The Cheat (Holman)/Chapter 6
When they landed in New York Carmelita half expected to find awaiting her a conciliatory cablegram from her father, having in her own message to him taken the precaution to provide him with the business address of Drake and Porter. Hardly were they free of the customs inspectors before she persuaded Dudley to call up and see if there was any news.
"Nothing doing, my uncle says," Dudley told her from the sweltering booth. She seemed a little disappointed. "Not worrying over money already, are you, dearest?" She wasn't. But the idea that she would henceforth be cut off from the unceasing flow of gold upon which her life so far had depended gave Carmelita a feeling of vague misgiving. She had had a little taste of what it meant on the trip across. Without a maid or female companion she had been forced to do so many of the annoying things that had formerly been done for her. But was she a baby, she asked herself? She had Dudley and that made up for it. She was not soft, helpless.
The Dudley Drakes registered at the Hotel Commodore and had their baggage sent there, having agreed to postpone looking for a permanent place to live until Dudley returned from the office the following day. He was anxious to discover just what his status was at Drake and Porter's.
It was rather an anxious young newly married man who disembarked from the subway express at Wall Street promptly at nine the next morning. Dudley waited outside his uncle's private sanctum until the secretary opened the door noiselessly and pattered over the thick carpet with her book laden with the morning's dictation and disappeared into the main office. Sanford Drake, pompous, white-haired but ruddy-faced from large doses of golf, was lighting a fresh cigar as his nephew entered. He accepted Dudley's hand and shook it non-committedly. Dudley took the chair next to his desk.
"Well, you're back, eh? Married, I believe you said over the phone. Girl you met in Paris?"
"Yes."
"H'm. French girl—American?"
"No, Spanish. Carmelita de Cordoba was my wife's maiden name."
"Any relation to de Cordoba, the South American banking man, the fellow Hodge and Story are agents for?"
"Daughter." Dudley did not like this catechizing much.
"Wel-l—you're lucky. No end of money. Suppose you'll be chucking your job here, eh?" Dudley flushed.
"Carmelita's father has cut her off as a matter of fact. Our marriage didn't please him evidently. Besides, even if it had, I mean to stick here and make good. That is—if you want me to."
At this Sanford Drake became strictly business. He lit his cigar afresh and rocked back on his chair.
"Well, I must say you didn't set the world on fire with the way you handled this Duval business."
"I know—I'm not proud of myself."
Old Drake puffed a while.
"Like to go back to your old desk and get a little wiser before you tackle something big again?"
"If you say so."
"All right—same position and same salary as before you went to Paris." And Sanford Drake began to rustle papers on his glasstopped desk indicating that the interview was over.
It was rather better than Dudley had expected but when he told Carmelita about it she pouted. "He might have given you a better position when he found you were married. If he were my uncle, he would." Dudley laughed and kissed the pout away. He produced an afternoon paper opened at the Apartments To Let page.
"How would you like to live in Greenwich Village, Carmelita? With all the artists and writers and queer ones? Here's a place on 12th Street that sounds pretty good."
Carmelita, who had the romantic idea of the Village, shared by all the uninitiated, was interested at once. She donned her nicest Parisian gown and they walked out to Fifth Avenue and boarded a 'bus to Washington Square.
The apartment was located in a brownstone row. The exteriors of the houses were old and dingy and unprepossessing. They located the place in the advertisement, and walked up the three steps to the landing in front of the door without enthusiasm. An overalled Swede with a pipe, the janitor, answered and shuffled upstairs ahead of them to their destination. It was a furnished apartment, and the interior was unexpectedly inviting. The living-room was small and a little alcove off it served as a dining-room. In one end of the room the door opened out into a tiny kitchen and on the side another door led to a fairly good sized but badly ventilated bedroom.
Burnt orange chintz curtains at the living-room windows livened up the place considerably. The furniture was ultra-modern—gate-legged table, rush-bottomed chairs and a low, comfortable divan—evidently very good stuff. Somebody with taste had hand-painted the two dining "room" chairs. It was all quite gay but very small and simple. To Dudley it looked very inviting and the price the janitor mentioned was within his purse. He looked anxiously at Carmelita. She was gazing about her soberly. Well, she had passed four years in a convent room no larger than this living-room. She looked at Dudley. The poor boy was so fearfully eager that she should be pleased. The janitor had discreetly departed. Carmelita on an impulse threw her arms around her husband's neck.
"I think it is like a cute little bird-cage, darling—so small and sweet—and I could be very happy here. Let's take it."
Dudley could hardly restrain his sigh of relief as he summoned the janitor back and announced their decision.