Bambi (Cooke)/Chapter 27
XXVII
DRESS rehearsal was called at midnight, as two of the principals were playing in other theatres. There was an air of suspense and confusion on the stage, where the new sets were being put on, which threw Jarvis into a cold sweat of terror. It only added one degree to Bambi’s mounting excitement. She and Jarvis made their way to the front of the house, where Mr. Frohman, the leader of the orchestra, and a few other people interested in the production were assembled.
“I never realized before how many people, how much work and money and brain go into the production of the simplest comedy for one night’s amusement,” she said to Mr. Frohman.
“And yet managers are always blamed because they don’t take more chances on new playwrights,” he smiled.
“Jarvis looks as if he were walking to the guillotine, doesn’t he?”
“It is a strain, isn’t it, Jocelyn? You get used to it after a few first-nights.”
Jarvis nodded, wetting his dry lips with a nervous tongue.
The curtain went down and came up. The first act began. Bambi scarcely breathed. Jarvis could be heard all over the house. The first part of the act hitched along and had to be repeated; the stage manager came out and scolded, while Mr. Frohman called directions from the front. Bambi turned to Jarvis.
“It’s going to be a failure,” she said.
“Oh, don’t say that!” he fairly groaned.
“Don’t be discouraged!” said Mr. Frohman, noting their despairing looks. “Dress rehearsals are usually the limit.”
“But it can’t go like this, and succeed,” Bambi wailed.
“Don’t you worry. It won’t go like this.”
The night wore on, miserably, for the authors. Everything had to be done over—lines were forgotten—everybody was in a nervous stew.
“The awful part of it is that we’ve done all we can do,” moaned Bambi. “If they ruin it, we can’t prevent them.”
“We’ll make them rehearse all day to-morrow,” said Jarvis, fiercely. “They were better than this two weeks ago.”
The end of the agony finally came. The stage manager assembled the weary company and gave them a few select and sarcastic remarks as to their single and collective failure. Mr. Frohman added a few words, and ordered them all to dismiss the play from their minds until the morrow night. Bambi tried to say a word of encouragement and thanks to them, but in the midst of it she broke down and wept.
“Take her home and keep her in bed to-morrow, Jocelyn,” Mr. Frohman said.
Jarvis hurried her into a cab, and she sobbed softly all the way home. He made no effort to touch her or comfort her; he was in torment himself. At the club he ordered eggnog and sandwiches sent to her room, whither he followed her, helpless to cope with her tears.
She threw her things off and bathed her eyes, while he set out the table for the food. When the boy appeared with it, Jarvis led her to her chair and served her. She smiled mistily at him.
“It’s nerves and excitement and overwork,” she explained. He nodded.
“If it failed now, it would be too awful,” he said.
“Don’t say that word; don’t even think it!” she cried.
“You mustn’t care so much,” he begged her.
“Don’t you care?”
“Of course, more than you know. But I am prepared for failure, if it comes.”
“I can’t be prepared for it. It cannot happen!” she sobbed.
He stood looking down at her helplessly.
“What can I do for you? What is it you want?” he demanded gently.
“I want to be rocked,” she sobbed.
“To be—”
She pushed him into a big chair, and climbed into his arms.
“Rocked,” she finished.
He held her a minute closely, then he rose and set her down.
“I can’t do it,” he began. “I have something to tell you that must be said—”
“Not to-night, Jarvis, I’m too tired.”
“Yes, to-night, before another hour passes. Sit down there, please.”
She obeyed, curiously.
“Do you remember Christmas Eve, when I came home?”
“Yes.”
“Did you notice anything different about me?”
“How, different?”
“Did it occur to you that I cared about you, for the first time?”
“I— I— suspicioned it a little.”
“Then you deliberately ignored it because you did not want my love?”
“I— I— didn’t mean to ignore it.”
“But you did.”
“I wasn’t sure; you never spoke of it, never said you cared. After that first night I thought I must have been mistaken.”
“But you were glad to be mistaken?”
“No. I was sorry,” she said, softly.
“What?” sharply.
“I wanted your love, Jarvis.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“But I do!”
“But, Strong— you love Strong—”
She rose quickly, her face flushed.
“I love Richard Strong as my friend, and in no other way.”
“Certainly he loves you.”
“He has never told me so.”
“You let me believe you cared for him; you tortured me with your show of preference for him.”
“You imagined that, Jarvis. It is not true!”
“It is true!” he cried, passionately. “I came to you, eager for your love, wanting you as I had never wanted anything. You flaunted this man in my face, you shut me out, you drove me back on myself—”
“Well?”
“What did you expect me to do? Endure forever in silence?”
“What did you do? Or what do you mean to do?”
“I have come to care for a woman who understands me—”
“A woman, Jarvis?”
“The woman who wrote ‘Francesca.’ I cared first because she had put into her heroine so many things that were like you.”
“Well?” she said again.
“She has come to care for me. I wanted to tell you so long ago, when we first knew, but she begged me not to until after the play was tried out. But I can’t stand it another minute. There must be truth between us, Bambi. I want you to read her letters. I want you to try to understand how this has crept into my heart.”
“You wish to be free—to go to her?”
“There is no happiness for us, is there?”
“I’m too tired to think it out now, Jarvis. You must go away and let me get myself together.”
She looked like a pitiful little wraith, and his heart ached for her.
“I’m sorry I had to add to your hard day, but I had to say this to-night.”
“It’s all right. I must ask you not to speak to me of it again until after to-morrow night. I need all my strength for that ordeal. After that, we must turn our attention to this new problem, and work it out together, somehow.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you, my dear,” he added.
“Good-night. Take the letters— I could not bear to read them.”
With an agonized look he took them and left her.
“Dear lord, I’m through with plots! I’m sick unto death of the secret,” she sighed, as she climbed into bed.