“We’ll drive back,” said Mr. Linton tersely.
The fog was much lighter in the town itself. Passers-by in the street were heard grumbling at it—but to the mist-sodden seafarers who had wallowed in its heart for eighteen hours, it seemed only an echo of a fog. The streets were bright, well-lit, and crowded. Natives were not so frequent as in Durban, and there was a general air of prosperity. Wally exhibited signs of alarm at the spectacle of more than one top-hat.
“I suppose we’ll have to get used to them in England,” he said, dismally. “I feel in my bones, Jim, that I’ll see you in one yet!”
“Me!” said Jim. “I’ll have to turn undertaker first!”
A friendly policeman directed them to their tram, and soon they were rattling along quiet suburban streets, where the fog was thicker than in the city—or where there were fewer electric lights to dispel its gloom. The suburbs, however, did not last long; they emerged from brick and mortar regions into open bush country, and began to climb into what seemed the heart of the mountains.
They climbed from mist into light. As the tram wormed its way higher and higher, they left the fog below them—looking back, they could see it lying in a dense bank, blotting out the city. But the travellers came out above it, and into the pure radiance of a perfect moon, that sailed in a clear sky of deep blue, dotted with innumerable stars. The moon was full, and her light, in the clear mountain air, was almost dazzling. It showed them the sinuous tramway track, curving away into the heart of the bush, which stretched on either side, dark and fragrant; it lit up deep glens and clefts, and high peaks that towered overhead—the “Twelve Apostles,” Signal Hill, the Lion’s Head—all black and rugged against the perfect blue of the sky.
Sometimes a wind blew up strongly as they climbed, bringing with it masses of fog from below, which surged lovingly round the tall peaks, rested upon them, and often drew a soft veil over them, hiding them altogether; and then it surged again, and was tossed up in masses like breaking waves, until it fled altogether, dropping back into the valleys, and leaving the peaks clear. The bush on either side grew more and more dense, and mingled with the rugged crags into a scene of extraordinary wildness. It was impossible to imagine that they were near a great city—not in the heart of the Africa that held “King Solomon’s Mines.” Were not these, indeed, the “Mountains of the Moon”?
Nobody spoke much, for, indeed, the wonder of the journey took away speech, even from the boys. But just as they were turning back towards civilisation a thick veil of mist hovered over the edge of Table Mountain, standing clear-cut against the blue and silver sky—and then settled upon it and draped it, hanging in uneven folds of purest white.
“There!” said David Linton. “You’ve seen the famous ‘Table-cloth’ come down on Table Mountain!”
Norah leaned against him, putting her hand in his.