The Butcher Shop

by Jean Devanny

  “Woman has not acquired a sense of property rights in the man as my sex knows it. She has it in a lesser degree (the male parent must bequeath a certain part of himself to the female young), but she looks on the errant ways of her lord with a certain amount of philosophy.”

  Longstair stopped and sunk into thought. And Margaret was profoundly moved. She let her head sink down in softened rumination. The history of the race! How wonderful it was, and so little known. And then and there she vowed that her children should know it. She would fortify them with real knowledge—knowledge of that great trek through history, beginning with the drop to earth of the ape and reaching so far to herself, a twentieth-century woman lost in the mazes of a wondrous civilisation.

  “But woman will be freed, you say, Ian? But how long? How long?”

  He turned to her with a singularly gentle expression on his youthful face. The setting sun glinted through the still branches of the cherry trees and played upon his glasses so that they dazzled her eyes. It shone also upon his hair, picking out its fiery tint until it stood around his head halo-like. “Not very long now, Margaret. Very soon indeed, if you women would only give your minds to helping on the progressive elements in society. In the past woman has been the slave of man. The working man has been a slave, but woman’s place in society has been lower than that of the working man, for she has been a slave even to him. If you women could realise, Margaret, that your emancipation from your mental and bodily slavery can only be achieved side by side with and through the emancipation of the workers from class slavery, then surely you would be up and doing. A race of emancipated women, free in body and mind, economically independent, choosing their own mates, marching onward to that goal which the finite mind of man cannot even now perceive. It—will—not—be—long.”

  The last words were prophetic. “The finite mind of man!” The woman never stirred, and Longstair sunk again into thought.

  Margaret was beset by a strange emotion. Ineffable, intangible, it hovered in and about her, playing around her spirit, an ecstasy of suffering, seeming, indeed, to be compounded of all woeful sensations. And in the midst of it the fantastic notion came to her that it was the essence of the souls of the women that had gone before; the women who had borne the load as she was bearing it; the women who, that the foot of man might trample down the early years of society’s development, had bridged with their bodies the gulf that yawned from the beginning until now.

  A long time after Longstair suddenly broke the silence. He seemed to talk now more for his own satisfaction than for her enlightenment. “In any society made up of classes the dominant class always establishes moral and ethical codes for the subject class to follow. These moral and ethical standards are actually what the requirements of the economic system demands for the perpetuation of the dominance of the particular class which is at the time dominant. In order to give them the appearance of social necessities they must be extended to the whole of society. Respect for established institutions is inculcated in the subject class which does not understand out of what conditions these institutions have inevitably arisen. This is easily understood when it is considered that very often those in authority do not recognise any historical significance or manifestation of evolutionary development in the changing conditions which necessitate changes in their institutions.”

  As his voice had broken the silence between them that singular emotion had receded from Margaret, leaving her stone-cold and empty. She paid no attention now to Longstair, as his words had ceased to throw light directly on her case.

  What could she hope for? At the most the regaining of the peaceful conditions that had obtained before Miette began to poke her dirty finger in the pie. Well, those had been blessed conditions. She longed for them. They must be regained. She again resolved that she must submit herself to man’s will as her countless progenitors had done.

  She feared for the possibility in face of Glengarry’s condition of mind. She was ashamed now for having laid herself open in the way she had. It seemed preposterous, in the light of Glengarry’s reassured love, that she had fallen prey to Miette’s cunning. Never again. Oh, how she longed to be rid of Miette! If only her conscience would allow her to get rid of her! How gladly she would provide for the woman, provide generously for her to be rid of her. But conscience said “no.” It cried shame. It said that she was small and petty indeed if Miette’s tawdry play had affected her. How could she, Margaret Messenger, wife of Barry, have descended to such a level? She deserved the pain she was suffering.

  But did Glen deserve the infliction of that agony? She saw now that she had brought him to it. Her heart hardened again. Yes, he deserved it all and more, because it was based on his degraded conception of womanhood. Ian’s explanation had made matters worse. It had left no room for any sentimental and generous delusions. Pride scourged her. If Margaret had but one big fault it was her pride. She knew how superior she was to Glengarry. Why, he was merely the average man, and yet he dared repudiate her as though she were a common drab with no mind of her own.

  She went upstairs with the children and stayed up there that night for fear she would meet Glengarry. She could not trust herself. She might beat him with her fists and scream anathema at him if she met him.

  When Barry returned from Taihape she pretended she slept. She could not find heart even for that old friend, and his breast offered no comfort to her in the dark.

  The morning found her looking haggard. Barry was up early and away to Taihape again before she arose. (Several sale days ran consecutively.) She was frightened to meet Glengarry, but it had to be gone through, so she went down to the house breakfast. Her heart leaped tumultuously when she opened the breakfast-room door and saw him sitting there alone.

  He looked up at her hostilely. She shut the door quietly behind her and walked over to the table. There was no softness in her either; hate and fury had for the time being gained the upper hand.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked perfunctorily.

  “Finished,” he replied laconically.

  She rang the bell, an extraordinary thing for her to do. Ordinarily she would have walked out to the kitchen and brought in her own breakfast. A maid entered. “Bring me some bacon and eggs, dearie,” Margaret said with a pale smile.

  That remark softened the man. It made him remember the adoration of the maids for her. He pushed back his chair with considerable noise and said: “I am going away, Margaret, if you will release me from my promise and Mother will consent.”

  Instantly her hate and fury were swept away. “Oh, no, Glen!” But she saw that he meant it, and she could not bear it. Anything, anything in the world but that! She tried to speak, to expostulate, but could not. Her jaws were cramped and her throat paralysed. Inwardly she cursed the limitations which denied her speech just when she needed it most.

  The maid brought in her breakfast and departed. Mechanically Margaret picked up her knife and fork while he waited patiently. Then she dropped them with a tiny sound like a groan, and he saw how it was with her.

  “You see, it might happen again, Margaret,” he said miserably.

  That seemed to offer her relief; it opened a tiny avenue for possible escape. Her voice came back. “No, oh, no! By all that’s sacred I swear that it shall not happen again.”

  A long look into each other’s eyes, and then he turned to the door with an: “All right, my dear!”

  Again Margaret knew happiness—fevered, unreal happiness. Oh, she must be careful. How could she have imagined that Miette even existed? She went out into the air with her babies to take a walk before lessons, and, meeting Miette on the way, she proved Miette did not exist by not noticing her.

  It needed an experienced woman of the world to manage the task Margaret had undertaken. An experienced woman would never have been foolish enough to sweep past Miette with queenly scorn. Thrones are often toppled over by lowly weapons.

  Miette spent all that day cunningly contriving. She decided to ignore Ma
rgaret’s cut. Miette had no desire whatever to leave Maunganui. She was lazy, and Maunganui spelt plenty. There was also, of course, her real desire to do the best thing for Ian. She would pretend she had not noticed.

  She had no difficulty in doing this, for Margaret was ashamed and sorry after a while and made up to her.

  So things went on well enough for a few days, with Miette getting little satisfaction and angry because she could not understand. Margaret was giving her a free rein with Glengarry, and taking no notice whatever of her subtle manoeuvring. And the man had ceased to pay her any attention at all. He supinely accepted her busy-bodying about him, that was all. There were days when Miette felt so desperate that she almost made straightforward proposals to Glengarry. And she kept a sharp eye on Jimmy, in case—

  Then the devil himself helped her. Margaret was in Miette’s bedroom with her one afternoon for some reason Miette had concocted to get her there. The room was very untidy. Margaret sat on a tin trunk beside the dressing-table, and on the table was Glengarry’s handkerchief, placed there cunningly by Miette. The man’s name was prettily picked out in the corner of the rag, and this corner was exposed to Margaret’s view. She had hardly seated herself when she noticed it. Her eyes opened wide and she uttered a surprised: “Why, you have Mr. Glengarry’s handkerchief!”

  Miette snatched at it in a way that she tried to make appear embarrassed and exclaimed: “Why, Glen must have forgotten—” And then cut herself as though she had committed an indiscretion and thrust the handkerchief down her blouse.

  Her ruse worked to a certain extent. Margaret was certainly upset about it. She was sickened, but for the life of her she could not decide whether she was sickened over Miette’s utter unscrupulousness or with the idea that there might be something in it. She knew of the vein of weakness in the man; she knew of the contempt Glengarry had for both Miette and Ian, who he had once said was only half a man; she knew that Glengarry’s attitude towards herself was no criterion at all of what his attitude towards a woman of Miette’s type would be. She knew that in the last analysis he could not be depended upon to sustain even his own code of honour.

  And again she began to suffer. Reason advised her to go to the man and have it out, but what was left of her spiritual delicacy, of the refinement of thought and action on which her graciousness rested, argued not. She did not see such a course as impossible, now that she had been dragged from her pedestal. She saw it as something arguable, as something that might be done in the future, but not yet. The vulgarisation of her mind was proceeding apace since that link had snapped in the chain of her womanhood. She had lost sight of a divine quality in her love. Longstair’s explanation of the place occupied by woman in society had swept that idealistic conception utterly away. He had placed the cold but saving hand of science upon her love, and in plucking out the idealism, had necessarily left her only the materialism. The high-flown, spiritual aspect of her love could only have emanated from a transcendental psychology, and that transcendentalism had now been destroyed.

  A touch of the grossness inseparable from an ignorant materialism now fell upon her inevitably. Many times now her thoughts would dwell upon the physical delights to be derived from her love. She came nearer to the great average of humanity, and got a somewhat clearer view of Miette’s type.

  Things moved in a circle. The worry the incident of the handkerchief occasioned Margaret made her impatient, easily roused to anger, sharpened her soft tongue at times almost to asperity. This was reflected in the household. That fact and the consciousness of the injustice of it fomented her trouble to a point where her health began to suffer. She could not sleep well; that made her tired and listless through the days. She went off her food, and in a week or two became thin. Everyone remarked it but Barry. He was unfailingly kind, and often said to her that he intended taking her to Sydney soon for a long holiday.

  Only once did Glengarry ask her what the matter was, and she almost snapped his head off. Her low physical vitality laid her open easily to affections of the mind. The circle never ceased to operate; day and night some part of it ate at her stamina.

  Barry wanted to get right away. She would not go, and would irritably give insufficient reasons why. Day by day her jealousy grew from little to big, and day by day her resistance fell away. The children got little attention, and Harry especially suffered. He would hover about her, full of his love, expressing it in numberless little ways, endeavouring to arouse her interest in him again.

  She was sure, at last, that Miette had her lover, and the ferment in her mind raged night and day. The suppression of it called for an effort she knew would soon be beyond her.

  She rallied herself and determined to have it out with the man, to drag the truth out of him.

  Miette did not dream that her behaviour was the cause of Margaret’s ill-health. As a matter of fact she had not at this latter time given much attention to Margaret. She was full of gratification. Jimmy had succumbed to her again, and she thought that she saw signs of the Scotsman surrendering too. The satiation of her lust diminished her desire for revenge on Margaret. Often at this latter time she felt sorry for her beautiful cousin, whose beauty and graciousness were leaving her.

  But Miette could not refrain from talking of Glengarry, for whom now she had conceived a real passion. The libertine spoke now in place of the strategist, and Margaret’s instinct sensed the difference and the reason for it.

  She had to know. Spasms of unspeakable hatred for Glengarry alternated with periods of yearning love. The idea that the man should dare even to look at another woman before breaking with her flagellated her and took toll of her physically, as though she were literally having the life flogged out of her with scorpion whips. Watching her chance she waylaid the man.

  Glengarry was really very much worried by her illness but he was not the man to push his inquiries and solicitations upon her when once he had been rebuffed. When she waylaid him and asked him to go to her little private sitting-room with her, he followed her in some trepidation. Her manner was so hostile and hard. Evidently there was something very much the matter with her.

  She said at once, without preamble: “Don’t you know what it is that is killing me?”

  He was startled. “No. Killing you! You don’t mean—”

  She saw that he did not know. “Yes, killing me. It is you. It is the way you are carrying on with Miette.”

  He was thunderstruck. He fell back from her and stared open-mouthed, then laughed uncertainly. “But, my dear, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  She stepped close up to him. “Tell me, Glen, tell me on your most sacred honour the truth about Miette.”

  He grabbed her arm. “You tell me. Has that she-devil been lying to you about me?”

  “She has led me to believe for some time past that you and she have been— Oh, how can I say it!”

  He dropped her arm and sat down. “And you believed her. Knowing the——as you do, you believed her without giving me a chance.”

  She looked at him with baffled eyes. How could she explain to him the subtleties of an unscrupulous woman crazed by lust? “I did not believe her for a long time, I suppose. I began to believe her when I began to court you and caused that last trouble between us.”

  “What! So far back as that?”

  “Yes. Then I got over it. But then something else happened. Oh! some trick she played on me; and lately, oh, Glen, lately I have known that if she did not already have you, she soon would. There has been a difference in her. I know. No matter what you say, I know there is something.” The terrible rage of the jealous boiled up in her.

  She put Glengarry “wise to himself.” He realised for the first time what Miette had sensed and detected in him for some time. He had been slipping towards her. Her constant sycophancy, the neverceasing wear and tear of her lustful attentions had been wearing down the barrier between them. Glengarry remembered furtive touches of her soft hands, instantly apologised for—oh, and many oth
er things. After all, he was no superman, and the woman he loved was denied him for ever. A sort of sulkiness beset him. Margaret was not fair.

  “Why don’t you answer?” she flung at him.

  “Look here, Margaret, I don’t think you are quite fair to me. You have got everything that makes life worth living. You have a husband, home and children. I’ve got nothing, and yet you expect me to live the life of an anchorite. It’s not fair.”

  “Oh!” Her bosom heaved with her sense of outrage and injustice. “You can tell me that, when I have offered you myself, whom you love. You talk of husband, that good man who is only a friend to me; of children, whom I am ceasing to love because of you; of home, of home, when my place as a wife is with the cattle in the pens! Oh, you—!” And for the first time in her life she uttered a vile word.

  It brought the blood to Glengarry’s face in a dark flood. It brought him to his feet, his great hands knotted in fury. He towered above her, and the sheer agony of her expression subjugated him. His rough features moved in sympathy. “You had better let me go away from here, Margaret, or else send Miette away.”

  And again she was overcome with fear. Her vitality was so low, both mental and physical, her mind was in a state almost of derangement. She clung to him, sobbing, incoherently imploring, until he thought he would go mad.

  “All right, all right,” he kept repeating to soothe her. But his mind was filled too with resentment at womankind in general. All sex, they were. “Pull yourself together, Margaret,” he commanded roughly, and under his breath swore dreadfully about that “slut” that had caused this. “I’m ashamed of you. A woman like you to be worried like this over a thing like her. Why, surely you know, Margaret, that even if I did use her for a cesspit, that is all there would be to it.”

  “It is the thought that you would go to her when I, your love, am waiting for you. You have made me a bad woman, Glen. But don’t go away. If you can’t stay here without—without— Oh, you know, Glen; then stay with it. I’ll put up with it. I will, I will! If you leave me I shall die.”