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.
«Fine!» said I. «Tomorrow, then, if the weather's right»
It was. The sea was as flat as a mill-pond and as blue as a cornflower. We soon got out the creaky old boat, and were off on the three-mile trip to the island. Rymer was delighted. «To me, as a business man,» said he, «this is something like a bit of Man of Aran got into the March of Time. Boy! Look at those rocks! Look at that colour! Look at the birds!»
Up they got. The whole blue sky was full of winging and crying. «Come ashore,» said I. «This is just a sample.»
«Just a minute,» said Rymer, standing quite still on the beach. «I'm just trying to hear what this little out-of-the-world islet is saying to me. Now don't start calling me poetical, but if ever I came to a place where the concentrated atmosphere and romance seemed to have a special message for me — this is it. Is this island by any chance in the market?»
«I don't think so,» said I. «In fact, I know it isn't.»
«That's tough,» said he. «Never mind. Maybe it's just a feeling I had. I don't know if you've ever felt you've been sort of missing something all your life? You want to get out, make a break — I don't know. Let's get on.»
We went on, through the bracken and the bluebells, where the terns' eggs were lying about on every side, round by the cliffs, and over to the flatter side of the island. By the time we got there, we were ready for lunch.
We were just finishing, when Rymer, looking over behind me, broke off in the middle of a sentence, and looked, and stared. «What is it?» said I, turning round.
«What in God's name,» said he, «are those birds there? What are they doing?»
«Ah, 'tis them island pigeons the gentleman means,» said old Danny. «And a surprising sort of bird entirely.»
«It certainly is,» said I. «For there were five white pigeons, all close together in the air, four of them swooping down and diving in and out, quite near the ground, and the fifth hovering and fluttering, more like a hawk than a pigeon, and staying always in the middle.»
«And I'll be telling you the reason why,» said Danny. «'Tis that old farmhouse, and the walls of it standing to this day, just over the rise there. Now the farmer's wife, I've heard tell, was the one for keeping every sort of dove and pigeon, the white ones, and the fan-tailed ones, and the hairy-legged ones, and them that tumble in the air. And now the folks are dead, and the house in ruins, and no farm on the island, and them birds have mixed and mingled with the wild pigeons of these parts, and many a time they'll be throwing up a white one, and one with a queer way of flying.»
«Very queer,» said I.
Rymer seized me by the arm. «Don't think I'm kinda crazy», said he, «but — but — I know the measurements. It's my line of business. I can't see her, but — there's a dove-dancer among those birds.»
«A dove-dancer?» said Danny. «Would you be telling us what a dove-dancer may be?»
I told him of the World's Fair and its crowning symbol of peace and freedom.
«Would you believe it?» said he. «Flip over that bit of a stone, your honour, that lies against your hand. Make the brazen hussy skip a bit higher.»
«Don't on your life!» cried Rymer. «Have you no reverence, man?»
«You're right,» said Danny. «I'm thinking she may be one of the Good People and all — saints defend us!»
«Thirty-four to the fraction of an inch!» said Rymer.
«Thirty-four?» said I. «Thirty-four what?»
«Those hips,» said he. «Thirty-four — Twenty-five — Thirty-five — Boy, it's perfection!»
«Listen,» I said. «You've got a touch of the sun. There's nothing but the pigeons there.»
«Watch their flight,» said he. «I'm in the corset and girdle line; I got an eye for the measurements. I've been to the World's Fair. I know a dove-dancer when I see one, my boy — and even when I don't. And can she dance? What a peach! What a honey! Boy, is she the dove-dancing Venus of all time! Look, they're moving away!»