I thought you would never come.

He went to her quickly, and she caught at his hands. We were talking of the boy, he said. All that he did, and tried to do. All the people that are grieved.

Tell me, my dear.

And so he told her in low tones all he had heard. She marvelled a little, for her husband was a quiet silent man, not given to much talking. But tonight he told her all that Harrison had told him.

It makes me proud, she whispered.

But you always knew he was like that.

Yes, I knew.

I knew too that he was a decent man, he said. But you were always nearer to him than I was.

It's easier for a mother, James.

I suppose so. But I wish now that I'd known more of him. You see, the things that he did, I've never had much to do with that sort of thing.

Nor I either, James. His life was quite different from ours.

It was a good life by all accounts.

He sat, she lay, in silence, with their thoughts and their memories and their grief.

Although his life was different, he said, you understood it.

Yes, James.

I'm sorry I didn't understand it.

Then he said in a whisper, I didn't know it would ever be so important to understand it.

My dear, my dear. Her arms went about him, and she wept. And he continued to whisper, There's one thing I don't understand, why it should have happened to him.

She lay there thinking of it, the pain was deep, deep and ineluctable. She tightened her arms about him. James, let's try to sleep, she said.

20.

JARVIS SAT IN the chair of his son, and his wife and Mary left him to return to the Harrisons. Books, books, books, more books than he had ever seen in a house! On the table papers, letters and more books. Mr. Jarvis, will you speak at the Parkwold Methodist Guild? Mr. Jarvis, will you speak at the Anglican Young People's a.s.sociation in Sophiatown? Mr. Jarvis, will you speak in a symposium at the University? No, Mr. Jarvis would be unable to speak at any of these.

Mr. Jarvis, you are invited to the Annual Meeting of the Society of Jews and Christians. Mr. Jarvis, you and your wife are invited to the wedding of Sarajini, eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. H. B. Singh. Mr. Jarvis, you and your wife are invited to a Toc H Guest Night in Van Wyk's Valley. No, Mr. Jarvis would be unable to accept these kind invitations.

On the walls between the books there were four pictures, of Christ crucified, and Abraham Lincoln, and the white gabled house of Vergelegen, and a painting of leafless willows by a river in a wintry veld.

He rose from the chair to look at the books. Here were hundreds of books, all about Abraham Lincoln. He had not known that so many books had been written about any one man. One bookcase was full of them. And another was full of books about South Africa, Sarah Gertrude Millin'sLife of Rhodes , and her book about s.m.u.ts, and Engelenburg'sLife of Louis Botha , and books on South African race problems, and books on South African birds, and the Kruger Park, and innumerable others. Another bookcase was full of Afrikaans books but the t.i.tles conveyed nothing to him. And here were books about religion and Soviet Russia, and crime and criminals, and books of poems. He looked for Shakespeare, and here was Shakespeare too.

He went back to the chair, and looked long at the pictures of Christ crucified, and Abraham Lincoln, and Vergelegen, and the willows by the river. Then he drew some pieces of paper towards him.

The first was a letter to his son from the secretary of the Claremont African Boys' Club, Gladiolus Street, Claremont, regretting that Mr. Jarvis had not been able to attend the Annual Meeting of the Club, and informing him he had again been elected as President. And the letter concluded, with quaintness of phrase - I am compelled by the Annual meeting to congratulate you with this matter, and to express considerable thanks to you for all the time you have been spending with us, and for the presents you have been giving the Club. How this Club would be arranged without your partic.i.p.ation, would be a mystery to many minds amongst us. It is on these accounts that we desire to elect you again to the Presidency.

I am asking an apology for this writing-paper, but our Club writing-paper is lost owing to unforeseen circ.u.mstances.

I am, Your obedient servant, WASHINGTON LEFIFI.

The other papers were in his son's handwriting. They were obviously part of some larger whole, for the first line was the latter end of a sentence, and the last line was a sentence unfinished. He looked for the rest of it, but finding nothing, settled down to read what he had: - was permissible. What we did when we came to South Africa was permissible. It was permissible to develop our great resources with the aid of what labour we could find. It was permissible to use unskilled men for unskilled work. But it is not permissible to keep men unskilled for the sake of unskilled work.

It was permissible when we discovered gold to bring labour to the mines. It was permissible to build compounds and to keep women and children away from the towns. It was permissible as an experiment, in the light of what we knew. But in the light of what we know now, with certain exceptions, it is no longer permissible. It is not permissible for us to go on destroying family life when we know that we are destroying it.

It is permissible to develop any resources if the labour is forthcoming. But it is not permissible to develop any resources if they can be developed only at the cost of the labour. It is not permissible to mine any gold, or manufacture any product, or cultivate any land, if such mining and manufacture and cultivation depend for their success on a policy of keeping labour poor. It is not permissible to add to one's possessions if these things can only be done at the cost of other men. Such development has only one true name, and that is exploitation. It might have been permissible in the early days of our country, before we became aware of its cost, in the disintegration of native community life, in the deterioration of native family life, in poverty, slums and crime. But now that the cost is known, it is no longer permissible.

It was permissible to leave native education to those who wanted to develop it. It was permissible to doubt its benefits. But it is no longer permissible in the light of what we know. Partly because it made possible industrial development, and partly because it happened in spite of us, there is now a large urbanized native population. Now society has always, for reasons of self-interest if for no other, educated its children so that they grow up law-abiding, with socialized aims and purposes. There is no other way that it can be done. Yet we continue to leave the education of our native urban society to those few Europeans who feel strongly about it, and to deny opportunities and money for its expansion. That is not permissible. For reasons of self-interest alone, it is dangerous.

It was permissible to allow the destruction of a tribal system that impeded the growth of the country. It was permissible to believe that its destruction was inevitable. But it is not permissible to watch its destruction, and to replace it by nothing, or by so little, that a whole people deteriorates, physically and morally.

The old tribal system was, for all its violence and savagery, for all its superst.i.tion and witchcraft, a moral system. Our natives today produce criminals and prost.i.tutes and drunkards, not because it is their nature to do so, but because their simple system of order and tradition and convention has been destroyed. It was destroyed by the impact of our own civilization. Our civilization has therefore an inescapable duty to set up another system of order and tradition and convention.

It is true that we hoped to preserve the tribal system by a policy of segregation. That was permissible. But we never did it thoroughly or honestly. We set aside one-tenth of the land for four-fifths of the people. Thus we made it inevitable, and some say we did it knowingly, that labour would come to the towns. We are caught in the toils of our own selfishness.

No one wishes to make the problem seem smaller than it is. No one wishes to make its solution seem easy. No one wishes to make light of the fears that beset us. But whether we be fearful or no, we shall never, because we are a Christian people, be able to evade the moral issues.

It is time - And there the ma.n.u.script and the page ended. Jarvis, who had become absorbed in the reading, searched again amongst the papers on the table, but he could find nothing to show that anything more than this had been written. He lit his pipe, and pulling the papers toward him, began to read them again.

After he had finished them the second time, he sat smoking his pipe and was lost in thought. Then he got up from his chair and went and stood in front of the Lincoln bookcase, and looked up at the picture of the man who had exercised such an influence over his son. He looked at the hundreds of books, and slid aside the gla.s.s panel and took one of them out. Then he returned to his chair, and began to turn over its pages, One of the chapters was headed "The Famous Speech at Gettysburg," apparently a speech that was a failure, but that had since become one of the great speeches of the world. He turned over the preliminary pages till he came to the speech, and read it through carefully. That done, he smoked again, lost in a deep abstraction. After some time he rose and replaced the book in the case, and shut the case. Then he opened the case again, and slipped the book into his pocket, and shut the case. He looked at his watch, knocked out his pipe in the fireplace, put on his hat, took up his stick. He walked slowly down the stairs, and opened the door into the fatal pa.s.sage. He took off his hat and looked down at the dark stain on the floor. Unasked, unwanted, the picture of the small boy came into his mind, the small boy at High Place, the small boy with the wooden guns. Unseeing he walked along the pa.s.sage and out of the door through which death had come so suddenly. The policeman saluted him, and he answered him with words that meant nothing, that made no sense at all. He put on his hat, and walked to the gate. Undecided he looked up and down the road. Then with an effort he began to walk. With a sigh the policeman relaxed.

21.

THE SERVICE IN the Parkwold Church was over, and the church had been too small for all who wanted to come. White people, black people, coloured people, Indians - it was the first time that Jarvis and his wife had sat in a church with people who were not white. The Bishop himself had spoken, words that pained and uplifted. And the Bishop too had said that men did not understand this riddle, why a young man so full of promise was cut off in his youth, why a woman was widowed and children were orphaned, why a country was bereft of one who might have served it greatly. And the Bishop's voice rose when he spoke of South Africa, and he spoke in a language of beauty, and Jarvis listened for a while without pain, under the spell of the words. And the Bishop said that here had been a life devoted to South Africa, of intelligence and courage, of love that cast out fear, so that the pride welled up in the heart, pride in the stranger who had been his son.

The funeral was over. The bra.s.s doors opened soundlessly, and the coffin slid soundlessly into the furnace that would reduce it to ashes. And people that he did not know shook hands with him, some speaking their sympathy in brief conventional phrases, some speaking simply of his son. The black people - yes, the black people also - it was the first time he had ever shaken hands with black people.

They returned to the house of the Harrisons, for the night that is supposed to be worst of all the nights that must come. For Margaret it would no doubt be so; he would not leave her again to go to bed alone. But for him it was over; he could sit quietly in Harrison's study, and drink his whisky and smoke his pipe, and talk about any matter that Harrison wanted to talk about, even about his son.

How long will you stay, Jarvis? You're welcome to stay as long as you wish.

Thank you, Harrison. I think Margaret will go back with Mary and the children, and we'll arrange for the son of one of my neighbours to stay with them. A nice lad, just out of the Army. But I'll stay to wind up Arthur's affairs, at least in the preliminary stages.

And what did the police say, if I may ask?

They're still waiting for the boy to recover. They have hopes that he recognized one of them. Otherwise they say it will be very difficult. The whole thing was over so quickly. They hope too that someone may have seen them getting away. They think they were frightened and excited, and wouldn't have walked away normally.

I hope to G.o.d they get them. And string 'em all up. Pardon me, Jarvis.

I know exactly what you mean.

We're not safe, Jarvis. I don't even know that stringing 'em up will make us safe. Sometimes I think it's got beyond us.

I know what you mean. But myself - perhaps it's too soon to think about it.

I know whatyou mean. I understand - I kind of understand - that side of it isn't the side you feel about the most. I might be the same. I don't really know.

I don't really know either. But you're right, it's not that side of it that seems important, not yet anyway. But I realize thereis another side to it.

We've been agitating for more police, Jarvis. There's going to be a big meeting in Parkwold tomorrow night. The place is alive with indignation. You know, Jarvis, there's hardly a householder in these suburbs who knows who lives in the servants' quarters. I won't have it. I tell my servants that I won't have a stranger near the place, let alone allow him to sleep here. Our girl's husband comes in occasionally from the place where he works, Benoni or Springs or somewhere, and she brings him in decently, and I give permission. But I'll allow no one else. If I didn't look out, I'd have the place full of cousins and uncles and brothers, and most of 'em up to no good.

Yes, I suppose that happens in Johannesburg.

And these sanitary lanes that run behind the houses. We've urged them to close the d.a.m.ned things up now that we have proper sewerage. They're dark and dangerous, and these d.a.m.ned loafers use 'em as hide-outs. G.o.d knows what's coming to the country, I don't. I'm not a n.i.g.g.e.r-hater, Jarvis. I try to give 'em a square deal, decent wages, and a clean room, and reasonable time off. Our servants stay with us for years. But the natives as a whole are getting out of hand. They've even started Trade Unions, did you know that?

I didn't know that.

Well they have. They're threatening to strike here in the Mines for ten shillings a day. They get about three shillings a shift now, and some of the mines are on the verge of closing down. They live in decent compounds - some of the latest compounds I wouldn't mind living in myself. They get good balanced food, far better than they'd ever get at home, free medical attention, and G.o.d knows what. I tell you, Jarvis, if mining costs go up much more there won't be any mines. And where will South Africa be then? And where would the natives be themselves? They'd die by the thousands of starvation.

Am I intruding? asked John Harrison, coming in to his father's study.

Sit down, John, said Harrison.

So the young man sat down, and his father, who was growing warm and excited, proceeded to develop his theme.

And where would the farmers be, Jarvis? Where would you sell your products, and who could afford to buy them? There wouldn't be any subsidies. There wouldn't be any industry either; industry depends on the mines to provide the money that will buy its products. And this Government of ours soaks the mines every year for a cool seventy per cent of the profits. And where would they be if there were no mines? Half the Afrikaners in the country would be out of work. There wouldn't be any civil service, either. Half of them would be out of work, too.

He poured out some more whisky for them both, and then resumed his subject.

I tell you there wouldn't be any South Africa at all if it weren't for the mines. You could shut the place up, and give it back to the natives. That's what makes me so angry when people criticize the mines. Especially the Afrikaners. They have some fool notion that the mining people are foreign to the country, and are sucking the blood out of it, ready to clear out when the goose stops laying the eggs. I'm telling you that most of the mining shares are held here in the country itself, they'reour mines. I get sick and tired of all this talk. Republic! Where would we be if we ever got a republic?

Harrison, I'm going to bed. I don't want Margaret to go to bed alone.

Old man, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I forgot myself.

There's nothing to be sorry about. It's done me good to listen to you. I haven't done much talking myself, it's not because I'm not interested. I'm sure you understand.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, said Harrison humbly. I quite forgot myself.

Believe me, said Jarvis, I'm sincere when I say that it's done me good to listen to you.

He looked at the two Harrisons. I'm not a man to sit and talk about death by the hour, he said.

Harrison looked at him uncomfortably. Really, really, you make it easy for me, he said.

I could have wished that he was here tonight, said Jarvis, that I could have heard him argue with you.

You would have enjoyed it, Mr. Jarvis, said John Harrison eagerly, responding to this natural invitation to talk about a man not long since dead. I never heard anyone argue about these things as he could.

I didn't agree with him, said Harrison, his discomfort pa.s.sing, but I had a great respect for anything that he said.

He was a good man, Harrison. I'm not sorry that we had him. Goodnight to you.

Goodnight, Jarvis. Did you sleep last night? Did Margaret sleep?

We both got some sleep.

I hope you get some more tonight. Don't forget, the house is at your service.

Thank you, goodnight. John?

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

Do you know the Boys' Club in Gladiolus Road, Claremont?

I know it well. It was our Club. Arthur's and mine.

I should like to see it. Any time that suits.

I'd be glad to take you, Mr. Jarvis. And Mr. Jarvis - Yes, John.

I just want to tell you that when father says Afrikaners he means Nationalists. Arthur was always telling him that. And father would agree too, but he just doesn't seem able to remember.

Jarvis smiled, first at the boy, then at his father. It's a good point, he said. Goodnight, Harrison. Goodnight, John.

The next morning Harrison waited for his guest at the foot of the stairs.

Come in to the study, he said. They went in, and Harrison closed the door behind him.

The police have just telephoned, Jarvis. The boy recovered consciousness this morning. He says there were three right enough. They had their mouths and noses covered, but he is sure that the one that knocked him out was an old garden-boy of Mary's. Mary had to get rid of him for some trouble or other. He recognized him because of some twitching about the eyes. When he left Mary, he got a job at some textile factory in Doornfontein. Then he left the factory, and no one can say where he went. But they got information about some other native who had been very friendly with him. They're after him now, hoping that he can tell them where to find the garden-boy. They certainly seem to be moving.

They do seem to be.

And here is a copy of Arthur's ma.n.u.script on native crime. Shall I leave it on the table and you can read it in peace after breakfast?

Thank you, leave it there.

How did you sleep? And Margaret?

She slept heavily, Harrison. She needed it.

I'm sure she did. Come to breakfast.