He is a stranger, he said, I cannot touch him, I cannot reach him. I see no shame in him, no pity for those he has hurt. Tears come out of his eyes, but it seems that he weeps only for himself, not for his wickedness, but for his danger.

The man cried out, can a person lose all sense of evil? A boy, brought up as he was brought up? I see only his pity for himself, he who has made two children fatherless. I tell you, that whosoever offends one of these little ones, it were better....

Stop, cried Father Vincent. You are beside yourself. Go and pray, go and rest. And do not judge your son too quickly. He too is shocked into silence, maybe. That is why he says to you, it is as my father wishes, and yes that is so, and I do not know.

k.u.malo stood up. I trust that is so, he said, but I have no hope any more. What did you say I must do? Yes, pray and rest.

There was no mockery in his voice, and Father Vincent knew that it was not in this man's nature to speak mockingly. But so mocking were the words that the white priest caught him by the arm, and said to him urgently, sit down, I must speak to you as a priest.

When k.u.malo had sat down, Father Vincent said to him, yes, I said pray and rest. Even if it is only words that you pray, and even if your resting is only a lying on a bed. And do not pray for yourself, and do not pray to understand the ways of G.o.d. For they are secret. Who knows what life is, for life is a secret. And why you have compa.s.sion for a girl, when you yourself find no compa.s.sion, that is a secret. And why you go on, when it would seem better to die, that is a secret. Do not pray and think about these things now, there will be other times. Pray for Gertrude, and for her child, and for the girl that is to be your son's wife, and for the child that will be your grandchild. Pray for your wife and all at Ndotsheni. Pray for the woman and the children that are bereaved. Pray for the soul of him who was killed. Pray for us at the Mission House, and for those at Ezenzeleni, who try to rebuild in a place of destruction. Pray for your own rebuilding. Pray for all white people, those who do justice, and those who would do justice if they were not afraid. And do not fear to pray for your son, and for his amendment.

I hear you, said k.u.malo humbly.

And give thanks where you can give thanks. For nothing is better. Is there not your wife, and Mrs. Lithebe, and Msimangu, and this young white man at the reformatory? Now, for your son and his amendment, you will leave this to me and Msimangu; for you are too distraught to see G.o.d's will. And now my son, go and pray, go and rest.

He helped the old man to his feet, and gave him his hat. And when k.u.malo would have thanked him, he said, we do what is in us, and why it is in us, that is also a secret. It is Christ in us, crying that men may be succoured and forgiven, even when He Himself is forsaken.

He led the old man to the door of the Mission and there parted from him.

I shall pray for you, he said, night and day. That I shall do and anything more that you ask.

16.

THE NEXT DAY k.u.malo, who was learning to find his way about the great city, took the train to Pimville to see the girl who was with child by his son. He chose this time so that Msimangu would not be able to accompany him, not because he was offended, but because he felt he would do it better alone. He thought slowly and acted slowly, no doubt because he lived in the slow tribal rhythm; and he had seen that this could irritate those who were with him, and he had felt also that he could reach his goal more surely without them.

He found the house not without difficulty, and knocked at the door, and the girl opened to him. And she smiled at him uncertainly, with something that was fear, and something that was child-like and welcoming.

And how are you, my child?

I am well, umfundisi.

He sat down on the only chair in the room, sat down carefully on it, and wiped his brow.

Have you heard of your husband? he asked. Only the word does not quite mean husband.

The smile went from her face. I have not heard, she said.

What I have to say is heavy, he said. He is in prison.

In prison, she said.

He is in prison, for the most terrible deed that a man can do.

But the girl did not understand him. She waited patiently for him to continue. She was surely but a child.

He has killed a white man.

Au! The exclamation burst from her. She put her hands over her face. And k.u.malo himself could not continue, for the words were like knives, cutting into a wound that was still new and open. She sat down on a box, and looked at the floor, and the tears started to run slowly down her cheeks.

I do not wish to speak of it, my child. Can you read? The white man's newspaper?

A little.

Then I shall leave it with you. But do not show it to others.

I shall not show it to others, umfundisi.

I do not wish to speak of it any more. I have come to speak with you of another matter. Do you wish to marry my son?

It is as the umfundisi sees it.

I am asking you, my child.

I can be willing.

And why would you be willing?

She looked at him, for she could not understand such a question.

Why do you wish to marry him? he persisted.

She picked little strips of wood from the box, smiling in her perplexedness. He is my husband, she said, with the word that does not quite mean husband.

But you did not wish to marry him before?

The questions embarra.s.sed her; she stood up, but there was nothing to do, and she sat down again, and fell to picking at the box.

Speak, my child.

I do not know what to say, umfundisi.

Is it truly your wish to marry him?

It is truly my wish, umfundisi.

I must be certain. I do not wish to take you into my family if you are unwilling.

At those words she looked up at him eagerly. I am willing, she said.

We live in a far place, he said, there are no streets and lights and buses there. There is only me and my wife, and the place is very quiet. You are a Zulu?

Yes, umfundisi.

Where were you born?

In Alexandra.

And your parents?

My father left my mother, umfundisi. And my second father I could not understand.

Why did your father leave?

They quarreled, umfundisi. Because my mother was so often drunk.

So your father left. And he left you also?

He left us, my two brothers and me, my younger brothers.

And your two brothers, where are they?

One is in the school, umfundisi, the school where Absalom was sent. And one is in Alexandra. But he is disobedient, and I have heard that he too may go to the school.

But how could your father have left you so?

She looked at him with strange innocence. I do not know, she said.

And you did not understand your second father? So what did you do?

I left that place.

And what did you do?

I lived in Sophiatown.

Alone?

No, not alone.

With your first husband? he asked coldly.

With my first, she agreed, not noticing his coldness.

How many have there been?

She laughed nervously, and looked down at the hand picking at the box. She looked up, and finding his eyes upon her, was confused. Only three, she said.

And what happened to the first?

He was caught, umfundisi.

And the second?

He was caught also.

And now the third is caught also.

He stood up, and a wish to hurt her came into him. Although he knew it was not seemly, he yielded to it, and he said to her, yes, your third is caught also, but now it is for murder. Have you had a murderer before?

He took a step toward her, and she shrank away on the box, crying, no, no. And he, fearing that those outside might overhear, spoke more quietly to her and told her not to be afraid, and took a step backwards. But no sooner had she recovered than he wished to hurt her again. And he said to her, will you now take a fourth husband? And desperately she said, No, no, I want no husband any more.

And a wild thought came to k.u.malo in his wild and cruel mood.

Not even, he asked, if I desired you?

You, she said, and shrank from him again.

Yes, I, he said.

She looked round and about her, as one that was trapped. No, no, she said, it would not be right.

Was it right before?

No, it was not right.

Then would you be willing?

She laughed nervously, and looked about her, and picked strips of wood from the box. But she felt his eyes upon her, and she said in a low voice, I could be willing.

He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and she, seeing him, fell to sobbing, a creature shamed and tormented. And he, seeing her, and the frailty of her thin body, was ashamed also, but for his cruelty, not her compliance.

He went over to her and said, how old are you, my child?

I do not know, she sobbed, but I think I am sixteen.

And the deep pity welled up in him, and he put his hand on her head. And whether it was the priestly touch, or whether the deep pity flowed into the fingers and the palm, or whether it was some other reason - but the sobbing was quietened, and he could feel the head quiet under his hand. And he lifted her hands with his other, and felt the scars of her meaningless duties about this forlorn house.

I am sorry, he said. I am ashamed that I asked you such a question.

I did not know what to say, she said.

I knew that you would not know. That is why I am ashamed. Tell me, do you truly wish to marry my son?

She clutched at his hands. I wish it, she said.

And to go to a quiet and far-off place, and be our daughter?

There was no mistaking the gladness of her voice. I wish it, she said.

Greatly?

Greatly, she said.