgin saint who had just been condemned to the lions.

"No, Adrian,--you know Pa _never_ waits." She spoke with a resigned sigh.

"But, my little heart,--it will only be for two days."

"Pa _never_ waits. No, Adrian--we will bid each other good-bye--you must forget me--My dream--If it had not been this it would have been something else--Good-bye, Adrian--Think of me sometimes--"

She dissolved in tears. Adrian sprang to her side and tried to comfort her, but she was beyond consolation for a long time. Then she ceased weeping and sat with her eyes fixed steadfastly on the far away.

"No, Adrian,--I had another dream last night. I thought I met an old Bushwoman gathering roots in the veld, and she said to me that if any delay came you and I would never be married. Good-bye, Adrian,--I would only bring you bad luck. Go and find some other girl--but don't--forget me--altogether."

The last words were spoken with a sobbing catch. Adrian became agonised. Jacomina, exhausted by her emotions, allowed him to possess her waist and draw her to him.

"If you would not mind--Of course I know it would not be what I had promised--but as you have had those dreams;--if you would not mind being married in another dress;--we might get married on Monday, after all.

Come, Jacomyntye, what does the dress matter?"

Jacomina allowed herself to be persuaded, leaving her lover under the impression that she was conferring a great favour upon him. But the shadow of an abiding sadness was upon her visage, as though she saw the hand of Fate uplifted to strike her. She told her lover that he was not to hope too much--that she felt as though something were sure to intervene at the last moment. This made Adrian feverishly anxious that the ceremony should take place and, had it been possible, he would have marched down to the church and had the knot tied at once.

Jacomina told him that she did not want to trouble her father, who was enjoying himself so much, with her forebodings, and accordingly, her manner in Uncle Diederick's presence was as cheerful as usual. Adrian was much impressed by this evidence of filial feeling. He grew more and more enamoured as the hours dragged slowly past, and shuddered increasingly at the imminent catastrophe to which Jacomina continually alluded when the lovers were alone.

At length the blissful day dawned. A garment somewhat less ambitious than that which had clothed the G.o.ddess in the gla.s.s case had been hurriedly put together for the occasion, Adrian calling on the sempstress several times each day, to enquire how the important work was progressing. After the ceremony, the bridal party returned to the wagon, and thence to the du Plessis' house, where a small feast had been prepared.

Jacomina, feeling herself at a disadvantage, was anxious to get away.

Adrian was speechless with bliss, and had no eyes for anyone but his bride. He did not appear to advantage in his new store-clothes, which did not suit his stalwart form nearly as well as the rough, home-made garments to which he was accustomed. Uncle Diederick enjoyed himself immensely. He had never previously tasted champagne; under the influence of the seductive wine he nearly went the length of proposing marriage to Helena.

In the afternoon a start was made. Uncle Diederick's wagon had been comfortably fitted up for Elsie. Gertrude and Helena accompanied their friend as far as the first outspan place, where a farewell libation of coffee was poured out from tin pannikins. The wagon with the newly-married pair started first; that of Uncle Diederick remaining until the pony-carriage, which was sent out to fetch the two girls, arrived.

The wagon with its green sides and long white tent rolled heavily away over the sand. The two girls gazed through their tears until this ship of the desert which bore back to the unheeding wilds this strange and beautiful creature who had brightened their home during four happy years, slowly disappeared.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

ELSIE'S RETURN TO ELANDSFONTEIN.

It was late in the evening of a misty, depressing day, when Elsie arrived at the Elandsfontein homestead. The same air of unkempt mournfulness brooded over the place. Aletta, who had grown stout and frowsy, had prepared herself to meet her errant niece with bitter reproaches, but one glance at Elsie's stately presence and superior attire, proved sufficient to demoralise the aunt.

Aletta had a furtive, crushed look. The long years of misery and isolation had left their mark upon her. The only thing which kept her above the level of the mere animal was the love she still bore her husband, in spite of his consistent neglect Gideon had spent the greater portion of the past four years in wandering vaguely through desert s.p.a.ces, the more remote the better. In fact he only returned to the farm from time to time to refit his wagon or renew his cattle or stores.

On each occasion of his departure Aletta had made up her mind that she would never see him again. He had now been absent for several months, and none could say when he was likely to return.

But Aletta's curiosity soon got the better of her awe, so one day she began, tearfully and apologetically, to ask Elsie about her adventures.

Why had she gone--how could she leave them all in such a state of fear and uncertainty--how could she, a white girl, run away with a Bushman and thus bring disgrace on respectable people? The questions came out in an incoherent torrent, which ended in a flood of tears.

"I went on account of my father," replied Elsie.

"But why did you go without telling us?"

"Had I told you, you would have stopped me."

"But you don't mean to tell me that you and Kanu walked all the way to Cape Town. Why, it takes ten days to reach Cape Town with a span of fat oxen."

"Yes, Kanu and I walked all the way."

"But where is Kanu."

"I cannot say; I thought to have found him here."

"We thought he had taken you away and murdered you. Had he come back here he would have been shot."

"Poor Kanu; I am glad he did not return."

"But, my child, there must be more to tell. Why did you go just then, and why did you never let us know where you were?"

"There is much to tell, but the time to tell it has not yet come. When my father returns you will, perhaps, know all, but until he bids me speak I cannot."

The blind girl's words made Aletta quail. The return of Stepha.n.u.s was above all the thing she most dreaded. Deep down in her consciousness lay a conviction of Stepha.n.u.s' innocence and her husband's guilt. This she had never admitted even to herself. The first suspicion of the dreadful truth began to grow upon her immediately after the trial; of late years suspicion had developed into certainty. Her knowledge of the deeply-wronged man led her to infer that he would return raging for vengeance, and that her husband's life would inevitably pay the penalty of his sin. Many a time had she poured out frantic pet.i.tions to Heaven that Stepha.n.u.s might die in prison, and thus free her husband from the shadow that darkened his life. To think now that the event she dreaded so sorely was about to happen within the s.p.a.ce of a few months, turned her heart to stone.

A few weeks, however, of Elsie's society made her think that possibly her conviction that Stepha.n.u.s would come back filled with an implacable desire for vengeance was a mistaken one. The pledge which Elsie had made to her father sealed her lips on the subject of his forgiveness of the wrong that had been done him, but the influence of her strong, sweet nature came more and more to still the terror that had recently made Aletta's life more of a misery to her than ever. The only hope of the unhappy woman now lay in the possibility of being able to influence Stepha.n.u.s through the child that he loved so dearly, and she meant to pour out her whole soul, with all its doubts and suspicions to Elsie before her father's return, and beg for her intercession.

Nearly four months elapsed after Elsie's arrival before her uncle returned. One night, late, the footsteps of a horse were heard, and soon afterwards Gideon entered the house with weary tread. He had left the wagon some distance behind. When Aletta told him of Elsie's return he started violently and turned deadly pale. He did not ask where his niece had been. As his wife descanted with nervous volubility upon the mystery, and explained how she had been unsuccessful in eliciting from Elsie any particulars of her flight and subsequent adventures, Gideon found himself wondering whether it would not be possible for him to get away secretly and return to the wilderness, thus to avoid meeting the accusing look of the blind eyes that he remembered so well and dreaded so sorely. But Elsie just then stepped softly into the room.

"Where is Uncle Gideon?" she said in a soft voice.

Gideon gazed in speechless astonishment at Elsie. His apprehensive eye wandered over her graceful form and her pallid, beautiful face. He noticed how her figure had developed and how the gold had deepened in her hair. As Aletta tremblingly led her forward to the bench upon which Gideon was seated the unhappy man quailed and tried vainly to avoid the blind, accusing eyes, which seemed to seek his and to hold them when found. Elsie lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders.

"Uncle Gideon," she said, "my father sent me back to live with you until his release."

Gideon murmured some unintelligible words. Elsie pa.s.sed her hands lightly over his features. Aletta quietly left the room.

"Yes," said Elsie, "you have suffered; I will try to comfort you, Uncle Gideon."

A sense of immediate relief came over the unhappy man. It was now clear to him that Stepha.n.u.s could not have told her the truth about the tragedy at the spring, or else she would never have met him and spoken to him as she did. So far it was well, but the fact of Stepha.n.u.s not having taken her into his confidence was a proof of the implacability of his mind. But in an instant his mind rushed to another conclusion: this blind creature who loved her wronged father so utterly,--was it not certain that her desire for vengeance must be as keen as his? But he would balk them both by plunging again into the wilderness--so far, this time, that he would never be able to return.