Bambi
With the perfect ease of a lack of self-consciousness Jarvis made his
exit, leaving Mr. Frohman with a twinkle in his eyes.
The rest of the day a certain blond cabman on the avenue drove to
Franklin Simon's when he was ordered to Altman's, drew up in state at
McCreery's when he was told Bonwit Teller's.
"You must be drunk, driver," said one passenger. She held up her dollar
bill, indignantly, to dismiss him. He lifted his hat, perfunctorily, and
swept a bow.
"I am, madam, intoxicated with my own thoughts." He rattled off down the
street, leaving the woman rooted to the curb with astonishment.
He taught himself to abandon his old, introspective habits during these
days on the box, and forced his attention to fix itself upon the crowds,
his customers, the whole uptown panorama, so different from the night
crowds he sought. He recalled Bambi's saying to him that until he
learned not to exclude any of the picture he would never do big work.
Her words had a tantalizing way of coming back to him, things she had
tossed off in the long ago of their visit to New York together. He
longed for her vivid phrasing, her quick dart at the heart of the things
they talked of. It seemed incredible now that he had ever taken her as a
matter of course. As for the enigma of her marrying him, he never ceased
to ponder it.
True to his promise, he went to call on the "Probation Lady," as he
named her, and they became friends. He admired her enormously, and owed
much to her wise philosophy. He asked her to go riding in his cab, and
she accepted without hesitation. They rode from five to seven, one
afternoon, conversing through the shutter in the top of the cab,
laughing and enjoying themselves hugely, to the great amusement of
pedestrians along the way.
At the end of two weeks he and Hicks divided the spoils, and Hicks
resumed the box. It cemented a friendship which Jarvis enjoyed greatly,
for the old Englishman was ripe with humour and experience. He, too,
taught the teacher.
The day after he was free from cab duty Jarvis went to the Little
Theatre to get a report from "The Vision." The secretary said Mr. Ames
had asked to see him when he came in. He found him a lean student type
of man, finished in manner, and pleasant of speech.
"I have been interested in this play of yours, Mr. Jocelyn. I couldn't
do it, in my theatre, but I thought I would like to have a talk with you
and ask you what else you've done."
"A woman-question play, called 'Success,' this one, and one on Universal
Peace."
"All serious?"
"Certainly. Why do managers always ask that?"
"Because serious plays are so many, I suppose. Good comedies are so
few."
"I thought you always gave serious things in the Little Theatre?"
"I am forced to, but I am always looking for good comedy. I would like
to see your other plays."
They sat, discussing things of the theatre, tendencies in drama,
fashions and fads, Gordon Craig's book, the Rheinhardt idea. They spent
a pleasant half hour, like an oasis in Jarvis's desert. He felt that Mr.
Ames had time for him, was sincere in his interest in him. He left the
Little Theatre cheered in some inexplicable way.
When he returned to his lodgings that day he found a note from Strong,
forwarded from the old address. It acknowledged Jarvis's apology
gracefully, and suggested that they dine together the night of this very
day, unless Jarvis was again engaged, in which case he might telephone,
and they would make other plans. Jarvis frowned over it ten minutes.
"Might as well go and get it over," he remarked ungraciously. He
telephoned Strong his acceptance, and asked if he might meet him at the
restaurant. He did not wish Strong to know the new address. He would
keep his struggle and his poverty to himself. That was certain.
The two men met at a roof garden, each determined to suppress his
instinctive dislike of the other because of Bambi. They found a table,
and after a short period of stiffness they fell into easy talk of books
and plays and men.
"How do you like New York? I remember you confessed to hating cities
when I saw you."
"I still hate cities, but I am getting a new point of view about it
all."
"It's a great school."
"So it is."
"Is Mrs. Jocelyn well, and the Professor?"
"Yes, thank you."
"It is some time since you were home?"
"Yes."
"I had a note from Mrs. Jocelyn a few days ago."
"Did you?"
"I wonder if you would let me see your 'Songs of the Street,' she told
me about?"
"She spoke of them to you?"
"In the highest terms. Said she had no idea of your plans in regard to
them, but that the poems were strong and true."
"I am glad she liked them."
"Would you consider letting me have them for the magazine if they seemed
to fit our needs?"
"You can look them over, if you like. They won't fit, though. They'll
stick out like a sore thumb. The only editor I showed them to said they
weren't prose, and they weren't poetry, and, besides, he didn't
like them."
"Mail them to me to-night when you go home. Better still, bring them
in."
Jarvis drew out an envelope that he pushed across the table to Strong.
"Look them over now," he said.
Strong lifted his brows slightly, but took the proffered pages and began
to read. While his host was so busied, Jarvis smoked a good cigar, the
first in months, and enjoyed it. He didn't care whether Strong liked
them or not. Strong looked up suddenly.
"I'll take these, Jocelyn. What do you want for them?"
"Oh, I don't know. What are they worth to you?"
"I'll pay two hundred dollars for them. Is that satisfactory?"
"Perfectly."
"I'll mail you a check in the morning. I should say you have been
learning things, Jocelyn. That is good stuff."
"I told you I was getting a new point of view."
At the close of the evening the two men parted with a surreptitious
feeling that they would have liked each other under any other
circumstances. They promised to meet soon again. As for Jarvis, he felt
that a golden egg had been laid for him in the middle of the table on
the Astor roof! The one thing that stood out in his mind was the thought
that he could go home--home, to see Bambi. The only regret was that
Strong had made it possible.
XIX
The day came, in early December, when Bambi put the last word, the last
period, to her book. Instead of a moment of high relief and of pride, as
she had foreseen it, it was with a sigh of regret that she laid down her
pen. She felt as a mother might feel who sends her child out to make its
own way when she had put her last, finishing mother-touch upon his
training. There would never be another first book. No matter how crude
or how young this firstling might come to seem to her, there would never
be such another. No such thrills, no such building as made this
first-born dear, could go in another book. Then there was the pleasure
in her new bank account, with the sense of freedom it brought. She could
indulge herself in pretty things. She could buy little presents for
people she loved. Best of all, she laid aside an amount which she called
the "Homeseeker's Fund," to be used for that home which she and Jarvis
would establish some day. She had won her independence, and it
was sweet.
Mr. Strong was attending to the publication of the story in book form.
And it was to be on the Christmas stalls, appearing simultaneously with
the last chapters of the magazine. He was already begging her to promise
a new serial for the coming year.
It seemed incredible that so much could have happened to her in the ten
months that she had been married to Jarvis. Her threatened career, which
seemed such a joke to her family, was here; she was well launched upon
it, with the two scoffers still in ignorance of the fact. So she mused,
as she sat at her desk, the heap of completed last chapters piled before
her. Ardelia broke in upon her meditations.
"Mr. Strong in here!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Strong!"
"Mr. Strong! Why, he sent me no word. I didn't expect him!"
"I can't help that. He's here, settin' in the liberry."
"Dear me!" said Bambi. "Say I'll be down at once. Wait! Help me to get
into my gray gown before you go."
"You look all right de way you is."
"No, no. This man lives in New York, Ardelia. He's used to real
clothes."
"I wish he'd stay in New York."
"What's the matter with Mr. Strong? I thought you liked him!"
"He's gettin' too frequentious round here, to suit me."
"You silly thing, we have business to talk over. Hurry on, now, and say
I'll be down in a minute."
Ardelia lumbered out, disapproval in every inch of her back.
Richard Strong turned away from the log fire at the sound of Bambi's
footsteps running down the stairs. The soft gray gown clung to her, and
floated behind her, its ashen monotone making her face more vivid than
ever. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes looked gray-green in the
shadowy room, with the deep, shining fire of opals. Both hands went out
to his impulsive greeting.
"Welcome!" she said, smiling.
"Aren't you surprised?"
"I'm pleased. Why should I be surprised?"
"It is so unheard of, for me to be running out of town on unexpected
visits to a lady, that it seems as if everybody must be as surprised
as I am."
"The lady was thinking of you when your name was announced, which may
account for her nonsurprise."
"Really?" he said so warmly that she blushed a bit.
"Yes, I finished the book to-day. I was thinking it all over--this last
year. My new sense of getting somewhere, and of you--the big part you
play in it all. Have I ever told you how utterly grateful I am?"
He looked down at her, sunk among the cushions of the big couch, before
replying.
"I think you need not say it," he replied. "I have been so richly
rewarded in knowing you."
"Thanks, friend."
"You've been my secret garden this last year."
"Oh, that is nice of you," she interrupted, sensing an undercurrent of
feeling. "If I am your secret garden, you're my secret well, because
nobody knows about us."
"You haven't told them yet?"
"No. When the book comes out I shall give them each a copy, and run and
hide while they read it."
"Little girl," he smiled at her, "what do you think brought me down here
to-day?"
"No idea."
"Guess."
"Can't. Never guessed anything in my life."
He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
"I am to read this?"
He nodded. She opened it and read:
_"Mr. Richard Strong, New York City._
"My DEAR MR. STRONG: I have read, with very great interest, a serial
story, published in your magazine, entitled 'Francesca.' I feel that
there is the making of a delightful comedy in the plot of this novel,
and I write to ask you whether it would be possible for me to secure the
dramatic rights from the author. As the story is anonymous, I appeal to
you to put me in touch with the writer in question. I shall appreciate
an immediate reply.
"With thanks to you, in advance, Sincerely,
"CHARLES FROHMAN,
"Empire Theatre, New York City."
"Am I dreaming this? Does this mean my book?"
He smiled at her earnestness.
"It does. I came down to talk it over with you and see what you wanted
me to do."
"What do you think about it, yourself?"
"I think it's a great idea. It will advertise the book enormously. The
book will help the play. In the meantime, they both advertise you."
"A play made of my thoughts? It's too wonderful," said Bambi. "Do you
suppose he'd let me make the play?"
"I don't know. Would you like to? Do you think you could?"
"I do. I've learned lots through----" She stopped of a sudden, and gazed
at him. "Why, Jarvis must make the play, of course. Why didn't I
think of it?"