Limbo

young they had recognized in him a fit object for abuse and lapidation. An outcast member of another class, from whom that class in casting him out had withdrawn its protection, an alien in speech and habit, a criminal, as their zealous schoolmaster lost no opportunity of reminding them, guilty of the blackest treason against God and man--he was the obviously predestined victim of childish persecution. When stones began to fly, and dung and precocious obscenity, he bowed his head and pretended not to notice that anything unusual was happening. It was difficult, however, to look quite dignified. There were occasional short alleviations to the dreariness of his existence. One day, when he was engaged in his usual occupation of manuring, a familiar figure suddenly appeared along the footpath through the field. It was Mrs. Cravister. She was evidently staying at the big house; one of the Manorial dachshunds preceded her. He took off his cap. "Mr. Greenow!" she exclaimed, coming to a halt. "Ah, what a pleasure to see you again! Working on the land: so Tolstoyan. But I trust it doesn't affect your æsthetic ideas in the same way as it did his. Fifty peasants singing together is music; but Bach's chromatic fantasia is mere gibbering incomprehensibility." "I don't do this for pleasure," Dick explained. "It's hard labour, meted out to the Conscientious Objector." "Of course, of course," said Mrs. Cravister, raising her hand to arrest any further explanation. "I had forgotten. A conscientious objector, a Bible student. I remember how passionately devoted you were, even at school, to the Bible." She closed her eyes and nodded her head several times. "On the contrary----" Dick began; but it was no good. Mrs. Cravister had determined that he should be a Bible student and it was no use gainsaying her. She cut him short. "Dear me, the Bible. . . . What a style! That alone would prove it to have been directly inspired. You remember how Mahomet appealed to the beauty of his style as a sign of his divine mission. Why has nobody done the same for the Bible? It remains for you, Mr. Greenow, to do so. You will write a book about it. How I envy you!" "The style is very fine," Dick ventured, "but don't you think the matter occasionally leaves something to be desired?" "The matter is nothing," cried Mrs. Cravister, making a gesture that seemed to send all meaning flying like a pinch of salt along the wind--"nothing at all. It's the style that counts. Think of Madame Bovary." "I certainly will," said Dick. Mrs. Cravister held out her hand. "Good-bye. Yes, I certainly envy you. I envy you your innocent labour and your incessant study of that most wonderful of books. If I were asked, Mr. Greenow, what book I should take with me to a desert island, what single solitary book, I should certainly say the Bible, though, indeed, there are moments when I think I should choose _Tristram Shandy_. Good-bye." Mrs. Cravister sailed slowly away. The little brown basset trotted ahead, straining his leash. One had the impression of a great ship being towed into harbour by a diminutive tug. Dick was cheered by this glimpse of civilization and humanity. The unexpected arrival, one Saturday afternoon, of Millicent was not quite such an unmixed pleasure. "I've come to see how you're getting on," she announced, "and to put your cottage straight and make you comfortable." "Very kind of you," said Dick. He didn't want his cottage put straight. Millicent was in the Ministry of Munitions now, controlling three thousand female clerks with unsurpassed efficiency. Dick looked at her curiously, as she talked that evening of her doings. "To think I should have a sister like that," he said to himself. She was terrifying. "You do enjoy bullying other people!" he exclaimed at last. "You've found your true vocation. One sees now how the new world will be arranged after the war. The women will continue to do all the bureaucratic jobs, all that entails routine and neatness and interfering with other people's affairs. And man, it is to be hoped, will be left free for the important statesman's business, free for creation and thought. He will stay at home and give proper education to the children, too. He is fit to do these things, because his mind is disinterested and detached. It's an arrangement which will liberate all man's best energies for their proper uses. The only flaw I can see in the system is that you women will be so fiendishly and ruthlessly tyrannical in your administration." "You can't seriously expect me to argue with you," said Millicent. "No, please don't. I am not strong enough. My dung-carrying has taken the edge off all my reasoning powers." Millicent spent the next morning in completely rearranging Dick's furniture. By lunch-time every article in the cottage was occupying a new position. "That's much nicer," said Millicent, surveying her work and seeing that it was good. There was a knock at the door. Dick opened it and was astonished to find Hyman. "I just ran down to see how you were getting on," he explained. "I'm getting on very well since my sister rearranged my furniture," said Dick. He found it pleasing to have an opportunity of exercising his long unused powers of malicious irony. This was very mild, but with practice he would soon come on to something more spiteful and amusing. Hyman shook hands with Millicent, scowling as he did so. He was irritated that she was there; he wanted to talk with Dick alone. He turned his back on her and began addressing Dick. "Well," he said, "I haven't seen you since the fatal day. How is the turnip-hoeing?" "Pretty beastly," said Dick. "Better than doing hard labour in a gaol, I suppose?" Dick nodded his head wearily, foreseeing what must inevitably come. "You've escaped that all right," Hyman went on. "Yes; you ought to be thankful," Millicent chimed in. "I still can't understand why you did it, Greenow. It was a blow to me. I didn't expect it of you." Hyman spoke with feeling. "It was desertion; it was treason." "I agree," said Millicent judicially. "He ought to have stuck to his principles." "He ought to have stuck to what was right, oughtn't he, Miss Greenow?" Hyman turned towards Millicent, pleased at finding someone who shared his views. "Of course," she replied--"of course. I totally disagree with you about what is right. But if he believed it right not to fight, he certainly ought to have gone to prison for his belief." Dick lit a pipe with an air of nonchalance. He tried to disguise the fact that he was feeling extremely uncomfortable under these two pairs of merciless, accusing eyes. "To my mind, at any rate," said Millicent, "your position seems quite illogical and untenable, Dick." It was a relief to be talked to and not about. "I'm sorry about that," said Dick rather huskily--not a very intelligent remark, but what was there to say? "Of course, it's illogical and untenable. Your sister is quite right." Hyman banged the table. "I can't understand what induced you to take it up----" "After you'd said you were going to be one of the absolutes," cried Hyman, interrupting and continuing Millicent's words. "Why?" said Millicent. "Why, why, why?" Hyman echoed. Dick, who had been blowing out smoke at a great rate, put down his pipe. The taste of the tobacco was making him feel rather sick. "I wish you would stop," he said wearily. "If I gave you the real reasons, you wouldn't believe me. And I can't invent any others that would be in the least convincing." "I believe the real reason is that you were afraid of prison." Dick leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. He did not mind being insulted now; it made no difference. Hyman and Millicent were still talking about him, but what they said did not interest him; he scarcely listened. They went back to London together in the evening. "Very intelligent woman, your sister," said Hyman just before they were starting. "Pity she's not on the right side about the war and so forth." Four weeks later Dick received a letter in which Hyman announced that he and Millicent had decided to get married. "I am happy to think," Dick wrote in his congratulatory reply, "that it was I who brought you together." He smiled as he read through the sentence; that was what the Christian martyr might say to the two lions who had scraped acquaintance over his bones in the amphitheatre. * * * * * One warm afternoon in the summer of 1918, Mr. Hobart, Clerk to the Wibley Town Council, was disturbed in the midst of his duties by the sudden entry into his office of a small dark man, dressed in corduroys and gaiters, but not having the air of a genuine agricultural labourer. "What may I do for you?" inquired Mr. Hobart. "I have come to inquire about my vote," said the stranger. "Aren't you already registered?" "Not yet. You see, it isn't long since the Act was passed giving us the vote." Mr. Hobart stared. "I don't quite follow," he said. "I may not look it," said the stranger, putting his head on one side and looking arch--"I may not look it, but I will confess to you, Mr.--er--Mr.--er----" "Hobart." "Mr. Hobart, that I am a woman of over thirty." Mr. Hobart grew visibly paler. Then, assuming a forced smile and speaking as one speaks to a child or a spoiled animal, he said: "I see--I see. Over thirty, dear me." He looked at the bell, which was over by the fireplace at the other side of the room, and wondered how he should ring it without rousing the maniac's suspicions. "Over thirty," the stranger went on. "You know my woman's secret. I am Miss Pearl Bellairs, the novelist. Perhaps you have read some of my books. Or are you too busy?" "Oh no, I've read several," Mr. Hobart replied, smiling more and more brightly and speaking in even more coaxing and indulgent tones. "Then we're friends already, Mr. Hobart. Anyone who knows my books, knows me. My whole heart is in them. Now, you must tell me all about my poor little vote. I shall be very patriotic with it when the time comes to use it." Mr. Hobart saw his opportunity. "Certainly, Miss Bellairs," he said. "I will ring for my clerk and we'll--er--we'll take down the details." He got up, crossed the room, and rang the bell with violence. "I'll just go and see that he brings the right books," he added, and darted to the door. Once outside in the passage, he mopped his face and heaved a sigh of relief. That had been a narrow shave, by Jove. A loony in the office--dangerous-looking brute, too. * * * * * On the following day Dick woke up and found himself in a bare whitewashed room, sparsely furnished with a little iron bed, a washstand, a chair, and table. He looked round him in surprise. Where had he got to this time? He went to the door and tried to open it; it was locked. An idea entered his mind: he was in barracks somewhere; the Military Authorities must have got hold of him somehow in spite of his exemption certificate. Or perhaps Pearl had gone and enlisted. . . . He turned next to the window, which was barred. Outside, he could see a courtyard, filled, not with soldiers, as he had expected, but a curious motley crew of individuals, some men and some women, wandering hither and thither with an air of complete aimlessness. Very odd, he thought--very odd. Beyond the courtyard, on the farther side of a phenomenally high wall, ran a railway line and beyond it a village, roofed with tile and thatch, and a tall church spire