The greatest change was, however, to be seen in Elsie. She was about seventeen years of age and as beautiful as a lily. Tall and slight, her sweet face marble-pale, her deep eyes fringed with long, brown lashes and her wonderful hair full of amber hues mingled with the golden tints of dawn, the blind girl who dwelt in darkness was the sunshine of the household.
Although her mind was still a blank so far as events that had occurred previous to her waking in the home of her protector were concerned, her intellect otherwise was quite unimpaired. Her memory had regained its old strength, and once more she became remarkable for never forgetting anything she experienced. She was quite without fear except of the baboons, the barking of which upon the mountain side always made her tremble. It was this circumstance which led the old doctor who attended the household to express his belief that she would one day recover her memory. She was called Agatha by the du Plessis after numerous attempts to elicit her name had failed.
The Reverend Philip Brand, Gertrude’s fiancé, was an earnest and a muscular Christian. He was a man who held quite original views upon most questions; one peculiarity of his being that he rather preferred the society of the very bad to that of the correspondingly good. The visitation of the unfortunates condemned to serve in chains at the quarries on Robben Island was a self-imposed branch of his duties which he took the greatest interest in.
“I have recently come in contact,” he said one day to Gertrude, “with a very remarkable man. He is a convict at Robben Island,—a man named van der Walt. He tried to murder his brother, and was sentenced to ten years imprisonment in consequence.”
“Yes;—and why does he specially interest you?”
“Well,—’tis a very curious thing;—you know that I am apt to take a liking to reprobates; this man’s influence upon me is, however, very strange. Whenever I have been talking to him I come away with the impression that there is some mistake,—that he is God’s minister and I am the criminal.”
“I wish I could meet him.”
“I wish you could. I can hardly describe him.—The man is as humble as Christ himself, and is always, without the least sign of cringing, grateful for the least attention. He does not talk religion at all; in fact he tries rather to avoid the subject, but he continually endeavours to enlist my help towards getting favours granted for the other prisoners. He has never, so far as I can make out, asked for anything for himself.”
“Do you know the particulars of his crime? his story ought to be interesting.”
“I only know a few of the bare facts. It appears that he and his brother—they lived far up country, near the Roggeveld—had been quarrelling for years. One day they met in the veld, and this one shot the other with his own gun,—tried to murder him, in fact Murder or no murder, something always seems to say to me when we meet: ‘That man is a better Christian than you.’”