Chapter 10

"Certainly not in that sense. We publish a dozen magazines and this kind of thing doesn't fit any of them. We entertain the public--we rarely instruct them."

"I see. I'm obliged to you for your trouble. I'll try the _Atlantic_."

"Bring in some stories, light, entertaining stuff with a snap, and we will take them."

"Thanks! 'Fraid that isn't in my line."

Jarvis went over to the Public Library and deliberately studied the style of stuff used by the various monthly publications, making notes.

For the next few days he worked all day and a good part of the night on things he thought he could sell, according to these notes. Then he began a campaign to peddle them. The _Atlantic_ refused his drama articles, and he tried them elsewhere, with no success. The other things were equally a drug on the market. He saved postage by taking them to the editors' offices himself, and calling for them in ten days or so. He always found them ready for him. He took a cheaper room, and got down to one square meal a day. Finally, an opportunity came for him to review some books for a literary supplement of a newspaper. Confident that his luck had changed, he proceeded to demolish three out of the four books assigned to him in the most scathing reviews, whereupon the editor paid him half price and dismissed him.

The week when things reached the lowest ebb he was summoned by a postal from an acquaintance, made during one of his night prowls, an old English cabman. When he arrived at the address indicated he found the old man sick in bed with rheumatism. He wanted Jarvis to drive his hansom for a week, on a percentage, until he could get about again. There was no choice. It was that or the park benches, so Jarvis accepted. Old Hicks fitted, or rather misfitted, him in a faded blue tailed coat and a topper, Jarvis looked like an Otto Gushing cartoon of Apollo in the attire, but he never once thought of that. He hitched up the bony old horse, mounted the box, with full instructions as to traffic rules, and headed for the avenue. He found the new trade amusing. He drove ladies on shopping tours, took nurses and their charges around the Park. He did not notice that his face and manners caused many a customer to stare in astonishment. When one woman said audibly to her companion, "Good heavens! what a handsome creature!" he never dreamed she referred to him.

It was the fourth day of his employment as a cabby when a summons came from the Frohman offices bidding him appear at the theatre at eleven o'clock on the following day. It was embarrassing. Old Hicks was entirely dependent on what Jarvis brought in at night, and they could neither of them afford to have the cab idle a full day. So he decided to stop at the theatre in the morning, and then deduct his time off duty. Promptly at eleven the cab arrived at the Empire Theatre and Jarvis descended from the box. He gave the boy a cent to hold his horse, although nothing except a bushel of oats could have urged the old bone-rack into motion. Up to the booth window he marched, and presented the letter. The boy inspected the old blue coat, the topper, and the worn gloves.

"Character costume," he grinned: then he opened the letter, and his face changed.

"Excuse me, sir, I'll see if Mr. Frohman will see you."

He was out and back, almost at once, bowing and holding the door open.

"Right ahead, into the private office," he said, importantly. A clerk took charge of our hero at the far door, announcing formally, "Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn, Mr. Frohman."

Jarvis entered the big room and crossed eyes with the man at the far end. What Mr. Frohman saw was a tall, splendidly set-up youth, with a head held high, and a fearless, free carriage, attired in the very strange and battered habiliments of a cabby. What Jarvis saw was a fat little man, with a round face, sharp, twinkling eyes, and a genial mouth. The whole face had a humorous cast, a kindly expression.

"You are Jarvis Jocelyn?" said Mr. Frohman, as Jarvis reached him.

"I am."

"You wrote a play called 'Success'?"

"I did."

"I've read your play."

"That's good."

"Well, the play isn't," Frohman interrupted, "It is extremely bad, but there are some ideas in it, and one good part."

"The woman, you mean?"

"The woman nothing. She's a wooden peg to hang your ideas on. I mean the man she married."

"But he is so unimportant," Jarvis protested.

"He was important enough to get this interview. I never would have bothered with you, or with your play, if it hadn't been for that character. He's new."

"You want me to make him a bigger part in the play?"

"My advice is to throw this play in the wastebasket and write one about that man."

"Will you produce it if I do?"

"Probably not, but I'll look it over. What else have you done?"

"I have finished two things. One I call 'The Vision'--this is a Brotherhood of Man play--the other I call 'Peace,' and it's a dramatization of the Universal Peace idea."

"Why don't you write something human? Nobody wants dramatized movements. The public wants people, personalities, things we all know and feel. You can't get much thrill out of Universal Peace."

"But I believe the public should be taught."

"Yes, I know. I get all of you 'uplift boys' sooner or later. Teach them all you like, but learn your trade so thoroughly that they will have no idea that they are being taught. That is the function of the artist-playwright. What do you do besides write plays?"

"Just at present I drive a cab," Jarvis answered simply.

"You don't say? How does that happen?"

"I was up against it for money, and I took this to oblige a friend cabby who has rheumatism."

"'Pon my word! How long have you been at it?"

"This is my fifth day."

"Business good?" The manager's eyes twinkled. Jarvis smiled gravely.

"I have been wishing it would rain," he confessed.

"When do you write?"

"At night, now. But this is only temporarily."

"What do you think of my idea of another play?"

"The idea is all right, if you will only take it when I've done it."

"How long have you been at this play writing?"

"Three years."

"How long do you suppose it took me to learn to be a manager?"

"I don't know."

"Well, nearer three times ten than three years, and I am still learning. You writing fellows never want to learn your trade like other people. You talk about inspiration and uplifting the public, and all that, and you want to do it in six months. You go to work on this new idea, and come back here when you've finished it. Then it will be time enough to talk about my end of it."

Jarvis rose.

"I am obliged to you, sir. I shall do it."

Mr. Frohman held out his hand. "Good luck to you. I shall hope for rain."

"Thanks! Good morning, sir."

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?"

"Mr. Frohman would, no doubt, wish to choose the playwright, in case you didn't make the dramatic version yourself."

"But why couldn't Jarvis?"

"Jarvis is totally unknown, you know, and so far unsuccessful in playmaking. You could hardly expect Mr. Frohman to risk a tyro."

She looked at him indignantly. He rated Jarvis like a Dun's Agency.

"But I'm a tyro. Yet you think he might let me do it?"

"Excuse me, you are not a tyro. You are the author of one of the season's most-talked-of books. Your name, in a double rôle, on Mr. Frohman's three-sheets, will be a fine card."

"All I know about play writing I learned from Jarvis," she protested.

"Well, I didn't come to argue about Jarvis's ability or accomplishment, you know. Do you wish me to tell Frohman who you are, or will you come to town and see him yourself?"

"I'd love to go see him. Isn't this exciting?" she cried, as the full force of what she was saying came to her. "Oh, it's fun to do things, and be somebody, isn't it?"

"I don't know. I never tried it."

"You! How absurd! Distinguished you, saying that to a nouveau like me, when there would have been no me except for you."

"That's complicated, but delightful of you, no matter how untrue it is."

"It is true. If you hadn't happened to like the first story I happened to write, we would never be here discussing my first play, which Mr. Frohman happens to want. It's all you."

Mr. Strong suddenly leaned over her, so that she felt his breath on her hair.

"Francesca, if it only were all me," he said with unexpected passion. She looked up at him, frightened, amazed.

"Oh, you mustn't do that!" she breathed. He straightened up at once.

"You're right. I beg your pardon. 'Twas just a slip."

He took a turn up and down the room, and when he came back to the hearth rug he spoke in his usual matter-of-fact way.

"I am to make an appointment, then, for you, with Mr. Frohman, at his office?"

"If you will," she answered gratefully.

"When will you come to New York?"

"Any day you can get the appointment. The sooner the better."

"All right." He looked at his watch. "I must get that 5:40 back to New York."

"Oh, you'll stay to dinner, and spend the night?"

"No, thanks. I must get back."

"But the Professor will never forgive me."

"You must make a good case for me. I really must go."

She rose to give him her hand.

"It was so good of you to come with this wonderful news, that 'thank you' is inadequate."

"I thought we had agreed not to say 'thank you' to each other."

"You never have any occasion to say it to me," she smiled ruefully.

"Haven't I? I think you don't know----" She interrupted him nervously.

"Friends don't need thank-yous. We will discard them."

"Good! Can I be of service in getting you to Mr. Frohman's office?"

"Oh, no. Jarvis will take me."

"To be sure. For the moment I had forgotten Jarvis."

"I'll telephone you when I go to town, and find out about my plans."

"Thank you."

He took her hand and held it a moment.

"Forgive me when I seem a bad friend. Trust me."

"I do, Richard, I do."

"Oh, thank you. May I say Francesca?"

"If you like. No one ever calls me by that name."

"That's why I choose it. Good-bye. My regards to the father."

"Good-bye, friend. I'm ecstatic over your news."

"So am I over any news that brings you happiness. Good night."

After he left she sank down on the couch again, her brain awhirl of her new sensations and ideas. That Richard Strong had learned to care for her, during these months of intimate association over the story, came with as great a surprise as the astonishing demand of Mr. Frohman. Her own thoughts had been so free of sentiment in regard to him; she went over every step of their advancing friendship, asking herself how much she was to blame for his outburst. She had only exerted her wiles for histrionic purposes on the occasion of his first visit. He certainly could not have misunderstood her intentions, then, when she had deliberately explained them to him. After close examination she exonerated herself.

Then, and only then, was she free to indulge her thoughts in the joyous news he had brought her. Chin on hand, before the fire, she worked it out. She and Jarvis would write the play together, together they would go through all the exciting stages of rehearsal and trying out, together they would make their bow before the curtain and their first-night's speech. She decided what kind of frock she would wear. It was all picturesque and successful. She never faced the possibility of failure. Jarvis's name would be made as a playwright. At the thought that she was to bring him his opportunity at last, she flushed and smiled, though her eyes misted.

Then she began to plan how she would tell it to Jarvis, the story of her adventuring into the new field, her swift success, and now this last laurel leaf. Suddenly a new idea lifted its head. Suppose Jarvis refused to come into his own, under her mantle, as it were? He would be proud and glad for her, of course, but maybe he would resent taking his first chance from her hands. With knitted brow she pondered that for some time. The more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that even though he accepted it, and showed gratitude, deep down in his heart would be the feeling that he would be only contributing to her success, that was in no way his own. Long she sat, and finally she laughed, nodded her head, and clapped her hands.

"Oh, yes, that's the way!" said she.

The Professor came in upon her at this point.

"Are you saying an incantation, my dear?"