She stole another glance at her unattractive client. The fortune, as far as she could judge, appeared to be rather more than a million. Her visitor, on the other hand, seemed a good deal less than human. Myra had not expected romance, but there are things which make a nice girl hesitate, and he was one of them.
While she pondered she was still automatically laying out the cards. Suddenly her eyes brightened. She looked again. It was true. All her troubles were ended. The cards indicated, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that her client would die of a sudden, violent shock within a few months of inheriting the money. This made quite an eligible bachelor of him.
Myra at once began her manoeuvres. You seem, said she, to be at the parting of the ways. One road leads to misery, poverty, sickness, despair, prison
I'll take the other, said the young man.
You show great powers of judgment, said Myra. But I can tell you it is not as easy as all that. The other road, which leads to riches and happiness, can only be travelled hand in hand with a good woman. Do you know a good woman?
Oh, phooey! said her client in dismay.
What a pity! said Myra. Because if you did, and if she was dark, and not bad-looking, and wore a number-five shoe, all you'd have to do would be to marry her, and you'd be rich for life. Very rich. Look here it is. Money, money, money coming to you from someone very near to you. If you marry that girl, that is. Look this card means you at the Waldorf. Look this is you at Palm Beach. Here you are at Saratoga. Gosh! You've backed a big winner!
Say, lady, said her client. What size shoe do you wear?
Well, said Myra with a smile, I can squeeze into a four. But usually
Look, baby, said he, taking her hand. It's you and me. Like that. See? With that he extended his other hand with two fingers crossed, as an emblem of connubial bliss.
Myra controlled a shudder. When he's dead, thought she, I'll have a million, and get me one of these young film stars, in order to forget!
Soon afterwards they were married, and took a small shack in an unprepossessing part of Long Island. Lew appeared to have strong reasons for living in inconspicuous retirement. Myra commuted, and drudged harder than ever with her greasy pack of cards, in order to keep them both until death should them part, leaving her a rich widow.
As time went on, and the fortune still failed to materialize, she was bitterly reproached by her hulking husband, whose stunted mind was as impatient as a child's, and who began to fear he had been married under false pretenses. He was also a little sadistic.
Maybe you ain't the right dame after all, said he, pinching her black and blue. Maybe you don't wear a five. Maybe you wear a six. Gimme a divorce and let me marry another dark dame. The money don't come along, and you're black and blue anyway. I don't like a black and blue dame. Come on, gimme a divorce.
I won't, said she. I believe marriages are made in Heaven.
This would lead to an argument, for he claimed to have evidence to the contrary. In the end his brutish wits would be baffled; he would fling her to the ground with a curse, and go into the back yard, where he would dig an enormously deep hole, into which he would gaze for a long time, and then fill it in again.
This continued for some months, and Myra herself began to wonder if the Vascal System could possibly have let her down. Supposing he doesn't come into the money. Here I am Mrs. King Kong, and working for it! Maybe I'd better get that divorce after all.
These defeatist notions came to a head one gloomy winter evening as she trudged home from the ferry. Crossing the dark yard of the shack, she stumbled into another of the enormous holes dug by her simple-minded husband. That settles it, thought she.
When she entered the squalid kitchen, Lew greeted her with an unusual smile. Hello, sweetie, said he. How's my darling wifie tonight?
Cut the sweetie stuff out, said she tersely. And the wifie stuff, too. I don't know what's bit you, you big gorilla, but my mind's made up. You can have that divorce after all.
Don't talk like that, honey, said he. I was only joking. I wouldn't divorce you, not for all the world.
No, but I'll divorce you, said she. And quick.
You gotta have grounds for that, observed her husband, with a frown.
I've got 'em, said she. When I show that judge where I'm black and blue, I'll get my divorce pronto. I'm sitting pretty.
Listen, said he. Have a look at this letter that came for you. Maybe you'll change your mind.
Why did you open my letter? said Myra.
To see what was inside, said he with the utmost candor. Go on, read it.
Uncle Ezra, cried Myra, staring at the letter. Left a million and a half dollars! All to me! Gee, the old geezer must have made good! But, say, the cards must have slipped up, then. It was supposed to come to you.
Never mind, said Lew, stroking the back of her neck. Man and wife are one, ain't they?
Not for long, cried Myra in triumph. I'm rich! I'm free! Or I will be.
And what shall I do? asked her husband.
Go climb a tree, said Myra. You ought to be good at it.
I thought you might say that, said he, clasping her firmly around the throat. Gypped me a dollar for that fortune too, didn't you? Well, if you won't do right by me, the cards must. Death of someone very near to me that's what they said, didn't they? So they was right after all!
Myra had no breath left to pay testimony to the Vascal System, or to warn him of the sudden, violent shock that awaited him.
THE INVISIBLE DOVE-DANCER OF STRATHPHEEN ISLAND
I came again to Doyle's Hotel, at Ballymalley in Connemara, and unpacked my bags in a bedroom smelling of brine and damp towels. A little heap of sand lay in the grate, spilled out from someone else's shoes. Outside there was the wind and the dunes, and a sea already ragged with night. Downstairs was the bar.
Doyle was standing behind the bar, holding forth about Strathpheen Island. And here, said he to his listener, here is the gentleman to tell you it's the wonder of the world for the sight of the wild sea-birds, and the breeding places of them.
No doubt about it, said I.
A gentleman from America, said Doyle to me, indicating the stranger. And him touring around, mourning over the graves of his forefathers.
The American gave me a big handshake. Thomas P. Rymer, said he. And I want to tell you, sir, this is the sort of place we read about in story-books, and can't altogether believe in.
I'm only a visitor, myself, said I. It's a romantic corner.
Romance, said he. Don't talk to me about romance. I'm what we call a hard-headed business man, but what this old Emerald Isle has done for me in the way of romance ! Nothing immoral, of course. Don't get me wrong.
Is Mrs. Rymer with you? said I.
No, sir, said he. I'm sorry to have to tell you, there isn't a Mrs. Rymer. Now don't laugh at me as a sentimentalist, or idealist, but a man in my line of business gets mighty particular about what I might call the finesse of the female form. Has to be. Foundation garments girdles, corsets, brassieres. And, well, I've not seen just that bit of perfection You know what I mean.
Well, you won't see her on Strathpheen Island, said I. All the same, why don't we go together? We'll get the boots here, the fellow they call old Danny, to help with the boat. Doyle'll pack us a bit of lunch.
Now that's a grand idea, said he.