Cry, The Beloved Country Part 15

My child?

Umfundisi?

I must say one more hard thing to you.

I am listening, umfundisi.

What will you do in this quiet place when the desire is upon you? I am a parson, and live at my church, and our life is quiet and ordered. I do not wish to ask you something that you cannot do.

I understand, umfundisi. I understand completely. She looked at him through her tears. You shall not be ashamed of me. You need not be afraid for me. You need not be afraid because it is quiet. Quietness is what I desire.

And the word, the word desire, quickened her to brilliance. That shall be my desire, she said, that is the desire that will be upon me, so that he was astonished.

I understand you, he said. You are cleverer than I thought.

I was clever at school, she said eagerly.

He was moved to sudden laughter, and stood wondering at the strangeness of its sound.

What church are you?

Church of England, umfundisi...this too, eagerly.

He laughed again at her simplicity, and was as suddenly solemn. I want one promise from you, he said, a heavy promise.

And she too was solemn. Yes, umfundisi?

If you should ever repent of this plan, either here or when we are gone to my home, you must not shut it up inside you, or run away as you did from your mother. You will promise to tell me that you have repented.

I promise, she said gravely, and then eagerly, I shall never repent.

And so he laughed again, and let go her hands, and took up his hat. I shall come for you when everything is ready for the marriage. Have you clothes?

I have some clothes, umfundisi. I shall prepare them.

And you must not live here. Shall I find you a place near me?

I would wish that, umfundisi. She clapped her hands like a child. Let it be soon, she said, and I shall give up my room at this house.

Stay well, then, my child.

Go well, umfundisi.

He went out of the house, and she followed him to the little gate. When he turned back to look at her, she was smiling at him. He walked on like a man from whom a pain has lifted a little, not altogether, but a little. He remembered too that he had laughed, and that it had pained him physically, as it pains a man who is ill and should not laugh. And he remembered too, with sudden and devastating shock, that Father Vincent had said, I shall pray, night and day. At the corner he turned, and looking back, saw that the girl was still watching him.

17.

THERE ARE FEW people that do not let their rooms, and Mrs. Lithebe is one. Her husband was a builder, a good and honest man, but they were not blessed with children. He built her this fine big house, it has a room to eat and live in, and three rooms to sleep in. And one she has for herself, and one for the priest that she is glad to have, for it is good to have a priest, it is good to have prayers in the house. And one she has for Gertrude and the child, for do they not belong to the priest? But strangers she will not have at all, she has money enough.

It is sad about the priest, it is sad about this Gertrude and the child, it is saddest of all about his son. But about his goodness she has no doubt at all. He is kind and gentle, and treats her with courtesy and respect, and uses the house as if it were his. And she admires him for what he has done, for saving Gertrude and the child, for getting his sister a new dress and a clean white cloth for her head, for getting s.h.i.+rt and jersey and trousers for the child. According to the custom she has thanked him for these gifts.

And it is pleasant having Gertrude and the child in the house. The girl is helpful and clean, though there is a strange carelessness about her, and she talks too easily to strangers, especially if they are men. For Mrs. Lithebe knows that she is a married woman, and Gertrude knows that the old woman is strict with her house, and she understands and is obedient.

But it is saddest of all about the son, and after their custom they have wept and wailed for him. She and Gertrude talk endlessly about it, indeed it is the only thing they talk about now. The old man is silent, and his face has fallen into a mould of suffering. But she hears it all in his prayers, and feels for him in her heart. And though he sits long hours in the chair, and stares in front of him out of tragic eyes, he will stir to life when she speaks to him, and his smile lifts his face out of the mould of its suffering, and he is never otherwise than gentle and courteous towards her. Indeed when he plays with the child, there is something that comes out of him so that he is changed. Yet even then sometimes there is a silence, and she hears the child asking and asking unanswered, and she looks through the door, and he is sitting there silent, alone with his thoughts, his face in the mould of its suffering.

Mrs. Lithebe.

Umfundisi?

Mrs. Lithebe, you have been so kind, and I have another kindness to ask you.

Perhaps it can be done.

Mrs. Lithebe, you have heard of this girl who is with child by my son.

I have heard of her.

She lives in Pimville, in a room in the house of other people. She wishes to marry my son, and I believe it can be arranged. Then - whatever may happen - she will go with me to Ndotsheni, and bear her child there in a clean and decent home. But I am anxious to get her away from this place, and I wondered.... I do not like to trouble you, mother.

You would like to bring her here, umfundisi?

Indeed, that would be a great kindness.

I will take her, said Mrs. Lithebe. She can sleep in the room where we eat. But I have no bed for her.

That would not matter. It is better for her to sleep on the floor of a decent house, than to...

Indeed, indeed.

Mother, I am grateful. Indeed you are a mother to me.

Why else do we live? she said.

And after that he was cheerful, and called to the little boy, and sat him upon his knee, and moved him up and down quickly as a man moves on a horse. But it is not a good game, for an old man gets tired and a child does not. So they brought out the blocks, and built tall buildings like the buildings in Johannesburg, and sent them toppling over to destruction with noise and laughter.

And now I must go, said k.u.malo. I have a new sister to bring to you.

He counted out his money. There were only one or two notes left. Soon he would have to break into the money in the Post Office Book. He sighed a little, and put on his coat and his hat and took up his stick. His wife would have to wait longer for her stove, and he would have to wait longer for his new black clothes, and for the collars that a parson wears.

The girl is not like Gertrude. She is openly glad to be in this house. Her clothes are few but clean, for she has prepared them with care, and of other belongings she has almost none at all. She opens the doors and looks into the rooms, and she is glad, not having lived before in such a house. She calls Mrs. Lithebe mother, and that pleases the good woman; and she is pleased too because the girl can speak Sesuto after a broken fas.h.i.+on. Gertrude too welcomes her, for it is no doubt dull for her in this house. They will talk much together.

Indeed Mrs. Lithebe comes upon them, when they have been laughing together. They fall silent, Gertrude with some amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, and the girl confused. But Mrs. Lithebe does not like this laughter, it is the careless laughter that she does not like. She calls the girl to the kitchen to help her, and she says she does not like it.

You are in a decent home, my child.

Yes, mother, says the girl with downcast eyes.

And you are brought here by a good and kindly man, so good that there is no word for it.

The girl looked up at her eagerly. I know it, she said.

Then if you are content to be brought by him, you will not laugh so carelessly.

Yes, mother.

You are but a child, and laughter is good for a child. But there is one kind of laughter, and there is another.

Yes, mother.

You understand what I mean?

I understand you completely.

This old man has been hurt greatly. Do you understand what I mean?

I understand you completely.

And he shall not be hurt any more, not in my house.

I understand you.

Then go, my child. But do not speak of what we have spoken.

I understand you.

My child, are you content to be brought here?

The girl looks at her fully. She spread out her hands, seeking some gesture to convey her conviction. I am content, she said. I desire to be nowhere but where I am. I desire no father but the umfundisi. I desire nothing that is not here.

I see you are content. And one thing more, my child. When the little one plays with you, do not let him press so against you. It is your time to be careful.

I understand you.

Go then, my child. This home is your home.

So there was no more of the careless laughter, and the girl was quiet and obedient. And Gertrude saw that she was a child, and left her alone and was indifferent and amused after her own fas.h.i.+on.

He pa.s.sed again through the great gate in the grim high wall, and they brought the boy to him. Again he took the lifeless hand in his own, and was again moved to tears, this time by the dejection of his son.

Are you in health, my son?

The son stood and moved his head to one side, and looked for a while at the one window, and then moved and looked at the other, but not at his father.

I am in health, my father.

I have some business for you, my son. Are you certain that you wish to marry this girl?

I can marry her?

There is a friend of mine, a white priest, and he will see if it can be arranged, and he will see the Bishop to see if it can be done quickly. And he will get a lawyer for you.

There is a spark of life in the eyes, of some hope maybe.

You would like a lawyer?

They say one can be helped by a lawyer.

You told the police that these other two were with you?

I told them. And now I have told them again.

And then?

And then they sent for them and fetched them from their cells.

And then?

And then they were angry with me, and cursed me in front of the police, and said that I was trying to bring them into trouble.

And then?

And then they asked what proof I had. And the only proof I had was that it was true, it was these two and no other and they stood there with me in the house, I here and they yonder.

He showed his father with his hands, and the tears came into his eyes, and he said, Then they cursed me again, and stood looking angrily at me, and said one to the other, How can he lie so about us?

They were your friends?

Yes, they were my friends.

And they will leave you to suffer alone?

Now I see it.

And until this, were they friends you could trust?

I could trust them.

I see what you mean. You mean they were the kind of friends that a good man could choose, upright, hard-working, obeying the law?

Old man, leave him alone. You lead him so far and then you spring upon him. He looks at you sullenly, soon he will not answer at all.

Tell me, were they such friends?