But the boy made no answer.

And now they leave you alone?

Silence, then - I see it.

Did you not see it before?

Reluctantly the boy said, I saw it. The old man was tempted to ask, then why, why did you continue with them? But the boy's eyes were filled with tears, and the father's compa.s.sion struggled with the temptation and overcame it. He took his son's hands, and this time they were not quite lifeless, but there was some feeling in them, and he held them strongly and comfortingly.

Be of courage, my son. Do not forget there is a lawyer. But it is only the truth you must tell him.

I shall tell him only the truth, my father.

He opened his mouth as though there were something he would say, but he did not say it.

Do not fear to speak, my son.

He must come soon, my father.

He looked at the window, and his eyes filled again with tears. He tried to speak carelessly. Or it may be too late, he said.

Have no fear of that. He will come soon. Shall I go now to see when he will come?

Go now, soon, soon, my father.

And Father Vincent will come to see you, so that you can make confession, and be absolved, and amend your life.

It is good, my father.

And the marriage, that will be arranged if we can arrange it. And the girl - I had not told you - she is living with me in Sophiatown. And she will come back with me to Ndotsheni, and the child will be born there.

It is good, my father.

And you may write now to your mother.

I shall write, my father.

And wipe away your tears.

The boy stood up and wiped his eyes with the cloth that his father gave him. And they shook hands, and there was some life now in the hand of the boy. The warder said to the boy, you may stay here, there is a lawyer to see you. You, old man, you must go.

So k.u.malo left him, and at the door stood a white man, ready to come in. He was tall and grave, like a man used to heavy matters, and the warder knew him and showed him much respect. He looked like a man used to great matters, much greater than the case of a black boy who has killed a man, and he went gravely into the room, even as a chief would go.

k.u.malo returned to the Mission House, and there had tea with Father Vincent. After the tea was over there was a knock at the door, and the tall grave man was shown into the room. And Father Vincent treated him also with respect, and called him sir, and then Mr. Carmichael. He introduced k.u.malo to him, and Mr. Carmichael shook hands with him, and called him Mr. k.u.malo, which is not the custom. They had more tea, and fell to discussing the case.

I shall take it for you, Mr. k.u.malo, said Mr. Carmichael. I shall take it pro deo, as we say. It is a simple case, for the boy says simply that he fired because he was afraid, not meaning to kill. And it will depend entirely on the judge and his a.s.sessors, for I think we will ask for that, and not for a jury. But with regard to the other two boys, I do not know what to say. I hear, Mr. k.u.malo, that your brother had found another lawyer for them, and indeed I could not defend them, for I understand that their defence will be that they were not there at all, and that your son is for reasons of his own trying to implicate them. Whether that is true or not will be for the Court to decide, but I incline to the opinion that your son is speaking the truth, and has no motive for trying to implicate them. It is for me to persuade the Court that he is speaking the whole truth, and that he speaks the whole truth when he says that he fired because he was afraid, and therefore I obviously could not defend these two who maintain that he is not speaking the truth. Is that clear, Mr. k.u.malo?

It is clear, sir.

Now I must have all the facts about your son, Mr. k.u.malo, when and where he was born, and what sort of child he was, and whether he was obedient and truthful, and when and why he left home, and what he has done since he came to Johannesburg. You understand?

I understand, sir.

I want this as soon as I can, Mr. k.u.malo, for the case will probably be heard at the next sessions. You must find out what he has done, not only from him, but from others. You must check the one account against the other, you understand, and if there are differences, you must give them also. And I shall do the same on my own account. Do you understand?

I understand, sir.

And now, Father Vincent, could you and I go into this matter of the school?

With pleasure, sir. Mr. k.u.malo, will you excuse us?

He took k.u.malo to the door, and standing outside it, shut it.

You may thank G.o.d that we have got this man, he said. He is a great man, and one of the greatest lawyers in South Africa, and one of the greatest friends of your people.

I do thank G.o.d, and you too, father. But tell me. I have one anxiety, what will it cost? My little money is nearly exhausted.

Did you not hear him say he would take the case pro deo? Ah yes, you have not heard of that before. It is Latin and it means for G.o.d. So it will cost you nothing, or at least very little.

He takes it for G.o.d?

That is what it meant in the old days of faith, though it has lost much of that meaning. But it still means that the case is taken for nothing.

k.u.malo stammered. I have never met such kindness, he said. He turned away his face, for he wept easily in those days. Father Vincent smiled at him. Go well, he said, and went back to the lawyer who was taking the case for G.o.d.

Book II.

18.

THERE IS A lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are gra.s.s-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is gra.s.s and bracken, and the forlorn crying of the t.i.tihoya, one of the birds of the veld. Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand.

The gra.s.s is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well tended, and not too many cattle feed upon it, and not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil.

Up here on the tops is a small and lovely valley, between two hills that shelter it. There is a house there, and flat ploughed fields; they will tell you that it is one of the finest farms of this countryside. It is called High Place, the farm and dwelling-place of James Jarvis, Esquire, and it stands high above Ndotsheni, and the great valley of the Umzimkulu.

Jarvis watched the ploughing with a gloomy eye. The hot afternoon sun of October poured down on the fields, and there was no cloud in the sky. Rain, rain, there was no rain. The clods turned up hard and unbroken, and here and there the plough would ride uselessly over the iron soil. At the end of the field it stopped, and the oxen stood sweating and blowing in the heat.

It is no use, umnumzana.

Keep at it, Thomas. I shall go up to the tops and see what there is to see.

You will see nothing, umnumzana. I know because I have looked already.

Jarvis grunted, and calling his dog, set out along the kaffir path that led up to the tops. There was no sign of drought there, for the gra.s.s was fed by the mists, and the breeze blew coolingly on his sweating face. But below the tops the gra.s.s was dry, and the hills of Ndotsheni were red and bare, and the farmers on the tops had begun to fear that the desolation of them would eat back, year by year, mile by mile, until they too were overtaken.

Indeed they talked about it often, for when they visited one another and sat on the long cool verandahs drinking their tea, they must needs look out over the barren valleys and the bare hills that were stretched below them. Some of their labour was drawn from Ndotsheni, and they knew how year by year there was less food grown in these reserves. There were too many cattle there, and the fields were eroded and barren; each new field extended the devastation. Something might have been done, if these people had only learned how to fight erosion, if they had built walls to save the soil from washing, if they had ploughed along the contours of the hills. But the hills were steep, and indeed some of them were never meant for ploughing. And the oxen were weak, so that it was easier to plough downwards. And the people were ignorant, and knew nothing about farming methods.

Indeed it was a problem almost beyond solution. Some people said there must be more education, but a boy with education did not want to work on the farms, and went off to the towns to look for more congenial occupation. The work was done by old men and women, and when the grown men came back from the mines and the towns, they sat in the sun and drank their liquor and made endless conversation. Some said there was too little land anyway, and that the natives could not support themselves on it, even with the most progressive methods of agriculture. But there were many sides to such a question. For if they got more land, and treated it as they treated what they had already, the country would turn into a desert. And where was the land to come from, and who would pay for it? And indeed there was still another argument, for if they got more land, and if by some chance they could make a living from it, who would work on the white men's farms? There was a system whereby a native could live at Ndotsheni, and go to work at his will on the adjoining farms. And there was another system whereby a native could get land from the farmer, and set up his kraal and have his family there, and be given his own piece of land and work it, provided that he and his family gave so much labour each year to the white farmer. But even that was not perfect, for some of them had sons and daughters that left for the towns, and never came back to fulfil their portion of the contract; and some of them abused the land that they had; and some of them stole cattle and sheep for meat; and some of them were idle and worthless, till one had to clear them off the farm, and not be certain if their successors would be any better.

Jarvis turned these old thoughts over in his mind as he climbed to the tops, and when he reached them he sat down on a stone and took off his hat, letting the breeze cool him. This was a view that a man could look at without tiring of it, this great valley of the Umzimkulu. He could look around on the green rich hills that he had inherited from his father, and down on the rich valley where he lived and farmed. It had been his wish that his son, the only child that had been born to them, would have taken it after him. But the young man had entertained other ideas, and had gone in for engineering, and well - good luck to him. He had married a fine girl, and had presented his parents with a pair of fine grandchildren. It had been a heavy blow when he decided against High Place, but his life was his own, and no other man had a right to put his hands on it.

Down in the valley below there was a car going up to the house. He recognized it as the police-car from Ixopo, and it would probably be Binnendyk on his patrol, and a decent fellow for an Afrikaner. Indeed Ixopo was full of Afrikaners now, whereas once there had been none of them. For all the police were Afrikaners, and the post-office clerks, and the men at the railway-station, and the village people got on well with them one way and the other. Indeed, many of them had married English-speaking girls, and that was happening all over the country. His own father had sworn that he would disinherit any child of his who married an Afrikaner, but times had changed. The war had put things back a bit, for some of the Afrikaners had joined the army, and some were for the war but didn't join the army, and some were just for neutrality and if they had any feelings they concealed them, and some were for Germany but it wasn't wise for them to say anything about it.

His wife was coming out of the house to meet the car, and there were two policemen climbing out of it. One looked like the captain himself, van Jaarsveld, one of the most popular men in the village, a great rugby player in his day, and a soldier of the Great War. He supposed they picked their officers carefully for an English-speaking district like Ixopo. They seemed to have come to see him, for his wife was pointing up to the tops. He prepared to go down, but before he left, he looked over the great valley. There was no rain, and nothing that looked as if it would ever come. He called his dog, and set out along the path that would soon drop down steeply amongst the stones. When he reached a little plateau about half-way down to the fields, he found that van Jaarsveld and Binnendyk were already climbing the slope, and saw that they had brought their car down the rough track to the ploughing. They caught sight of him, and he waved to them, and sat down upon a stone to wait for them. Binnendyk dropped behind, and the captain came on above to meet him.

Well, captain, have you brought some rain for us?

The captain stopped and turned to look over the valley to the mountains beyond.

I don't see any, Mr. Jarvis, he said.

Neither do I. What brings you out today?

They shook hands, and the captain looked at him.

Mr. Jarvis.

Yes.

I have bad news for you.

Bad news?

Jarvis sat down, his heart beating loudly. Is it my son? he asked.

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

Is he dead?

Yes, Mr. Jarvis. The captain paused. He was shot dead at 1:30P.M. this afternoon in Johannesburg.

Jarvis stood up, his mouth quivering. Shot dead, he asked. By whom?

It is suspected by a native housebreaker. You know his wife was away?

Yes, I knew that.

And he stayed at home for the day, a slight indisposition. I suppose this native thought no one was at home. It appears that your son heard a noise, and came down to investigate. The native shot him dead. There was no sign of any struggle.

My G.o.d!

I'm sorry, Mr. Jarvis. I'm sorry to have to bring this news to you.

He offered his hand, but Jarvis had sat down again on the stone, and did not see it. My G.o.d, he said.

van Jaarsveld stood silent while the older man tried to control himself.

You didn't tell my wife, captain?

No, Mr. Jarvis.

Jarvis knitted his brows as he thought of that task that must be performed. She isn't strong, he said. I don't know how she will stand it.

Mr. Jarvis, I am instructed to offer you every a.s.sistance. Binnendyk can drive your car to Pietermaritzburg if you wish. You could catch the fast mail at nine o'clock. You will be in Johannesburg at eleven tomorrow morning. There's private compartment reserved for you and Mrs. Jarvis.

That was kind of you.

I'll do anything you wish, Mr. Jarvis.

What time is it?

Half-past three, Mr. Jarvis.

Two hours ago.

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

Three hours ago he was alive.

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

My G.o.d!

If you are to catch this train, you should leave at six. Or if you wish, you could take an aeroplane. There's one waiting at Pietermaritzburg. But we must let them know by four o'clock. You could be in Johannesburg at midnight.

Yes, yes. You know, I cannot think.

Yes, I can understand that.

Which would be better?

I think the aeroplane, Mr. Jarvis.

Well, we'll take it. We must let them know, you say.

I'll do that as soon as we get to the house. Can I telephone where Mrs. Jarvis won't hear me? I must hurry, you see.

Yes, yes, you can do that.

I think we should go.