Children of No Man's Land

by G. B. Stern

The might-have-been faded, and was replaced by an exultant sense of escape. Thank God, these children—hers and Samson’s—need never live and be sorrowful; thank God, she was still free to scamper away and play.

“Deb——” he pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes; and his words were pumped out with extreme difficulty. “Deb, will you marry me?”

“No—oh, no”—reaction was still too violent to admit of polite temporizing.

A long silence while Samson assimilated her refusal. An interminable silence. Was he wondering what his family would say? They were in such a crucial condition of expectancy that he would have to tell them when he got home—the telling would not be easy.... Deb rebelliously tried to jerk pity aside; it was his own fault. The right sort of man would have been decently uncommunicative till his desire was an accomplished fact; so typically Jewish to drag in the entire household! Or else he should have chosen a maiden more suitable to be the object of his benevolent chivalry. She had not deliberately hoodwinked him into belief that she was this maiden, so unlettered in life as his obstinacy chose to assert. The accordion stretches or shrinks according to the player. She hummed a tag of verse:

“He made a plaster image and he put it on a shelf

With a few assorted virtues that he didn’t want himself.”

—Outburst of romping spirits muted quickly at recollection of the figure lying motionless and with back turned towards her.... He was the only man who had ever spoken the actual words to her: “Will you marry me?” Funny! Years ago, before they quarrelled, she and Con were canoeing in a sort of hazy dreamland when it was taken for granted between them that they would canoe thus into all eternity; and the other men.... What on earth had led Samson to such a mistake in selection? From the outside, of course, she appeared to have most of the requisites: same faith, decent family, right age (a year or two older than perfection, perhaps, but nothing to fuss about!) good looks, good health, good manners—the presence of his mother had always petrified her into gentle orthodoxy ... but surely, surely, he must have sensed behind these layers, something wrong—Well, not exactly wrong, but different. Perhaps he did realize it now, and was relieved ... he hardly looked relieved—furtively her eyes peeped towards him, and then quickly away again ... an almost stricken expression to his recumbent lines. Surely she could not be responsible for that? What possible thread of affinity was taut and silken between her and Samson that any act of her could reach him and hurt him? He should have been sensible—Deb kicked petulantly at a low bough near her foot—the suitable kind of girl would have accepted him joyfully; would be nestling her head against his shoulder by now; causing him to feel so strong and brave and protective; and he could have taken her home, and proudly trumpeted his engagement, and the united family could have poured out lavish blessings ... quite wonderful, in its Suitable way, this Suitable dream; she could see that; only it did not fit her, or else she did not fit it ... a dream going begging!

Still silent? Another glimmering look from between her lashes, two black fans, long in the centre, dwindling at either corner. He must be badly hurt ... grace touched her to penitence again. After all, he had wanted just her—so there must be a particle of her very self, apart from all misconception, which had tugged him to love and to pain.

Yes—but can’t he look after himself? Need I? need I? No one looked after me when the Soldier.... Need one be nice to grown-up men? Because even when it’s only a boy—even when it’s Lothar von Relling, nobody understands that you’re just “trying to be nice.”... She had been waiting over a year for a little heavenly approbation for that act. Nevertheless, she ought to have said something softening in answer to Samson’s avowal, besides the bald and honest: “Oh no” ... Manners!—What did one say? “Believe me, Sir, I am deeply sensible of the honour you have done me, though all unworthy of it,”—Deb could not suppress a joyous gurgle of laughter—she was free—free—light of heel and of heart. No more arithmetical allegories; nor deriving of solid moral benefit from the sight of running water; nor suffocation under the possessive approval of a good Jewish family; nor quaking in apprehension of the proposal to come. She was free to return to the set of wild young heretics who knew her as she was—or a little worse—in place of these others who thought her so much better, and to whom her real self would have been a mystifying disaster.

Samson stirred at the sound of her laugh. “Come along, we shall miss our train,” he said curtly. The peak of his cap stood between them all the way home. To avoid being alone with her, he chose a crowded compartment for their journey home, and completed it in a motor omnibus, instead of a taxi-cab according to custom. Deb submitted meekly, feeling as though she were being punished for naughtiness. It was her nature to cling affectionately even to unpleasant conditions, directly they had established any claims of habit; so that it was with a pang of kindliness that from the steps of Montagu Hall she saw Samson salute her and stride away: