Bambi (Cooke)/Chapter 19
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 non-surprise.”
“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,
“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?”
“No, offering thanks to the gods.”
“For what?”
“For the most unconscionable luck.”
“In what form, may I ask?”
“Look at me!” she ordered.
He fixed his faded eyes on her closely.
“I see you.”
“See how pretty I am?”
“You’re not bad-looking.”
“Bad-looking? I’m extremely near to being a beauty. Look at the father I have—distinguished, delightful!”
“Oh, my dear!”
“Look at the husband the gods gave me!”
“Yes, your long-distance husband.”
“Look at Ardelia! Who ever heard of such a cook? Consider my brains.”
“There, I grant you.”
“Besides that, I am the sole possessor of a secret which is too perfectly delicious to be true.”
“Do you intend to tell this secret to me?”
“Yes, as soon as it is ripe.”
She caught his hands and whirled him about.
“Oh, Professor, Professor, you ought to be very glad that you are related to me!”
“Bambina, one moment. I dislike being jerked around like a live jumping-jack.”
“It’s evident I didn’t get my dancing talents from you, old centipede. Sit down, and I’ll dance a joy dance.”
She pushed him on the couch, and began a wild, fantastic dance on the hearth rug before him, the firelight flashing through the thin, gray draperies. Even the Professor breathed a little faster as the lithe figure swayed and bent and curved into wonderful lines, which melted ever into new ones. It was young, elemental joy, every step of it; sexless, no Bacchante dance, but rather a pæon of ecstasy, such as a dryad might have danced in the woods. At the climax she stood poised, her arms lifted in exultation. Then she dropped beside him.
“My child!” he exclaimed. “That was most extraordinary! Where did you learn it?”
“Ages back, when I lived in a tree.”
“It must be a happy secret to make you dance like that.”
“Oh,” said she, snuggling up to him, putting her head on his shoulder, “it is the gayest, pleasantest, hopefulest secret a girl ever had. If I don’t hold my hands over my mouth, it will break out of me.”
“Does Jarvis know?”
“Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows,
You, nor he, nor nobody knows!”
she laughed. “It’s going to be the most amusing moment of my life when I spring it on the two of you.”
“When is that to be?”
“Curiosity is death to mathematicians,” she warned him, nor could he extract another word from behind the hand she held over her laughing mouth.