by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER IX
WHAT LINDY HAD UP HER SLEEVE
"But think of it, Shorty!" says Sadie. "What an existence!"
"There's plenty worse off than her," says I; "so what's the use?"
"I can't help it," says she. "Twenty years! No holidays, no home, norelatives: nothing but sew and mend, sew and mend--and for strangers, atthat! Talk about dull gray lives--ugh!"
"Well, she's satisfied, ain't she?" says I.
"That's the worst of it," says Sadie. "She seems to live for her work.Goodness knows how early she's up and at it in the morning, and at nightI have to drive her out of the sewing room!"
"And you kick at that?" says I. "Huh! Why, on lower Fifth-ave. theycapitalize such habits and make 'em pay for fifteen-story buildin's.Strikes me this Lindy of yours is perfectly good sweatshop material. Youdon't know a good thing when you see it, Sadie."
"There, there, Shorty!" says she. "Don't try to be comic about it.There's nothing in the least funny about Lindy."
She was dead right too; and all I meant by my feeble little cracks wasthat a chronic case of acute industry was too rare a disease for me todiagnose offhand. Honest, it almost gave me the fidgets, havin' Lindyaround the house. Say, she had the busy bee lookin' like a corner loaferwith his hands in his pockets!
About once a month we had Lindy with us, for three or four days at astretch, and durin' that time she'd be gallopin' through all kinds ofwork, from darnin' my socks or rippin' up an old skirt, to embroiderin'the fam'ly monogram on the comp'ny tablecloths; all for a dollar'n ahalf per, which I understand is under union rates. Course, Sadie alwaysinsists on throwin' in something for overtime; but winnin' the extradidn't seem to be Lindy's main object. She just wanted to keep goin',and if the work campaign wa'n't all planned out for her to cut loose onthe minute she arrived, she'd most have a fit. Even insisted on havin'her meals served on the sewin' table, so she wouldn't lose any time.Sounds too good to be true, don't it? But remember this ain't a classI'm describin': it's just Lindy.
And of all the dried-up little old maids I ever see, Lindy was thequeerest specimen. Seems she was well enough posted on the styles, andkept the run of whether sleeves was bein' worn full or tight, down overthe knuckles or above the elbow, and all that; but her own costume wasalways the same,--a dingy brown dress that fits her like she'd cut itout in the dark and had put it together with her eyes shut,--a faded oldbrown coat with funny sleeves that had little humps over the shoulders,and a dusty black straw lid of no partic'lar shape, that sported a bunchof the saddest lookin' violets ever rescued from the ashheap.
Then she had such a weird way of glidin' around silent, and of shrinkin'into corners, and flattenin' herself against the wall whenever she metanyone. Meek and lowly? Say, every motion she made seemed to be sort ofa dumb apology for existin' at all! And if she had to go through a roomwhere I was, or pass me in the hall, she'd sort of duck her head, holdone hand over her mouth, and scuttle along like a mouse beatin' it forhis hole.
You needn't think I'm pilin' on the agony, either. I couldn't exaggerateLindy if I tried. And if you imagine it's cheerin' to have a human beingas humble as all that around, you're mistaken. Kind of made me feel asif I was a slave driver crackin' the whip.
And there wa'n't any special reason that I could see for her actin' thatway. Outside of her clothes, she wa'n't such a freak. That is, shewa'n't deformed, or anything like that. She wa'n't even wrinkled or grayhaired; though how she kept from growin' that way I couldn't figure out.I put it down that her lonesome, old maid existence must have struck inand paralyzed her soul.
There was another queer quirk to her too. Work up as much sympathy asyou wanted to, you couldn't do anything for her. Sadie ain't slow atthat, you know. She got int'rested in her right off, and when shediscovers how Lindy lives in a couple of cheap rooms down in the Bronxall by herself, and never goes anywhere or has any fun, she proceeds tospring her usual uplift methods. Wouldn't Lindy like a ticket to a niceconcert? No, thanks, Lindy didn't care much about music. Or the theater?No, Lindy says she's afraid to go trapesin' around town after dark.Wouldn't she quit work for an hour or so and come for a spin in the car,just to get the air? Lindy puts her hand over her mouth and shakes herhead. Automobiles made her nervous. She tried one once, and was soscared she couldn't work for two hours after. The subway trains were badenough, goodness knows!
I couldn't begin to tell you all the things Lindy was afraidof,--crowds, the dark, of getting lost, of meetin' strangers, of tryin'anything new. I remember seein' her once, comin' out on the train. She'ssqueezed into the end seat behind the door, and was huddled up there,grippin' a little black travelin' bag in one hand and a rusty umbrellain the other, and keepin' her eyes on the floor, for all the world likeshe'd run away from somewhere and was stealin' a ride. Get it, do you?
But wait! There was one point where Lindy had it on most of us. Sheknew where she was goin'. Didn't seem to have any past worth speakin'about, except that she'd been born in England,--father used to keep alittle store on some side street in Dover,--and she'd come over herealone when she was quite a girl. As for the present--well, I've beentryin' to give you a bird's-eye view of that.
But when it comes to the future Lindy was right there with the goods.Had it all mapped out for twenty years to come. Uh-huh! She told Sadieabout it, ownin' up to bein' near forty, and said that when she wassixty she was goin' to get into an Old Ladies' Home. Someprospect--what? She'd even picked out the joint and had 'em put her namedown. It would cost her three hundred and fifty dollars, which she hadsalted away in the savings bank already, and now she was just driftin'along until she could qualify in the age limit. Livin' just for that!
"Ah, can the gloom stuff, Sadie!" says I as she whispers this latestbulletin. "You give me the willies, you and your Lindy! Why, that oldhorse chestnut out there in the yard leads a more excitin' existencethan that! It's preparin' to leaf out again next spring. But Lindy! Bah!Say, just havin' her in the house makes the air seem moldy. I'm goin'out and tramp around the grounds a bit before dinner."
That was a good hunch. It's a clear, crisp evenin' outside, with thelast red of the sun just showin' in the northwest and a thin new moonhangin' over Long Island Sound off in the east, and in a couple of turnsI shook off the whole business. I'd taken one circle and was roundin'the back of the garage, when I sees something dark slip into a treeshadow up near the house.
"That you, Dominick?" I sings out.
There's no answer to that, and, knowin' that if there's one failin'Dominick don't possess it's bein' tonguetied, I gets suspicious.Besides, a couple of porch-climbin' jobs had been pulled off in theneighborhood recent, and, even though I do carry a burglar policy, Iain't crazy about havin' strangers messin' through the bureau drawerswhile I'm tryin' to sleep. So I sneaks along the hedge for a ways, andthen does the sleuthy approach across the lawn on the right flank.Another minute and I've made a quick spring and has my man pinnedagainst the tree with both his wrists fast and my knee in his chest.
"Woof!" says he, deep and guttural.
"Excuse the warm welcome," says I, "but that's only a sample of what wepass out to stray visitors like you. Sizin' up the premises, were you,and gettin' ready to collect a few souvenirs?"
"A thousand pardons," says he, "if I have seem to intrude!"
"Eh?" says I. That wa'n't exactly the comeback you'd expect from asecond-story worker, and he has a queer foreign twist to his words.
"It is possible," he goes on, "that I have achieved the grand mistake."
"Maybe," says I, loosenin' up on him a little. "What was it you thoughtyou was after?"
"The house of one McCah-be," says he, "a professor of fists, I am told."
"That's a new description of me," says I, "but I'm the party. All ofwhich don't prove, though, that you ain't a crook."
"Crook?" says he. "Ah, a felon! But no, Effendi. I come on an errand ofpeace, as Allah is good."
How was that now, havin' Allah sprung on me in my own front yard? Whytrave
l?
"Say, come out here where I can get a better look," says I, draggin' himout of the shadow. "There! Well, of all the----"
No wonder I lost my breath; for what I've picked up off the front lawnlooks like a stray villain from a comic opera. He's a short,barrel-podded gent, mostly costumed in a long black cape affair and oneof these tasseled Turkish caps. About all the features I can make outare a pair of bushy eyebrows, a prominent hooked beak, and a set ofcrisp, curlin' black whiskers. Hardly the kind to go shinnin' upwaterspouts or squeezin' through upper windows. Still, I'd almost caughthim in the act.
"If that's a disguise you've got on," says I, "it's a bird. And if itain't--say, let's hear the tale. Who do you claim to be, anyway?"
"Many pardons again, Effendi," says he, "but it is my wish toremain--what you call it?--incognito."
"Then you don't get your wish," says I. "No John Doe game goes with me.Out with it! Who and what?"
"But I make protest," says he. "Rather would I depart on my way."
"Ah, ditch that!" says I. "I caught you actin' like a suspiciouscharacter. Now, if you can account for yourself, I may turn you loose;but if you don't, it's a case for the police."
"Ah, no, no!" he objects. "Not the constables! Allah forbid! I--I willmake explanation."
"Then let it come across quick," says I. "First off, what name are youflaggin' under?"
"At my home," says he, "I am known as Pasha Dar Bunda."
"Well, that's some name, all right," says I. "Now the next item, Pasha,is this, What set you to prowlin' around the home of one McCabe?"
"Ah, but you would not persist thus far!" says he, pleadin'. "That is apersonal thing, something between myself and Allah alone."
"You don't say," says I. "Sorry to butt in, but I've got to have it all.Come, now!"
"But, Effendi----" he begins.
"No, not Fender," says I, "nor Footboard, or anything like that: justplain McCabe."
"It is a word of respect," says he, "such as Sir Lord; thus, EffendiMcCabe."
"Well, cut out the frills and let's get down to brass tacks," says I."You're here because you're here, I expect. But what else?"
He sighs, and then proceeds to let go of a little information. "You haveunder your roof," says he, "a Meesis Vogel, is it not?"
"Vogel?" says I, puzzled for a second. "You don't mean Lindy, do you?"
"She was called that, yes," says the Pasha, "Meelinda."
"But she's a Miss--old maid," says I.
"Ah?" says he, liftin' his bushy eyebrows. "A Mees, eh? It may be so.They tell me at her place of living that she is to be found here._Voila!_ That is all."
"But what about her?" says I. "Where do you come in?"
"Once when I am in England," says he, "many years gone past, I know her.I learn that she is in New York. Well, I find myself in America too. Ithought to see her. Why not? A glimpse, no more."
"Is it the style where you come from," says I, "to gumshoe around andpeek in the windows to see old friends?"
"In my country," says he, "men do not--but then we have our own customs.I have explain. Now I may depart."
"Not so fast, old scout!" says I. "If it's so you're a friend of Lindy,she'll be wantin' to see you, and all we got to do is to step inside andcall her down."
"But thanks," says he. "It is very kind. I will not trouble, however. Itneed not be."
"Needn't, eh?" says I. "Look here, Pasha So and So, you can't put overanything so thin on me! You're up to something or other. You sure lookit. Anyway, I'm goin' to march you in and find out from Lindy herselfwhether she knows you or not. Understand?"
He sighs resigned. "Since you are a professor of fists, it must be so,"says he. "But remark this, I do not make the request to see her,and--and you may say to her that it is Don Carlos who is here."
"Ah-ha!" says I. "Another pen name, eh? Don Carlos! Low Dago, orHidalgo?"
"My father," says he, "was a Spanish gentleman of Hebrew origin. Mymother was French."
"Some combination!" says I. "And Lindy knows you best as Don Carlos,does she? We'll soon test that."
So I escorts him in by the side door, plants him in the livin' roomwhere I can keep an eye on him, and hoohoos gentle up the stairs toSadie.
"Yes?" says she.
"Shut the sewin' room door," says I.
"All right," says she. "Well?"
"There's a gent down here, Sadie," says I, "that looks like a crossbetween a stage pirate and an Armenian rug peddler."
"For goodness' sake!" says Sadie. "Not in the house! What on earth didyou let him in for?"
"Because," says I, "he claims to be an old friend of Lindy's."
"Of Lindy's!" she gasps. "Why, what----"
"I don't know the rest," says I. "You spring it on her. Tell her it'sDon Carlos, and then let me know what she says."
That seems like a simple proposition; but Sadie takes a long time overit. I could hear her give a squeal of surprise at something, and thenshe seems to be askin' a lot of fool questions. In the course of five orsix minutes, though, she leans over the stair rail lookin' sort ofexcited.
"Well?" says I. "Does she know him?"
"Know him!" says Sadie. "Why, she says he's her husband!"
"Not Lindy's!" I gasps.
"That's what she says," insists Sadie.
"Great Scott!" says I. "Must be some mistake about this. Wait a minute.Here, you, Pasha! Come here! Lindy says you're her husband. Is that so?"
"Oh, yes," says he, as easy as you please. "Under your laws I suppose Iam."
"Well, wouldn't that frost you!" says I.
"But, say, Sadie, why don't she come down and see him, then?"
"Just what I've been asking her," says Sadie. "She says she's too busy,and that if he wants to see her he must come up."
"Well, what do you know!" says I. "Pasha, do you want to see her?"
"As I have told," says he, "there is no need. I do not demand it."
"Well, of all the cold-blooded pairs!" says I. "How long since you'veseen her?"
"Very long," says he; "perhaps twenty years."
"And now all you can work up is a mild curiosity for a glimpse throughthe window, eh?" says I.
He shrugs his shoulders careless.
"Then, by the great horned spoon," I goes on, "you're goin' to get whatyou came after! Trail along upstairs after me. This way. In throughhere. There you are, Pasha! Lindy, here's your Don Carlos!"
"Oh!" says she, lookin' up from the shirt-waist she was bastin' a sleeveon, and not even botherin' to take the pins out of her mouth.
And maybe they ain't some cross-mated couple too! This Pasha party showsup ponderous and imposin', in spite of the funny little fez arrangementon his head. He's thrown his cloak back, revealin' a regulation frockcoat; but under that is some sort of a giddy-tinted silk blouse effect,and the fringed ends of a bright red sash hangs down below his knee onthe left side. He's got a color on him like the inside of an oldcoffeepot, and the heavy, crinkly beard makes him look like some foreignAmbassador. While Lindy--well, in her black sewin' dress and whiteapron, she looks slimmer and more old maidish than ever.
He confines his greetin' to a nod of the head, and stands there gazin'at her as calm as if he was starin' at some stranger in the street.
"I suppose you've come to take me away with you, Carlos?" says she.
"No," says he.
"But I thought," says Lindy, "I--I thought some day you might. I didn'tknow, though. I haven't planned on it."
"Is it your wish to go with me?" says he.
"Why, I'm your wife, you know," says she.
"You had my letters, did you?" he goes on.
"Four," says she. "There was one from Spain, when you were a brigand,and another----"
"A brigand!" breaks in Sadie. "Do you mean that, Lindy?"
"Wasn't that it?" asks Lindy of him.
"For two years, Madam," says Don Carlos, bowin' polite. "A dull sort ofbusiness, mingling so much with stupid tourists. Bah! And such smallgains!
By the time you have divided with the soldiers little is left. SoI gave it up."
"The next came from that queer place," says Lindy, "Port--Port----"
"Port Said," helps out Pasha, "where I had a gambling house. That wasgood for a time. Rather lively also. We had too much shooting andstabbing, though. It was an English officer, that last one. What a row!In the night I left for Tunisia."
"Oh, yes, Tunis," says Lindy. "Something about slaves there, wasn't it?"
"Camels also," says Pasha. "I traded in both stolen camels and smuggledslaves."
He throws this off as casual as if he was tellin' about sellin' sewin'machines. I glances over to see how Sadie's takin' it, and finds herdrawin' in a long breath.
"Well, I never!" says she explosive. "What a shameless wretch! And youdared confess all this to Lindy?"
"Pardon, Madam," says he, smilin' until he shows most of his whiteteeth, "but I desired no misunderstanding. It is my way with women, totell them only what is true. If they dislike that--well, there are manyothers."
"Humph!" says Sadie, tossin' her head. "Lindy, do you hear that?"
Lindy nods and keeps right on bastin' the sleeve.
"But how did you ever come to marry such a person, Lindy?" Sadiedemands.
Carlos executes another smile at this and bows polite. "It was myfault," says he. "I was in England, waiting for a little affair thathappened in Barcelona to blow over. By chance I saw her in her father'sshop. Ah, you may find it difficult to believe now, Madam, but she wasquite charming,--cheeks flushed like dawn on the desert, eyes like thesea, and limbs as lithe as an Arab maiden's! I talked. She listened. MyEnglish was poor; but it is not always words that win. These Britishgirls, though! They cannot fully understand romance. It was she whoinsisted on marriage. I cared not a green fig. What to me was themumbling of a churchman, I who cared not for the priests of my mothernor the rabbi of my father? Pah! Two weeks later I gave her some moneyand left her. Once more in the mountains of Spain I could breatheagain--and I made the first English we caught settle the whole bill.That is how it came to be, Madam. Ask her."
Sadie looks at Lindy, who nods. "Father drove me out when I went back,"says she; "so I came over here. Carlos had told me where to write. Yougot all my letters, did you, Carlos?"
"Oh, yes," says he. Then, turnin' to Sadie, "A wonderful writer ofletters, Madam,--one every month!"
"Then you knew about little Carlos?" puts in Lindy. "It was a pity. Suchlovely big black eyes. He was nearly two. I wish you could have seenhim."
"I also had regret," says Carlos. "I read that letter many times. It wasbecause of that, I think, that I continued to read the others, and wasat pains to have them sent to me. They would fill a hamper, all ofthem."
"What!" says Sadie. "After you knew the kind of monster he was, Lindy,did you keep on writing to him?"
"But he was still my husband," protested Lindy.
"Bah!" says Sadie, throwin' a scornful glance at the Pasha.
Don Carlos he spreads out his hands, and shrugs his shoulders. "TheseEnglish!" says he. "At first I laughed at the letters. They would comeat such odd times; for you can imagine, Madam, that my life hasbeen--well, not as the saints'. And to many different women have I readbits of these letters that came from so far,--to dancing girls, others.Some laughed with me, some wept. One tried to stab me with a daggerafterward. Women are like that. You never know when they will changeinto serpents. All but this one. Think! Month after month, year afteryear, letters, letters; about nothing much, it is true, but wishing megood health, happiness, asking me to have care for myself, and sayingalways that I was loved! Well? Can one go on laughing at things likethat? Once I was dangerously hurt, a spearthrust that I got near Biskra,and the letter came to me where I lay in my tent. It was like asoothing voice, comforting one in the dark. Since then I have watchedfor those letters. When chance brought me to this side of the world, Ifound myself wishing for sight of the one who could remain ever thesame, could hold the faith in the faithless for so long. So here I am."
"Yes, and you ought to be in jail," says Sadie emphatic. "But, sinceyou're not, what do you propose doing next?"
"I return day after to-morrow," says Don Carlos, "and if the lady who ismy wife so wills it she shall go with me."
"Oh, shall she!" says Sadie sarcastic. "Where to, pray?"
"To El Kurfah," says he.
"And just where," says Sadie, "is that?"
"Three days by camel south from Moorzook," says he. "It is an oasis inthe Libyan Desert."
"Indeed!" says Sadie. "And what particular business are you engaged inthere,--gambling, robbing, slave selling, or----"
"In El Kurfah," breaks in Don Carlos, bowin' dignified, "I am Pasha DarBunda, Minister of Foreign Affairs and chief business agent toHamid-al-Illa; who, as you may know, is one of the half-dozen rulersclaiming to be Emperor of the Desert. Frankly, I admit he has no rightto such a title; but neither has any of the others. Hamid, however, isone of the most up-to-date and successful of all the desert chieftains.My presence here is proof of that. I came to arrange for large shipmentsof dates and ivory, and to take back to Hamid an automobile and thelatest phonograph records."
"I don't like automobiles," says Lindy, finishin' up the sleeve.
"Neither does Hamid," says Pasha; "but he says we ought to have onestanding in front of the royal palace to impress the hill tribesmen whenthey come in. Do you go back to El Kurfah with me, Mrs. Vogel?"
"Yes," says Lindy, rollin' up her apron.
"But, Lindy!" gasps Sadie. "To such a place, with such a man!"
"He is my husband, you know," says she.
And Lindy seems to think when she's put that over that she's said allthere was to say on the subject. Sadie protests and threatens and begs.She reminds her what a deep-dyed villain this Carlos party is, andforecasts all sorts of dreadful things that will likely happen to her ifshe follows him off. But it's all wasted breath.
And all the while Pasha Dar Bunda, alias Don Carlos Vogel, stands theresmilin' polite and waitin' patient. But in the end he walks outtriumphant, with Lindy, holdin' her little black bag in one hand and herold umbrella in the other, followin' along in his wake.
Then last Friday we went down to one of them Mediterranean steamers tosee 'em actually start. And, say, this slim, graceful party in thesnappy gray travelin' dress, with the smart lid and all the gray veilson, looks about as much like the Lindy we'd known as a hard-boiled egglooks like a frosted cake. Lindy has bloomed out.
"And when we get to El Kurfah guess what Carlos is going to give me!"she confides to Sadie. "A riding camel and Batime. He's one of the bestcamel drivers in the place, Batime. And I have learned to salaam and say'Allah il Allah.' Everyone must do that there. And in our garden aredates and oranges growing. Only fancy! There will be five slaves to waiton me, and when we go to the palace I shall wear gold bracelets on myankles. Won't that seem odd? It's rather warm in El Kurfah, you know;but I sha'n't mind. Early in the morning, when it is cool, I shall rideout into the sandhills with Carlos. He is going to teach me how to shoota lion."
She was chatterin' along like a schoolgirl, and when the boat pulls outof the slip she waves jaunty to us. Don Carlos, leanin' over the railalongside of her, gazes at her sort of admirin'.
"El Kurfah, eh?" says I to Sadie. "That's missin' the Old Ladies' Homeby some margin, ain't it?"