Where is your husband?

I have not found him, my brother.

But you did not write.

That is true, indeed.

Did you not know we were anxious?

I had no money to write.

Not two pennies for a stamp?

She does not answer him. She does not look at him.

But I hear you are rich.

I am not rich.

I hear you have been in prison.

That is true indeed.

Was it for liquor?

A spark of life comes into her. She must do something, she cannot keep so silent. She tells him she was not guilty. There was some other woman.

You stayed with this woman?

Yes.

Why did you stay with such a woman?

I had no other place.

And you helped her with her trade?

I had to have money for the child.

Where is the child?

She looks round vaguely. She gets up and goes to the yard. She calls, but the voice that was once so sweet has a new quality in it, the quality of the laughter that he heard in the house. She is revealing herself to him.

I have sent for the child, she says.

Where is it?

It shall be fetched, she says.

There is discomfort in her eyes, and she stands fingering the wall. The anger wells up in him.

Where shall I sleep? he asks.

The fear in her eyes is unmistakable. Now she will reveal herself, but his anger masters him, and he does not wait for it.

You have shamed us, he says in a low voice, not wishing to make it known to the world. A liquor seller, a prost.i.tute, with a child and you do not know where it is? Your brother a priest. How could you do this to us?

She looks at him sullenly, like an animal that is tormented.

I have come to take you back. She falls on to the floor and cries; her cries become louder and louder, she has no shame.

They will hear us, he says urgently.

She cries to control her sobs.

Do you wish to come back?

She nods her head. I do not like Johannesburg, she says. I am sick here. The child is sick also.

Do you wish with your heart to come back?

She nods her head again. She sobs too. I do not like Johannesburg, she says. She looks at him with eyes of distress, and his heart quickens with hope. I am a bad woman, my brother. I am no woman to go back.

His eyes fill with tears, his deep gentleness returns to him. He goes to her and lifts her from the floor to the chair. Inarticulately he strokes her face, his heart filled with pity.

G.o.d forgives us, he says. Who am I not to forgive? Let us pray.

They knelt down, and he prayed, quietly so that the neighbors might not hear, and she punctuated his pet.i.tions with Amens. And when he had finished, she burst into a torrent of prayer, of self-denunciation, and urgent pet.i.tion. And thus reconciled, they sat hand in hand.

And now I ask you for help, he said.

What is it, my brother?

Our child, have you not heard of him?

I did hear of him, brother. He was working at some big place in Johannesburg, and he lived in Sophiatown, but where I am not sure. But I know who will know. The son of our brother John and your son were often together. He will know.

I shall go there. And now, my sister, I must see if Mrs. Lithebe has a room for you. Have you many things?

Not many. This table and those chairs, and a bed. And some few dishes and pots. That is all.

I shall find someone to fetch them. You will be ready?

My brother, here is the child.

Into the room, shepherded by an older girl, came his little nephew. His clothes were dirty and his nose running, and he put his finger in his mouth, and gazed at his uncle out of wide saucer-like eyes.

k.u.malo lifted him up, and wiped his nose clean, and kissed and fondled him.

It will be better for the child, he said. He will go to a place where the wind blows, and where there is a school for him.

It will be better, she agreed.

I must go, he said. There is much to do.

He went out into the street, and curious neighbours stared at him. It was an umfundisi that was here. He found his friend, and poured out his news, and asked him where they could find a man to fetch his sister, her child and possessions.

We shall go now, said Msimangu. I am glad for your sake, my friend.

There is a great load off my mind, my friend. Please G.o.d the other will be as successful.

He fetched her with a lorry that afternoon, amidst a crowd of interested neighbours, who discussed the affair loudly and frankly, some with approval, and some with the strange laughter of the towns. He was glad when the lorry was loaded, and they left.

Mrs. Lithebe showed them their room, and gave the mother and child their food while k.u.malo went down to the mission. And that night they held prayers in the dining-room, and Mrs. Lithebe and Gertrude punctuated his pet.i.tions with Amens. k.u.malo himself was light-hearted and gay like a boy, more so than he had been for years. One day in Johannesburg, and already the tribe was being rebuilt, the house and the soul restored.

7.

GERTRUDE'S DRESS, FOR all that she might once have been rich, was dirty, and the black greasy knitted cap that she wore on her head made him ashamed. Although his money was little, he bought her a red dress and a white thing that they called a turban for her head. Also a shirt, a pair of short trousers, and a jersey for the boy; and a couple of stout handkerchiefs for his mother to use on his nose. In his pocket was his Post Office Book, and there was ten pounds there that he and wife were saving to buy the stove, for that, like any woman, she had long been wanting to have. To save ten pounds from a stipend of eight pounds a month takes much patience and time, especially for a parson, who must dress in good black clothes. His clerical collars were brown and frayed, but they must wait now a while. It was a pity about the ten pounds, that it would sooner or later have to be broken into, but the trains did not carry for nothing, and they would no doubt get a pound or two for her things. Strange that she had saved nothing from her sad employment, which brought in much money, it was said.

Gertrude was helping Mrs. Lithebe in the house, and he could hear her singing a little. The small boy was playing in the yard, with small pieces of brick and wood that a builder had left. The sun was shining, and even in this great city there were birds, small sparrows that chirped and flew about in the yard. But there was Msimangu coming up the street. He put aside the letter that he was writing to his wife, of the journey in the train, and the great city Johannesburg, and the young man who had stolen his pound, of his quick finding of Gertrude, and his pleasure in the small boy. And above all, that this day would begin the search for their son.

Are you ready, my friend?

Yes, I am ready. I am writing to my wife.

Though I do not know her, send her my greetings.

They walked up the street, and down another, and up yet another. It was true what they said, that you could go up one street and down another till the end of your days, and never walk the same one twice.

Here is your brother's shop. You see his name.

Yes, I see it.

Shall I come with you?

Yes, I think it would be right.

His brother John was sitting there on a chair, talking to two other men. He had grown fat, and sat with his hands on his knees like a chief. His brother he did not recognize, for the light from the street was on the backs of his visitors.

Good morning, my brother.

Good morning, sir.

Good morning, my own brother, son of our mother.

John k.u.malo looked closely at him, and stood up with a great hearty smile.

My own brother. Well, well, who can believe? What are you doing in Johannesburg?

k.u.malo looked at the visitors. I come on business, he said.

I am sure my friends will excuse us. My own brother, the son of our mother, has come.

The two men rose, and they all said stay well and go well.

Do you know the Reverend Msimangu, my brother?

Well, well, he is known to everybody. Everybody knows the Reverend Msimangu. Sit down, gentlemen. I think we must have some tea.

He went to the door and called into the place behind.

Is your wife Esther well, my brother?

John k.u.malo smiled his jolly and knowing smile. My wife Esther has left me these ten years, my brother.

And have you married again?

Well, well, not what the Church calls married, you know. But she is a good woman.

You wrote nothing of this, brother.

No, how could I write? You people in Ndotsheni do not understand the way life is in Johannesburg. I thought it better not to write.

That is why you stopped writing.

Well, well, that could be why I stopped. Trouble, brother, unnecessary trouble.

But I do not understand. How is life different in Johannesburg?

Well, that is difficult. Do you mind if I speak in English? I can explain these things better in English.

Speak in English, then, brother.

You see I have had an experience here in Johannesburg. It is not like Ndotsheni. One must live here to understand it.

He looked at his brother. Something new is happening here, he said.

He did not sit down, but began to speak in a strange voice. He walked about, and looked through the window into the street, and up at the ceiling, and into the corners of the room as though something were there, and must be brought out.

Down in Ndotsheni I am n.o.body, even as you are n.o.body, my brother. I am subject to the chief, who is an ignorant man. I must salute him and bow to him, but he is an uneducated man. Here in Johannesburg I am a man of some importance, of some influence. I have my own business, and when it is good, I can make ten, twelve, pounds a week.

He began to sway to and fro, he was not speaking to them, he was speaking to people who were not there.