“Yes,” said Paul. “Let’s show them the staircase.”

“We’ll come to it in time.”

“And the Model House?”

“Of course.”

“The staircase is very fine,” I said.

“Oh, not that one,” said Paul. “The other.”

“Oh, there are two, are there?”

“Yes,” he said, and I noticed his lips tightened again.

In due course we came to the staircase. It led from the hall to the second floor. It was obviously a back staircase, used by the servants, I supposed; it was covered in a green carpet held in place by brass stair rods.

“That’s it,” said Paul.

I could see nothing unusual about it. It was certainly not comparable with the spiral one by which we had ascended. It was natural, I supposed, to have two staircases in such a house.

“Interesting,” I said perfunctorily; but Paul was looking at it with gleaming eyes and Myra looked decidedly uncomfortable.

I had a strange and uncanny feeling that they were seeing something which was not visible to Lilias and me.

A short while later I was inspecting the Model House. It was quite extraordinary. It was like a large dolls’ house. It was in a smallish room, the whole of which was needed to accommodate it, and it reached from floor to ceiling.

I suddenly realised that it was an exact replica of the house. The rooms were all there, the two staircases, the heavy furniture, all in miniature.

I couldn’t resist saying: “It’s like a huge dolls’ house—the biggest I have ever seen.”

“It’s not a dolls’ house,” said Paul. “It’s not for children.”

“No,” said Myra. “Roger explained it to me. It’s an old custom. It started in Germany and was adopted by the Dutch. Their homes mean so much to them so they have models made of them … exact copies. When furniture is taken away it is removed from the model house and when new comes in a small copy is made.”

“What an extraordinary idea!” said Lilias. “I have never heard of it.”

“Yes,” said Myra. “They don’t follow it now. But the people who lived here before did. They probably thought it was unlucky to dispense with an old custom. People do, don’t they? It’s a bit of an oddity and amuses people, Roger says.”

Paul was apparently very proud of it. He said: “You’ve seen it with the doors open. It’s like taking away the front of a house. It’s the only way to see inside, isn’t it? You can see it all in this one. In ordinary houses you can’t see what’s inside. This house hasn’t got doors. It’s all open. So it doesn’t have the inscription which is on the door of this house. You didn’t see it when you came in because it was all covered up with creeper. I think some people are glad about that. It says: ‘God’s Eyes See All.’ It’s in Dutch. Most people here know what it means. But it’s covered with the creeper. But that wouldn’t stop God’s seeing all, would it?”

He gave me a rare smile.

I said: “No, it wouldn’t.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he said. “I mean the Model House?”

“I thought it was fascinating. I have never seen anything like it.”

That seemed to please him.

After that we went into the garden. It was extensive and that section near the house was laid out in lawns and flower beds and little paths; but there was a large area which had been allowed to grow wild and I could see that was what would appeal to a boy of Paul’s age.

He grew excited as we approached it.

“I think we ought to get back to the house,” said Myra. “You can get lost here. It’s like the jungle.”

“Just as far as the Falls,” said Paul. “I won’t let you get lost.”

“The Falls?” I said.

“Well,” Myra explained. “It’s a kind of miniature waterfall. There’s a stream … well, it’s more than a stream. It’s supposed to be a tributary of some river miles away, I think. It flows down from higher ground and makes this little waterfall. It’s quite attractive.”

It was, as she had said, although it was little more than a stream. It was about six feet wide and there was a rickety wooden bridge over it. But it was indeed attractive with the water cascading from a higher level making, as Myra said, a little waterfall.

Paul was pleased when we admired it.

“And now,” said Myra, “we must go back to the house.”

“Oh, let’s go just as far as the rondavels,” begged Paul.

He seemed to have attached himself to me, and I said: “What are the rondavels?”

“That’s where the servants live,” he explained.

“Sort of native huts,” said Myra. “They are circular and have thatched roofs.”

We had come to a clearing and I saw them. There must have been about twenty of them. It was like a native village. There were some very small children playing on the grass and at the door of one sat an old woman.

Myra had paused and we all stopped with her.

“It’s like a little colony,” said Myra. “They couldn’t all live in the house. There are too many and they wouldn’t like it. They like their own way of life.”

A young boy of about Paul’s age came running towards us. He stood before Paul smiling. Paul put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and patted it.

Myra said: “That’s Umgala, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Paul.

The boy had put his hand over Paul’s. It was a greeting, I guessed. Paul nodded at the boy and the boy nodded back. This was some sort of ritual. Neither of them spoke.

“Come along, Paul,” said Myra. And to us: “They don’t like us to intrude, I’m sure.”

Obediently Paul turned away.

“Poor Umgala,” said Myra. “He’s a deaf-mute. Both his parents work about the place.”

We had started walking back to the house.

“How can you communicate with that little boy?” I asked Paul.

“Like this,” said Paul, waving his hands.

“It must be difficult.”

He nodded.

“His parents are good workers,” said Myra. “Luban, his mother, works in the house, and his father, Njuba, in the garden. That’s right, isn’t it, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“It must be terrible to be born like that,” said Lilias.

“Yes, but he seems happy. He was pleased to see Paul.”

“Yes, Paul has established quite a friendship with him, haven’t you, Paul?”

“Yes,” said Paul.

“This has all been so interesting,” murmured Lilias.

We walked slowly back to the house and very soon afterwards we left.

Back at the schoolhouse Lilias talked a great deal about what we had seen. She was delighted that we were to have a new pupil.

“I had no idea that Mr. Lestrange was not the boy’s father,” she said. “I heard what the boy was saying.”

“He has always referred to him as his son.”

“Well, he’s his stepson, of course.”

“But he did give the impression that he was the boy’s father. He couldn’t have been married very long to his first wife. Did you get the impression that Myra was afraid of something?”

“Well, Myra was always afraid of her own shadow.”

“I just thought she was especially afraid.”

“She seemed afraid of the boy, too. She’s just a nervous person.”

“I shall be interested to see more of Paul.”

“So shall I. I’m sure he’ll be an interesting pupil.”

“I think he might be difficult to get to know. He seems to have some morbid obsession.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I am sure of one thing. You’ll do your best to find out.”

That night I wrote to Ninian Grainger. I told him that Roger Lestrange had paid for a better cabin for us and that I had kept this from Lilias because she would have been so worried about the debt which would have been a great strain on her; so I had let it pass and accepted.

“It was good of him,” I wrote, “and he did not let me know about it until right at the end of the voyage.”

I also told him about the school and our high hopes for it. We liked Kimberley and were getting on well with our pupils’ parents; and the friendship of the Lestranges made us feel we were not so far from home.

“I was surprised to discover that Roger Lestrange was not a native of this place. He apparently came out from England some years ago. He married out here and acquired this really rather fascinating house … and then his wife died. She must have been quite young. The son who I thought was his is his stepson. The boy’s mother must have died soon after the marriage.

“Well, there have been lots of surprises and I expect there are more to come. Mr. Lestrange, with whom we lunched today, told us that there is a certain unrest in the country, but there is no sign of it here …”

What a lot I was telling him! But I had promised I would tell him the details and I think the visit to Riebeeck House had excited me.

I sealed my letter. I would post it tomorrow.

PAUL JOINED THE SCHOOL and Lilias was very pleased. Like all good teachers she was delighted at the prospect of a responsive pupil.

“I wish I had more like him,” she said. “I’d like to give more attention to him. But, of course, before long I daresay he will be going away to school.”

Lilias was very efficient and my position was more or less a sinecure and I was afraid I contributed very little.

The school really resembled one of those village schools of which there were many at home. In isolated villages where there were too few pupils to make a large school possible, they were run by one schoolmistress. Everything depended on her. If she were good then so was the school.

Lilias said that in her early days she had attended such a school and she had found that when she went away to a boarding school she was in advance of the other girls who had been brought up by governesses.

“How I should love to have a big school with several teachers working for me and a hundred pupils! But, for the time being, this will suffice.”

She had wanted to share the salary, but I impressed on her that this was absurd. She did far more work than I did. I was prepared to take nothing at all. My income sufficed. She would not hear of that, so all I could do was insist that she take the larger share of the money. The truth was that she could have run the place very easily by herself.

She was happy and I was delighted to see her so. She dreamed of enlarging the school. But, of course, that was for the future. I realised more than ever that teaching was her vocation and how frustrated she must have been, confined to the domestic affairs of the vicarage. John Dale shared her interest in the school. He was a very frequent visitor. He used to call after school with a bottle of wine and some delicacies and we would talk far into the evening.

One afternoon when Greta Schreiner brought Anna to school she lingered behind to have a word with one of us. I saw her and she asked if we would keep Anna for an extra half an hour when school was over as she would be delayed coming to pick her up. This happened now and then with some of the children, for we would not consider letting any of the little ones go off without their parents. I told Greta that that would be all right.

When school was over Lilias went off to see a parent in the town who was thinking of sending her two children to the school, so I stayed behind with Anna.

We sat at the window watching for Greta to arrive. I tried to interest the child in a game in order to pass the time, but I received little response, and I was rather pleased when I saw Greta hurrying towards the schoolhouse.

Anna went quietly to her mother and I led the way to the door.

“Thank you, Miss Grey,” said Greta. “It was kind of you. I hope I wasn’t too long.”

“Oh no. You’re earlier than I had expected. Well, goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, Mrs. Schreiner.”

I went back into the schoolhouse and as I did so I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs. I went to the window. Roger Lestrange was riding into the courtyard. He pulled up, leaped from his horse and approached Greta Schreiner. They seemed to know each other well by the manner in which he was talking and laughing and she was responding. My thoughts flashed back to the house in Edinburgh and Kitty laughing in the kitchen with Hamish Vosper … and then Kitty in the stables at Lakemere chatting with the grooms. Some people were like that. They blossomed in masculine society. Zillah was another.

I watched them for what must have been five minutes. Roger had turned his attention to Anna. Suddenly he picked her up and held her in the air above him. He was laughing at her. I wondered what solemn little Anna thought of this familiar behaviour. It was not the sort of treatment she would be accustomed to from her puritanical father.