by Jean Devanny
There, in fact, was the cause for the gulf between the two women.
As Miette rode away from the pen her cheeks were flushed and her puffy eyes glowed with excitement at thought of the chase. She would have to go into this thing scientifically. She was not crazy about the Scotsman as she was about Jimmy, therefore she could use her weapons better. She might get him or she might not, but she guaranteed one thing—she would make Margaret “sit up.”
This between those two was serious; a child could have seen that. Thinking thus, a doubt assailed Miette as to whether there really was anything untoward with Jimmy, after all. But if there was not, how dared the woman interfere with her amour? There must have been. She could not put her goody-goody stuff over her, Miette. She knew too much for that. Her experience (picked up in hotel kitchens, restaurants and such-like places) had taught her all there was to know about sex.
Margaret said to her: “I’m sure you must be tired now, Miette. Shall we go off home?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. I’m rather done up.”
“You must have a hot bath immediately on arriving home. It takes the stiffness out of your joints.”
She called out to Glengarry and Barry, who were ahead, that they were going, and the men waved back a farewell.
So Margaret carried home her glad heart and happy thoughts, and the other thought out her envenomed plans for the ensnaring of Glengarry’s lust. Miette wanted to hurry home. She wanted to tell Ian of this new discovery, to show him another flaw in his idol. Ian did not pet her now to anything like the extent he used to; so much of his time was taken up talking to Margaret. Poor Miette! No wonder she actually did grind her teeth at that.
Meanwhile the dockers are at home. They make good money at this season of the year, when shepherds with good sets of teeth are in much demand. They shout and call and laugh and swear while they wrestle with the terrified lambs. The grass is soon torn off the enclosed ground, and in no time clouds of dust are churned up to envelop the men who choke and splutter curses on it, the heat and the animals.
Two men work together. A lamb is grabbed and held by one man. The other lifts his sharp knife; one slash and the tail is off; the ear is split with the station mark; then quick as a thought the castration is performed by the shepherd’s teeth. Blood spurts everywhere; the animal struggles convulsively; he is released, and the operator spits his mouthful into a billy and takes on the next. At lunch-time the contents of the billy are tipped into a huge frying-pan, and the men feed.
Savage and brutal, ay? The docker’s teeth are joined in and tear the living flesh so that there may be prime New Zealand mutton. The lamb must be denuded of its tail so that the health of the sheep be not affected by dirty wool. The poor tiny ear must be slit to preserve property rights, and out of it all, in the end, step the fashionable lady and gentleman.
Brutal and savage? The lamb suffers for a little time; it runs to its mother flirting its stump of a tail, and crying plaintively, and in a very little time its young flesh heals. And in great cities where the woollen goods are made, the workers in the mills have flattened chests and pallid skins, poor semblances of manhood and womanhood. Their tails have been cut off, their ears have been slit with the mark of property rights. Note them, and if you can see no remedy, then in the name of decency demand that the docker’s programme be completed, so that the earth be not replenished with their stock.
CHAPTER XXI
Longstair was at work on his accounts when Miette and Margaret arrived home an hour after leaving Barry and Glengarry.
The women had talked little on the way. Margaret had found it easy to slip into delightful reverie, and Miette had pondered heavily on the manner in which she could unfold her tale to Ian. She wanted it to be telling. More than once Ian had deprecated her sensuality; once he had made half-playful, half-serious allusion to her “libertinism.” She had protested that all women were the same; she knew, because women had told her so. Now she could use this woman he had set upon a pedestal to point the truth of her contention. She could not see Ian till lunch-time, as he was busy, and would not allow her to disturb him. But as soon as she heard his halting gait (very halting now) approach their dining-room door at lunch-time she prepared to launch her news.
He entered very cheerfully, as it happened, and sat upon the nearest chair. She could see that it hurt him to walk. Miette kissed him, then made the tea and put his chair up to the table. She wanted to sit down comfortably, so that she would not be disturbed in her narration.
Ian poked about this and that, as usual, commented on the various little dishes she had for him, and then, after she had served him to his satisfaction, set to to make a meal of it.
Miette had little appetite. She explained that she had eaten out on the hills, and then said: “I found out something this morning.”
“Yes,” he said, not much interested. “What was that?”
“Margaret is carrying on with Glen as well as with Jimmy.”
“What!” he almost shouted. He stared, and in his stare there was consternation, astonishment and hurt—which gradually changed to suspicion of his wife. Longstair could not look stern, his features were too effeminate for that, but sulky distrust and suspicion mingled with angry contempt in his glance as he continued to stare at her.
Miette flushed angrily. When she lied to Ian she did not mind him disbelieving her, but when she thought she was being truthful his doubt or even a critical attitude made her angry.
“You’re lying!” he flung out, pointing his fork at her. “That’s a rotten lie, you—you—” He stopped almost in tears. What could a man call his wife when she lied about another woman? A man could not swear at his wife over another woman.
Miette was almost shedding tears, too, at his attitude. Everybody liked that woman; even Ian was crazy about her. A little spark of spirit flamed up in her. “How dare you call me a liar? You’re all mad about that woman, you lot of ——”
Ian put down his knife and fork and rested his face in his hands. He was trembling and fought to control himself. “I’m not mad about her,” he said shortly. “It is you. To think that you would lie about her like that. It is so low down when she has been so good to us.” He threw himself back in his chair suddenly and cried: “How can you? What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”
“There’s nothing the matter with me. It’s what is the matter with you. I can’t tell the truth even about that woman without you call me a liar. Why shouldn’t I say what I know about her? She’s been good to us, you say. A precious lot that amounts to, and her with all that money. Barry is my cousin, and he has a right to provide for me. It’s Barry’s money, not hers. And, anyway, was she good to me when she made me the talk of the place over Jimmy?—” He flung up a hand to stop her. “I won’t stop. She has made me the talk of the place by stopping Jimmy from coming to the house. Everybody knows that it is because of me. There was absolutely nothing between us, and yet, just because she saw he liked me, she made him keep away.”
Longstair looked at her miserably. “Oh, Kiddy, what’s the use of going over all that?”
“The use is this: you know what sort of woman she is, and yet you blackguard me when I tell the truth about her. I tell you she is carrying on with Glen too. I saw it for a fact this morning, and Glen told me straight out that he loved her and was proud of it.”
“What!” Ian sat up straight. “He told you that? How? Why?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me speak without insulting me.” And so she repeated her version of what had occurred at the docking-pen. A fairly correct version, too.
When she had finished Longstair rose from his chair and walked slowly over to the window that opened on to old “Baldy.” His lunch was forgotten. He wanted to cry. “Well,” he said, “if that woman isn’t good, there is no goodness under the sun. Perhaps there is something we do not know of. After all, who knows what goes on between man and wife?” He turned again to Miette, who somehow felt her triumph a sma
ll one, after all. “You know, Miette, that all the great women in history have been promiscuous in their loves. Margaret is not a great woman, I know, but she is most extraordinary. I have never seen a woman that could compare with her, even among the crowd in London, and they were a pretty polyglot crew. Say nothing about this matter. Not a word to a single soul. Promise.”
“Oh, I won’t speak of it to anyone. Don’t worry about that. I can see well enough that you are as much in love with her as Glen and the rest of them. If I carried on with every man I came across you would like me better, I suppose. I’ve been too good, that’s it. I could have had Jimmy, too, if I’d liked, but I thought of you and kept him away.”
She laid her head upon the table and shed tears. She felt very hurt and miserable indeed. And helpless. It seemed that one couldn’t hurt that woman. Here was Ian more interested than ever. Miette thought of Ian’s “all great women have been promiscuous in their loves,” and inwardly laughed. Well, she was in good company, evidently, she and Margaret.
Ian hesitatingly fondled her. He was sorry, but not so sorry as he should have been. He was more sorry for himself than for Miette. His crippled body, his misplaced love, his dependence on his wife’s relatives, his uselessness to Miette, all together took the “wind out of his sails,” so to say.
“Shall we go away from her, Miette?” he asked. “I could go into the Hospital in Wellington, and you could get a job. What do you say?”
Instantly the best that was in her came to the surface. She squeezed his hand. “No, no, Hub. We’ll stay here until you get better. Margaret can do as she likes for all I care. Why, it doesn’t matter to us. I was interested, that’s all, and thought you would be the same. I couldn’t bear to have you in a hospital.”
He dropped into his chair again. “Well, I’m not much use to you now, Miette. I’m only a burden to you.”
“You’re a burden to no one. I know everybody here likes you, and you know perfectly well that we have a right to live here. You do Barry’s accounts for him, and that’s a good deal.”
“I’m not thinking of any expense we may be to them. We have as much right to the living as they have. I am thinking of you. If you’re unhappy here—”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t go away for worlds. Why, summer is coming, and there will be the shearing and all sorts of wonderful things. Margaret is expecting the Government House Party to stay here before Christmas. Did you know?” So they chatted.
That very night Miette began her campaign with Glengarry. Subtly, scientifically, so that he never suspected.
Now that the “lambing” was over, the men naturally liked to have the women about them in the evenings. Barry demanded much of Margaret’s time, and Jimmy, of course, was working from dawn till dusk, so that Miette had practically a clear field with Glengarry. The latter was not much of a one for reading, and besides, the hard days militated against a desire for mental exertion of any kind. The tired muscles cried for rest, the hot sun and ceaseless motion of countless animals fagged even the brain, so that men wanted just to sit about quietly.
Ian began to read assiduously again, not seeking Margaret as he had been in the habit of doing.
So Miette put on her prettiest and most simple manner and took up Glengarry with an apologetic air which said: “Oh, well, since we seem to be the only ones unattached, we might as well be friendly.”
He was nothing loath. Why should he be? He did not dislike Miette. He had no reason to do so. Jimmy’s and Margaret’s dislike for her was based on good reason, of which Glengarry knew next to nothing, and Margaret carefully hid her feeling. He forgave Miette that morning’s exhibition out of sympathy. He could well afford to, for he was at peace. Miette was just a person to him. When she came and sat on the other end of the couch upon which he was reclining after dinner that night (the evening meal was a heavy one when the men were all day in the paddocks) he noticed her amiably.
Margaret and Barry had gone off somewhere with the children. Mrs. Glengarry and Mrs. Curdy had withdrawn to the kitchen. Miette, having prepared only a light meal, was early freed from her domestic duties. “There is not much to do here unless one is actually working, is there?” she opened conversationally.
“Well, when one has been out in the paddocks all day, one is not looking for much to do,” he answered, looking her over. (Men always looked Miette over.)
Miette had sense enough to make the most of her best points, so she had taken care that her superb shoulders were easily visible behind the georgette blouse she wore. She preened herself unconsciously beneath his gaze, and the man chuckled to himself.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. I beg your pardon.”
Miette looked him over in her turn, cheekily, and down in her shallow depths the straggling wisps of passion stirred and swiftly coalesced. And, after the manner of her kind, with the waking of her passions came the impossibility of believing that a man she lusted for could fail to reciprocate. She leaned towards him and said plaintively: “I suppose you don’t like me now, after my nastiness this morning.”
He hardened instantly. “I had forgotten that this morning existed,” he said coldly. Then sat up and laughed at her. “Now, don’t try to get sentimental with me, my lady, or you and I will fall out. I don’t dislike you, but I shall if you try to put your stuff over on me. See?”
Miette was ready enough of resource in some situations; moreover, she was quite familiar with this one. She opened her puffy eyes to their widest extent and ejaculated: “What do you mean? I don’t understand you. My stuff!”
Glengarry almost admired her, she did it so well. “I see you are an experienced little lady,” he said pleasantly. “You understand well enough. You can’t put that sort of thing over me, you know.”
His smile invested Miette with courage. She dropped the air of astonishment for one of audacious innocence and smiled slyly back at him. “Well, you must expect women to take an interest in you. You are so big and handsome.”
Glengarry laughed outright. “Well, that’s a new one on me. I’ve got to hand it to you, my girl. But you are wasting your time. My morals are impeccable, I assure you.”
“Then you are not a man,” flashed Miette. “You can’t put that stuff over me, Mr. Glen. Or perhaps it’s a case of once bitten, twice shy, ay?”
The last was a flash of malice, which Miette instantly regretted, for he became like ice. He thrust his rugged face into hers and said harshly: “Now, I wonder what you mean by that?”
She started back crying: “What ever is the matter with you?”
How to explain it away? Then a flash of inspiration came to her. “I—I merely alluded to a whisper I had heard, Glen. You have been married, have you not?”
“Oh!” he leant back and settled himself comfortably again. “Yes, I have been married; but I am not in the habit of discussing my private affairs promiscuously. It is none of your business. I can’t conceive how you know.”
Miette looked at him and calculated whether she might dare or not. Then plunged. “Margaret told me,” she said casually, as though it were of no moment, and quite in order. She had plunged in the dark, on guesswork. Instinct told her that he would have told Margaret of his life.
He did not move, just sat still and looked at her, searching for evidence of a lie. Glengarry was well versed in men and women. He had never forgotten that his young wife had lied to him ceaselessly, eye to eye. Miette met his gaze guilelessly—too guilelessly, and suddenly he sprang up.
“My God! You women beat me! A man ought to pitch into you with his fists and knock hell out of you! Why do you lie to me like that? Mrs. Messenger did not tell you. There is no reason why she should not have told you. I wouldn’t care if she told the world, but you’re lying for some reason. What’s your game?”
Miette, feeling very small at finding her shot misfire, and full of venom because he did not believe her, fired up at him too. “Who else told me, then, if she didn’t? You
say yourself there is no reason why she shouldn’t. Who else here would tell me?”
The clamour of children’s voices came through the open window. They both looked up and saw Margaret and the children (Barry had evidently left them) on the opposite side of the side lawn. They were all concerned over a moth which Harry had caught.
Glengarry reached down, and, clutching Miette by those lovely shoulders, jerked her up to him. “Come on,” he said sternly. “I don’t know who told you, and I don’t care. But I’ll prove you are a liar, because I know you are a liar, and I hate liars!”
“What do you mean?” Miette was scared stiff. “I’m not going out there.” She resisted him.
“Oh, yes, you are. I’ll ask Mrs. Messenger in front of you if she told you.” He propelled her towards the windows.
“Stop!” cried Miette hurriedly. “I give in. I lied.”
He released her, and stood back and surveyed her contemptuously.
Miette began to cry. She knew the value of tears, and anyhow she could not help it. His roughness had given her a certain amount of sexual satisfaction too, and she did not in the least mind his contempt so long as she got his attention. She covered her face with her soft pretty hands and cried.
He shrugged and said: “Oh, cut that out. Someone might come in.”
He did not like to see her cry, though. A woman’s tears will wash away much dust from the eyes of man. He began to feel embarrassment. Hang it, he did not want to be caught in an intimate situation with the woman. “I’ll go,” he said abruptly, and turned towards the windows.
Miette’s hands came down. “Oh, no. Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Have you a handkerchief?”
He swore and handed her his handkerchief, with which she wiped her eyes.
“Don’t go, Glen. I won’t bother you.” She deliberately exaggerated the importance of the incident. Really, her cunning was admirable. “I shall have to go away from here now, I suppose. You will tell Margaret.”
