Bambi
at home when he returned. He could not find a piece to fit into the
puzzle at this point. He went over their joint work on the book--her
book. He understood, now, how she was so sure of every move, why she
knew her characters so well. What a blind fool he had been not to see
that Francesca was herself! How she had played with him about that, too.
How she drew him out about the other characters. He stopped in his
tracks as the last blow fell. The musician was intended for a study of
him--that hazy, impossible dreamer, with his half-baked, egotistical
theories of his own divine importance. Why, in God's name, had she
married him if that was her opinion of him? His brain beat it over and
over, to the click of his heels on the pavement.
The fiddler was the Professor, of course. Any one but a blind man would
have seen it. So she had made mock of them, the two men nearest to her,
for all the world to laugh at! That she wanted to punish him for not
coming up to her expectations, that he could understand, but why had she
betrayed the Professor whom she loved?
He reviewed the period of rehearsals--her sure touch revealed again. She
knew every move. She even saw herself so clearly that she could correct
the actress in a false move. She had held herself up for public
inspection, too. He had to admit that. It seemed so shameless to him, so
lacking in reserve.
He urged his mind on to the night now passing, the night he had looked
forward to, for so many months, as the first white stone along the road
to success. Well, it had been a success, but none of his. Bambi's--all
Bambi's. She had conceived the book, worked out the play, and rehearsed
it, to a triumphant issue. It was all hers! The only part he could claim
was that Frohman had sent for him. But had he? Was it possible he had
only humoured Bambi in her desire to give him a chance? He would find
out the truth about that, and if it were so, he could never forgive her.
He saw her coming toward him in reply to the calls for "Author!" her
eyes fixed on him, shining and expectant! What had she wanted him to do?
Was it possible she expected him to be pleased?
Broad daylight found him far up toward the Bronx, weary, footsore, and
hungry. When he came to himself he realized that he must send some word
to the club of his whereabouts. He wrote a message to Bambi:
"I shall not come back to-day. I cannot. You have hurt me very deeply.
"JARVIS."
He put a special delivery stamp on it and mailed it. He found some
breakfast, and went into the Bronx Park, where he sat down under the
bare trees to face himself.
In the meantime Bambi, after a sleepless night, was up betimes. At
breakfast she protested that she was not at all worried. Jarvis had no
doubt decided to celebrate the success in the usual masculine way. He
would come home later, with a headache.
"But Jarvis isn't a drinking man, is he?" the Professor inquired.
"No, but it's the way men always celebrate, isn't it?"
The Professor wanted the whole story of the writing of the book, the
prize winning, Mr. Frohman's order, and all, so, after breakfast, she
made a clean breast of it, and they laughed over it for a couple of
hours. Then Jarvis's message came. Her face quivered as she read it.
"What is it, dear? Is it Jarvis?"
She nodded, the slow tears falling.
"He isn't hurt?"
"Not physically hurt, but I've hurt his feelings. Oh, Daddy, I've made
such a mess of it. I wanted to be dazzled by my success, because he
thinks I'm a helpless sort of thing, and now he only hates me for it."
She broke down and wept bitterly. The Professor, distressed and
helpless, took her into his arms and petted her.
"There, there, Baby, it will work out all right. Just let us go home,
where we're used to things, and everything will look different."
"Yes, that's it, we'll all go home," sobbed Bambi, wiping her eyes.
"Where is Jarvis?"
"I don't know. But I can leave word for him here that we've gone back
home."
"Then we can get the two o'clock train. Nothing but misery comes to
people in these cities."
By dint of much hurry they caught the train, Ardelia protesting up to
the moment when the train started that they couldn't possibly make it.
Bambi sat, chin on hand, all the way, a sad, pale-faced figure. No one
could suspect, to see her now, that she had been the brilliant
flame-thing of the night before. Once the Professor patted her hand and
she tried to smile at him, but it wasn't much of a success.
When they entered the house, and Ardelia bustled about to get them some
tea, Bambi sat dejectedly, with all her things on, among the
travelling-bags.
"Be of good courage, little daughter," her father said.
"Oh, Father Professor, are the fruits of success always so bitter--so
bitter?" she cried to him.
XXX
The first week of the play went by, and it was an assured success. The
royalty for the first seven days was a surprise, which would have thrown
Bambi into raptures under ordinary circumstances. But the Bambi of these
days and rapture were no longer playmates.
There had been no word from Jarvis since that time of the first brief
message. Bambi went about the house a thin, white-faced, little ghost,
with never a song or a smile.
"Fo' Gawd, Perfessor, it makes me cry to look at Miss Bambi, an' I don'
dare ask her what's de mattah."
"I think we must just let her alone, Ardelia. She'll work this thing out
for herself." But he, too, was alarmed at the change in her.
The more she thought of how she had thrown away Jarvis's love, the more
she lacerated herself with reproaches. Her fatal love of play-acting had
brought her sorrow this time. How could she have done it? Why didn't she
see that Jarvis would never understand what made her do it, that he
would resent it.
Some days she was in a fury at him for not understanding her. Other days
she wanted him so that she could scarcely refrain from taking a train to
New York and looking for him. In her sane moments she knew that the only
thing she could do now was to wait.
Richard Strong came down to dine and spend the night, and one thing he
said added to her misery.
"Jarvis stayed in town, didn't he?" he remarked.
"Yes."
"Looking after things there, I suppose? I passed him on the street
yesterday, but he didn't see me."
"You passed him yesterday?" breathlessly.
"Yes. The opening and the strain of the rehearsal knocked him out,
didn't it? He looked as gaunt as a monk."
"Jarvis takes things very seriously."
"By the way, how did he take your joke?"
She looked directly at him and answered frankly: "He didn't think it was
funny at all."
"Oh, that's a pity."
"I'm through with jokes, Richard, through with them for all time," she
said, her lips quivering.
"Oh, no--try one on me, I'd like it," he laughed to cover her emotion,
and changed the subject quickly.
When he returned to town he called up the Frohman offices, asking for
Jarvis's address. He was still at the National Arts Club, they assured
him. So that evening he presented himself there unannounced. He found
Jarvis alone in the reading-room, a book open before sightless eyes. He
rose to greet Strong, with evident reluctance.
"I'm glad to find you, Jocelyn. I have something particular to say to
you."
"So? Sit down, won't you?"
"I've just come back from Sunnyside, where I spent the night. I wanted
to settle the details of your wife's next serial."
"Yes."
"Have you seen her since the opening night?"
"No."
"I think she is either very ill, or very unhappy, possibly both. She
seems such a frail little thing that one dreads any extra demands on
her. I knew you stayed on to look after the business here, of course....
You know the dear, blind, old Professor. Naturally you are the person to
look after her, and I thought it would be just like her not to say a
word to you about it all, so here I am, playing tame cat, carrying
tales. Go down to-night, Jocelyn, and take that girl away somewhere."
"They think she's ill?" Jarvis repeated.
"She looks it to me. If she were my wife, I'd be alarmed."
He rose as he finished, and Jarvis rose, too. They looked each other in
the eyes.
"Thank you!" said Jarvis.
He suddenly realized, without words of any kind, that this man suffered
as he did, because he, too, loved Bambi. He was big enough to come to
her husband with news of her need. By a common impulse their hands met
in a warm hand-clasp.
"She needs you, Jocelyn," Strong said.
"You're a good friend, Strong," Jarvis answered.
When he had gone, Jarvis hurried to his room and began to pack his bag.
His heart beat like a trip-hammer with excitement. He was going to
Bambi! She needed him. He had endured a week of the third degree,
practised upon himself. He had peered into every nook and corner of his
own soul. He knew himself for a blind, selfish egotist. He was ready now
to fling his winter garments of repentance into the fires of spring. He
understood himself, though Bambi baffled him more than ever. Never mind.
She needed him. Strong said so--and he was going to her.
He was at the station an hour before the train left, pacing up and down
the platform like an angry lion. Aboard the sleeper, and on the way, he
tossed and turned in his berth in wakefulness. At dawn he was up and
dressed, to sit in a fever of impatience while the landscape slowly slid
by the car window.
At Sunnyside he hurried along the deserted street, where only the
milkman wound his weary way in the early morning. There was a hint of
spring in the air, fresh and exhilarating, with a faint earth smell.
The house lay, with closed blinds, still asleep. He let himself in with
his latch-key, dropped his bag, hat, and coat in the hall, and rushed
upstairs to Bambi's rooms. No hesitation now. He would storm the citadel
in truth. He opened her bedroom door softly and peered in. It was
unknown country to him. The bed was empty. He entered and walked swiftly
to the door beyond, where he heard a faint crackling, as of a fire
burning. At the door he paused.
She was crouched before a fire, cross-legged, her face cupped on her
hands. In her pink robe and cap she looked more like a child than ever.
She half turned her head, as if feeling his presence, so he saw how pale
she was, how black the circles round her eyes.
"My little love!" he cried to her. "My little love!"
She sprang to her feet, facing him; her hands went swiftly to her heart,
as if a spasm shook her. As Jarvis came toward her, a great light in his
face, she put her hands out to fend him off.
"I want you to know that I realize just how silly and cheap and
theatrical I've been. I didn't mean to hurt you," she began in a
monotone, as if it tired her too much to speak. He tried to stop her,
but she shook her head.
"I have to say it all now. I cared so much when you came home that time,
and after the first night I thought you didn't care for me."
"My best beloved, let me----"
"No, no--please. I was piqued and angry and I thought I could punish you
by pretending to be the other woman you thought you were writing to. I
wanted to make you care for her, and then----"
"It was you I cared for--you, you, you!"
"I thought that, when you knew I was both of us, you'd be so glad----" She
broke off into a sob.
"I am, dearest, I am."
"I never meant to hurt you. This week has nearly killed me."
He took her into his arms, and sat in the big chair, holding her close,
while she clung to him and sobbed out her heart. He kissed her hair, her
wet eyes, and her lips, saying over and over, "Oh, littlest, I love you
so, I love you so!" When the sobs ceased, he lifted her face to his.
"I want to see the shine in your eyes, dearest, and then I want you to
listen to me."