Part 120

"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.