Chapter 8

The automobile trip lasted four days instead of two, and he spent them in a fret of impatience. He worked at the third act, sure of her approval. On the fifth day she received him. She liked the idea of the second act--she would have none of the new third act. At the end of his enthusiastic sketch of how it would run, the reading of new scenes, the telling of new business, she yawned slightly, and said she didn't like it at all. Unless he could get a good third act, she wouldn't care for the piece. He assured her this would be a good third act when it was worked up. No use working it up. She knew now she would never like it. Jarvis rose.

"I will submit the new third act to-morrow. Have you any suggestions you wish to incorporate?"

"Oh, no. If I could write plays, I would not be acting them. It's easier and more lucrative to write."

"I don't find it easy enough to be a bore," replied Jarvis. "I will be here at eleven to-morrow."

"Make it three."

"Very well, three."

"Some of the pinches," he muttered as he climbed the bus to go back to his hot hall bedroom, his mind a blank, and only twenty-five hours in which to work out a new third act.

He stripped for action and worked until midnight. Then he foraged on Fourth Avenue for food at an all-night cafe patronized by car-men, chauffeurs, and messenger boys. He ate ravenously. Afterward he swung downward to Madison Square Park, to stretch his tired body. The stars were very bright, but a warm wind crowded people on to the streets. A restless, aimless crowd of strollers! Several of them spoke to Jarvis. Many of them marked him. But he paid no attention to individuals. His mind was full of the whole picture. Mile after mile of narrow streets between blocks of stone and brick and wood. Thousands of people tramping the miles like so many animals driven from the jungle by fire or flood. This men called civilization--this City of Stone Blocks! How far was it from the jungle? Hunger, thirst, lust, jealousy, anger, courage, and cowardice--these were the passions of both fastnesses. How far was Man from his blood brother, the Wolf?

He reached the green square, and started to cross it. On every bench, crowded together, huddled the sleepers. He walked slowly, and looked at them closely. Most of them were old--old men and old women--warped out of all semblance to human beings, their hideous faces and crooked bodies more awful in the abandon of sleep. Some young ones there were, too: a thin boy with a cough; a tired girl of the streets, snatching a moment of sleep before she went about her trade. It was like some fantastic dream.

"Softlings! Poor softlings!" Jarvis muttered, Bambi's words coming back to him. The tawdry little girl stirred, saw him, spoke to him, her hand upon his arm.

"Go get a decent bed, child," he said, giving her some money.

Her eyes shone at him in the half light like Bambi's, and he shuddered. As she sped away a sudden rage possessed him. Why did they endure, these patient beasts? They numbered thousands upon thousands, these down-and-outs. Why did they not stand together, rise up, and take? Why didn't he shout them awake, and lead them himself? "Gimme a nickel to get a drink?" whined a voice at his elbow.

"Here, you, move on!" said the policeman, roughly, arousing Jarvis from his trance.

On the way uptown to his room he thought it over. If they could organize and stand together, they wouldn't be what they were. It was because they were morally and physically disintegrated that they were derelicts. This waste was part of the price we must pay for commercial supremacy, for money power, for--oh, sardonic jest!--for a democracy.

He went back to work with squared shoulders, and worked until dawn. At three the next afternoon he again presented himself to the Parke butler. Madame was indisposed, could see no one. Mr. Jocelyn was to come the next day at three.

This time he wasted no energy in rage at the delay. He began to see that this was no sham battle on a green hillside of a summer's day, but a real hand-to-hand fight. It was to place him, for all time, at the head of the regiment or with the discards. He had believed that what he had to say was the most important thing, that this errand Bambi had sent him on was a stupid interruption. But all at once he saw it straight. This was his fight, here and now. He would not go back to her until he had won. He must find the way to finance himself in the meantime. No more provisions from the Professor or his daughter. As he made his way downtown he thought over all the possibilities of making enough to live on. He had never bothered his head about it before. Like the sparrow, he had been provided for. But something of his arrogant demanding of life seemed to have fled, a sort of terror had been planted in him by that view of the park-bench sleepers.

How he wished Bambi were here to advise him, to laugh at him, or with him! The thought of her was constantly creeping into his mind, to be shoved out by a determined effort of his will. He told himself he was becoming as boneless as the Professor, who relied on her for everything. That night he wrote to her:

"I seem to have come to my senses to-day for the first time. Queer how a man can go on walking, talking, and thinking in his sleep. I don't know why I should have wakened up to-day, but a walk I took last night at midnight stirred something in me. And a futile attempt to see Miss Harper to-day did the rest. You saw clearly, as you so often do. This is my fight, right here and now. I must make somebody believe in this play and produce it. It may take a long time--months, perhaps--but I must stay and face it out.

"I wanted you sorely to-night, Miss Mite, to talk it over with me. I am always coming upon things I want to talk over with you, these days. You have such a decided way of seeing things.

"I shall not be needing any more money, because I am about to make something, on the side, for myself. Keep the Black Maria, and when the play goes we will have a mighty reckoning. I am not going to say thanks for what you and the Professor have done for me. I am going to act thanks.

"I shall read the scenario of the third act to Miss Harper to-morrow, the gods and the lady permitting. This is the _third_ third act. I trust it will be 'three and out,' or, rather, three and on. My regards to the Professor and you. It is very hot here, and I relax by thinking myself in the arithmetical garden. It seems years ago since I was there. Has the Professor laid out any new figures? I think the 'X' bed ought to be wild orchids. He will understand."

He took the letter out to mail, and went for another walk. The night crowds began to interest him. He planned to take a different walk every night, and learn something of this city which he was setting out to conquer.

The next morning he went from one newspaper office to another trying to get a job. His lack of experience handicapped him everywhere. Cub reporters were as thick as summer flies. He walked, to save carfare.

At three he gained admittance to Miss Harper and read her the new scenario. She decided that she liked the second one better. He arranged to go to work on it at once, so that she might have Mr. Parke read it before she sailed. The siren Hope sang a happy song to Jarvis as he swung down the drive. He had the golden apple in his grasp this time.

"I'm coming, oh, you people," he apostrophized them with his old assurance. "You'll hear from me soon!"

He celebrated his coming fortune with a fifty-cent table d'hôte, to which he did full justice. Up in the hot hall bedroom he took stock of ammunition. If he went light on food, he could afford to keep right at the play until he finished it. He estimated just what amount he could spend a day, and divided up his cash into the daily portion, each in an envelope. He purchased an alcohol stove and a coffee-pot, and set to work.

There were only twelve days in which to do or die, and he went at it in a frenzy. Day faded into night, night faded into day, marked only by the thumping of the outraged chambermaid, at whom he thundered. When he remembered, he dashed out for food, but for the most part he drank coffee, and more coffee.

Once he went for a long walk. He could never remember, afterward, whether it was day or night. But during it he thought out a new scene, and ran miles to get back and get it down. He grew thinner and more hollow-eyed each day, but he cared for nothing but accomplishing this thing. He knew the act was good. He felt sure Miss Harper would like it.

At dawn of the day he was to finish it he rushed into a dairy lunch to get a sandwich and a glass of milk. While he waited for the heavy-eyed clerk to get it, he picked up a morning paper. The date caught his eye. This was his last day of grace, sure enough. He must call up and get an appointment for the afternoon, for Miss Harper would be sailing to-morrow. Idly his eye travelled across the page, and suddenly was riveted by a headline: "Bertram Parke and his wife, Helen Harper, sail on the Mauretania to-day. They will hasten to London, to sign a contract for a play for Miss Harper by Galsworthy, which will be produced in New York immediately on her return."

The print blurred before Jarvis's eyes. Everything swayed and swam. Out of the chaos came the voice of the tired clerk, shouting: "Say, you, what's the matter with you? Can't you take your sandwich? Think I'm going to hold it all day?"

Jarvis didn't understand him. He didn't even hear him. He just laid down his last quarter and went out, a bit unsteadily.

"Soused!" grinned the clerk, looking after him.

XV

Bambi sat, chin on hand, staring off into the distance so long that the Professor's attention was finally attracted to her. She held Jarvis's letter in her hand--his call-to-arms letter.

"No bad news, I hope?" ventured her father.

"Oh, no; good news. The best. Jarvis is alive!"

"Why, you didn't think he was dead?"

"Yes, in a sense he was dead."

"Strange I never noticed it."

"I mean that he was only fully alive to himself. He was dead to other people. He has been dangerously self-centred."

"And now----"

"Now many hands are knocking at his postern gate!"

"What enigmatic things you do say, my child!"

"Don't you understand? Jarvis has built a high wall about himself, his precious self. He was a sort of superman, called to sit in a high tower and dream, to think, to formulate a message to the world. No claims of earth were allowed to enter in."

"But you climbed over the wall? You were a claim of earth?"

"You know how I sneaked in when he wasn't looking."

"If you could read me the letter, Bambina, or such portions of it as are not private, I might understand better what you are trying to say."

"I'll read it to you. It's none of it private. He has nothing private to say to me."

The Professor composed himself to listen, while she read Jarvis's long screed aloud. At the end he, too, sat thoughtfully a few moments, his finger tips neatly matched in church steeples before him.

"I'm sometimes amazed at your judgment," he said.

"Why my judgment?"

"I never would have seen any possibilities, myself, in the Jarvis whom you married."

"Speaking of cryptic remarks----"

"I was trying to convey to your mind my belief that he may turn out a real man."

"Oh, Jarvis was a good investment. I knew it at the time. Poor old thing, he's frightfully lonesome."

"He ought to come home for a while, on a visit. I am saving several topics for disagreement."

"No, it's better for him to stick it out. No human being ever treated Jarvis like this Miss Harper is treating him, and it's fine for him."

"Aren't you rather Spartan, my dear?"

"I am. I have felt all along that I had pushed him overboard before I was sure he could swim. Now I know he can."

"You may tell him for me that our agreement was for two years, and it holds good."

"I don't know what your agreement was, Herr Professor, but if it had money in it, cancel it. I want him to learn that lesson, too."

"Poor old Jarvis!"

"Don't you poor old Jarvis me. Remember the abuse you heaped on him when I married him. I want him to be practical!"

The Professor rose and started for the garden.

"It's your own affair, my dear."

The outcome of Bambi's thoughts was a letter to Mr. Strong. She invited him to spend the weekend with her father and herself, to talk over the book and other things. She added that she hoped that he would prepare himself with data about the thirteen sisters, because her father would be primed with questions about them. Mr. Strong's acceptance came by return mail, and he, himself, followed Saturday morning.

Bambi met him, as on the other occasion, and at sight of his cordial smile she suddenly felt as if he were an old friend.

"I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed in her impulsive way.

Mr. Strong shook her hand vigorously.

"It's mutual, I may say," and he fell into step. "Bless this old town, it's like----"

"A soporific," she supplied, and joined his laugh.

"How's the Professor? And my old friend Jarvis?"

"The Professor is in a quiver of expectation to talk sisters with you."

"Good! I am ready for him. And Jarvis?"

"Jarvis was the 'other things' I asked you here to talk about."

"I see."

"He's in New York."

"He is? Why didn't he look me up?"

"He doesn't like you."

"He took us seriously the other day?"

"He did."

"Jealous, is he? That isn't why he is in New York?"

"Oh, no! He went to sell a play."

"Belasco refused it?"

"Yes, and two others. The Parkes have it now. They are going to take it."

"That's good."

"Jarvis may have to stay in the city for some time. He doesn't know any one. He hates cities. I suspect he is economizing too much to be comfortable. I thought maybe you would look him up--keep an eye on him."

"I should be delighted to, if you think he doesn't dislike me too much."

"Oh, no, he was annoyed that day we flirted so outrageously, but I know he would be glad to see you."

"I had a wonderful time that day, myself."

"It was fun. Everybody was so at cross purposes."

"Do I continue the rôle of old beau?"

"Oh, no. You've established yourself with father, so there's no use in playing up."

"Old beau exit with regret," he sighed.

"You're a nice man, and I'm glad of you."

"Thanks. Give me Jocelyn's address before you forget it. Ah, there's the Professor now," he added, as he pocketed the card and hastened into the garden.

The rest of the two days they spent in easy companionship. They played tennis, they drove through the woods in an old surrey, Bambi as whip. Then, when the Professor's early bedtime removed him to the second story, they sat on the moonlit piazza and talked.

The novel had grown into ten chapters. Three instalments had been published, and the public was showing a most flattering interest in it. Strong brought a box of letters for her to read from enthusiastic readers.

"It's extraordinary how real you make your characters when you are such a novice," he said to her.

"I tell you I am a photographer. The musician in my story is Jarvis, with a thin disguise. The old fiddler is my father, and the girl is shamelessly 'me.'"

"Delightfully you," he corrected her. "Has the Professor or your husband read any of your stories?"

"No. They never read magazines. Jarvis saw the announcement of the prize story, and commented on the use of my name, but I threw him off the scent easily."

"I don't see why you don't 'fess' up, now that the thing is an established success."

"No, not yet. It's such a lovely secret. I want to wait for just the moment to spring it on them."

"Couldn't you invite me in when that moment comes?"

"We'll see. I may invite the neighbours in, and crown myself with a laurel wreath."

"I'd rely on your doing it in a novel way."

"The surest way of being considered eccentric is just to be yourself. So few of us have the nerve."

They talked late. He told her his plans and hopes for the magazine. He spoke of his people, of his past life, of his preparation for his work, and when the clock finally interrupted with twelve strokes, they arose, nearer friends than ever.

After Strong's departure Bambi wrote Jarvis to prepare him for the friendly visit:

"You'll remember Richard Strong, the brother of Maryland and the thirteen sisters? He came to spend the weekend with us, and expressed such disappointment at your absence that I gave him your address so he could look you up. Do be nice to him. I am sure you will like him when you get to know him. He is a fine, sensible fellow. He might find something for you to do on a magazine, if you wanted it. I did not speak to him about it, thinking you could do it best yourself, if you chose to. We had a pleasant two days' visit--much talk, tennis, drives, and more talk. It seemed to please and rest him, and we enjoyed him greatly. The Professor has taken a great liking to him.

"By the time this reaches you, you will have read the new third act to your leading lady. I feel so confident that she is going to like it. Wire me when she accepts. I can't wait for a letter. Good luck and congratulations, from both of us.

"BAMBI."

"P.S. Will you come home after the contract is signed?"

She tripped down to the corner in the moonlight to mail the letter, congratulating herself that she had handled the report of Mr. Strong's visit with great tact. She recalled Jarvis's unexpected jealousy with a smile. Where was he at this moment? Tossing in a hot bedroom, or prowling the streets, as he seemed prone to do these nights?

She pondered the processes which made success so easy for some people--hers, for instance, a happy accident--while others, Jarvis-like, had to be tied to the wheel before the fickle goddess released them and crowned them. Was it all chance? Or was there some big plan back of it all? Was she spared this incarnation that she might strive harder in the next? Was Jarvis expiating for past immunity? It was all a tangle, surely, to our mortal eyes.

She gave it up, snapped off her light, and went to bed. A shaft of silver, like a prayer rug, lay across the floor.

"Lady Moon, shine softly on my Knight of the Broken Lance," she whispered, as she closed her eyes.

XVI

There was a faint idea in Jarvis's mind, as he staggered out of the all-night lunch, of swimming after the Mauretania to overtake the Parkes. Then his wandering senses collected themselves. He realized that the vessel did not sail until eleven, or thereabouts; that there were still several hours before that.

He hurried back to his room, dressed carefully, took the manuscript, and started out. It never occurred to him to telephone. Arrived at the house, the butler informed him that the Parkes had left in the motor at 8:30. No word had been left for Mr. Jocelyn.

Jarvis's jaw was set as he started downtown. He went to the wharf where the steamer lay, but there was only fifteen minutes left before her sailing. It was impossible to find out anything from anybody. So, with a sardonic calm, he watched the steamer slowly loosing from the wharf and making her stately exit.

On the way uptown he made up his mind as to the next move. He would begin action to-day on the Charles Frohman forces. He must also try to find a job. His resources were about exhausted.

At the Empire Theatre, where the king of managers rules, there was actually an elevator to carry one up to the throne room and its antechambers. At a window, in a sort of cashier's booth, a boy received Jarvis's manuscript, numbered and entered it on the file.

"How soon will it be read?" Jarvis asked.

"Oh, six weeks or so," said the youth.

"No possible chance of seeing Mr. Frohman?"

"Only by appointment. He is in Europe now."

Jarvis relinquished his precious bundle and departed. It occurred to him, when he reached the street, that part of his depression was from hunger. He bought a sandwich and coffee at a Childs restaurant. Later, he went into a drug store and looked up magazine offices in the telephone book. Then he set out. From _Collier's_ to the _Cosmopolitan_ is many a weary mile. And Jarvis walked it, visiting all the intervening offices.

In only one case did he get to the editor. Mr. Davis, of _Munsey's_, let him come in, and was decent to him, promised to read anything he sent in at once, took his address, and made him feel like a human being. Many a young writer besides Jarvis has to thank Mr. Bob Davis for just such a bit of encouragement. For the most part, he saw clerks or secretaries who made excuses for the editor, took his name and address with the same old "Come in again." Out in the hot sun the pavement wavered and melted into hillocks before his dizzy eyes. So he went back to the hot bedroom, which seemed, all at once, a haven of rest.

He threw himself on the hard bed and was asleep in a second. It seemed aeons later that he was dragged up from the depths of slumber by continued pounding on his door. The slattern chambermaid announced that a gentleman wished to see him. He called to her it must be a mistake. He didn't know any gentlemen.

"'E h'ast for Jarvis Jocelyn. 'Ere's 'is card," she retorted, opening the door and marching to the bed with it.

"Richard Strong. Tell him I'm out."

"Hi've already said you was in. Hi see you come hup."

"The devil! Where is he?"

"Coolin' 'is 'eels in the 'all."

"Say I'll be down in a minute. Ask him to wait."

"Hi get you," said she, and clomped out.

Then Jarvis's eye fell on Bambi's letter on his table, unopened. It must have come the day before, when he was lost in his play. He glanced through it. At the mention of Strong's visit he frowned. He read that part twice. There was no doubt of it. Strong had the only chance with her. He made no secret of his devotion to her, and the probabilities were that now that he, Jarvis, was out of the way, she would realize how much she cared for Strong.

"Well, what is, is," he muttered. He'd have no favours from Strong, though, that was sure.

Twenty minutes later, shaved and dressed, he descended upon his guest, who sat in torment, on a hall-tree shelf, in Stygian darkness.

"How do you do?" said Jarvis, stiffly. "Sorry to keep you waiting in this hole of Calcutta."

"How are you, Jocelyn?" said Strong, cordially. "Your wife gave me your address, and I thought you might save me from a deadly evening by dining with me at Claremont."

"Thank you, I have dined," replied Jarvis.

"So early? Well, come with me while I get a bite somewhere, and we will go to a show, or hear some music."

"Much obliged. I am engaged for the evening."

"Oh, that's a pity. Your wife told me you were a friendless stranger in a foreign land, so I lost no time in coming to look you up."

"Very kind of you."

"I had a charming weekend in the country. We missed you very much."

"Indeed?"

"You're a lucky chap, Jocelyn. Your wife is one of the most enchanting women I ever met. She is unique."

"I am glad she pleases you."

"My dear fellow, I hope I haven't annoyed you. I meant no disrespect in complimenting you on Mrs. Jocelyn's charm."

"You made your admiration a trifle conspicuous the last time I saw you," said Jarvis in a rage.

"I apologize, I assure you. I bid you good night."

"Unmannerly boor," was Strong's comment as he turned toward the avenue.

"Hope that settles Mr. Richard Strong," fumed Jarvis as he turned away from the avenue.

Two letters were written Bambi that night concerning this meeting. Mr. Strong wrote:

"DEAR LADY: I cannot possibly tell you how much of the fragrance of the garden, and of you, stays with me even in the heat and ugliness of New York. I am so grateful to you and the Professor for your hospitality and your friendship.