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?"