But, in spite of this, thoughts of Tavia persisted in thrusting themselves upon him. After all, sincerity of purpose is a power that, once aroused, is not easily cast aside. It is, without question, one of the greatest factors for good in all this big and complicated system of endeavor—in reality the tie that binds.
So that Nat had taken Tavia’s affairs “to heart” as he admitted to himself, when thinking the entire matter over very late that night, and, from that time on, whether he willed or not, it seemed to him that these affairs of Tavia’s had a queer way of “following him up,” although he little realized that this was the price he would be called upon to pay for his sincerity of purpose—the live factor that exists in spite of all obstacles of indifference.
Dorothy had been at the Cedars one short, delightful week when again the question of Tavia and her plans came up for serious consideration. Mrs. White and her niece sat out on the veranda, with the early summer flowers perfuming the soft zephyrs that came through the vine-covered lattice, and they were talking of the absent one—wondering why she did not come to Birchland and instead went to the city in the summer—to Buffalo when everybody in the place (except the tourists on the way to Niagara to the Falls), were leaving for more quiet and recreative surroundings.
“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. White finally, “that Tavia is ‘stage-struck.’”
These words came to Dorothy like a blow—something long dreaded but materialized at last—in spite of hopes and promises.
“Oh, Aunt Winnie!” exclaimed Dorothy with a sigh, “you don’t really think Tavia would do anything wrong?”
“No, that I do not, my dear,” promptly answered Mrs. White. “A thing is not wrong unless we intend to make it so. But Tavia has a queer idea of right and wrong. You know she has had no home discipline—no training in character building. She has grown to be as good as she is through the commonest law of nature—she was born good. But she has not gone beyond that same law in growing better than she started out to be—that is moral development, and requires careful culture and prudent discipline.”
“But the stage,” whispered Dorothy, as if afraid the very word would breathe contamination. “Do you think—Tavia would—would ever try to—to go on a public stage?”
“On that point I could not now express an opinion,” answered the aunt kindly, noticing how seriously Dorothy had taken her words. “Of course if she happened to get in with persons interested in that line of work—she might be tempted to try it.”
“But what could she do? There are no plays now—it is summer time!”
“The very time, my dear, when small companies try to get a hearing. There are no good plays to attract persons, and the stay-at-homes need some amusement.”
This had not occurred to Dorothy before. Her dread of Tavia going on the stage had been kept within bounds by the thought that there were no plays given in any of the theatres, for Dorothy knew little about such things, and had never given a thought to those small companies—the “barnstormers.”
“Well,” she announced with a sigh, “I believe I will have to write to her. I can not rest and not know just where she is. Somehow I feel as if my own sister had deserted me—as if she were out among strangers. Oh, Aunt Winnie, you can not realize how much Tavia has always been to me!” and Dorothy dropped her head in her hands to hide the expression of sincere grief that marked her face.
“Well, child, there is absolutely no need to worry. No doubt Tavia is snugly home at this moment, with her own, little, old-fashioned mother—or even out in Buffalo enjoying the visit to her mother’s friends. To sit down and imagine all sorts of horrible things—why, Dorothy, it is very unlike you!”
“Perhaps I am silly,” Dorothy agreed, smiling brightly as she looked up, “but you know Tavia has been so odd lately. And then she was sick, you know.”
Dorothy looked off across the lawn, but she seemed to see nothing. Perhaps she had a day-vision of her friend far away, but whatever Dorothy imagined was far from what Tavia was actually engaged in at that moment.
“Well, come, my dear,” said her aunt at length. “The boys are waiting with the auto. See what a spin through the country will do for tired nerves. I tell you this winding up of school is always trying—more so than you can imagine. You are, after all, pretty well tired out, in spite of your pretty pink cheeks,” and she tilted Dorothy’s chin up to reach her own lips, just as Nat swung himself up on the porch and demanded the immediate presence of his aunt, and cousin, in the Fire Bird that panted at the door.
But, somehow, the afternoon was all lost on Dorothy. Those words “stage-struck” echoed in her ears and she longed to get back to her room and write to Tavia and then to receive the answer that she might show it to Aunt Winnie, to prove that Tavia was as reliable as ever—that she would soon be with them all at North Birchland.
When, after a spin, that on any other occasion would have been delightful, Ned alighted at the little village post-office, Dorothy asked him to bring her out two special delivery stamps. Her cousin inquired what the rush of mail was for, but she only smiled and tried to hide the fact that she really had occasion to provide for sending a letter in a hurry, and receiving its reply as fast as Uncle Sam could bring it.
They started off again, and a long, exhilarating spin brought them out upon the direct road to the Cedars. Then, after helping their mother and Dorothy out, the boys “shooed” the Fire Bird back to its “nest,” and made a dash to witness the last inning of a ball game that had been in progress all the afternoon on the grounds, just across the broad meadow, that stretched in front of their home.
This left Dorothy to herself, for the major had finally listened to Roger’s earnest appeal to take him to the ball game. Joe went with the boys who carried the bats—as the latter was always sure to be on time. Then, as Mrs. White would be busy for some time, giving orders for dinner, Dorothy hurried to her room, and sat down, to think it all out, before she undertook to put into written words what she wanted to say to Tavia.
As Dorothy had said to her aunt the loss of Tavia’s companionship was like missing that of a dear sister, for the two girls had been inseparable since early childhood. They had always been together, or they knew they would be apart but for a few days at most.
But now it was different. Heretofore each time that Dorothy thought she would have to be obliged to leave Tavia, either to attend school, or take some new step in life, it so happened that Tavia went along, so that the chain of companionship that began at Dalton had not yet been broken.
And, of course, Dorothy’s worries might all be unfounded. As Mrs. White had said, Tavia might be safe at home with her mother.
So it was to Dalton that Dorothy addressed her letter. She needed to be particular in wording it, so that no misunderstanding would arise, should the letter fall into other hands than Tavia’s. Dorothy enclosed a special delivery stamp for a hurried answer, which she begged Tavia to send, and she put another of the stamps on the envelope of her own missive.
“There,” she said with a sigh of relief as she slipped the little cream-colored square into her blouse. “I shall just have time to run to the office with it before dinner. Somehow I feel better already. It almost seems as if I had been talking to Tavia. I will surely have an answer by to-morrow night. I do wonder—Oh, I wonder where Tavia is—and what she is doing just now!”
It was a pleasant walk to the country post-office, and Dorothy hurried along in a happier frame of mind than she had enjoyed during all that day. The small worry that had been smouldering in her heart for some weeks (ever since the night of Tavia’s queer actions in her sleep when she painted her face with the red crayon) did not need much encouragement to burst forth into a live flame.
And that was precisely what happened when Nat also expressed the opinion that Tavia should have come to North Birchland and that Buffalo was “a big place for such a small girl.” Then, that Dorothy’s aunt should state plainly her fear regarding Tavia’s love for the stage,—surely all this was enough to throw Dorothy into a very fever of anxiety.
That Dorothy knew of Tavia’s strange actions on that one occasion, and that she alone, was aware of this, added to the anxiety. The book “How to Act” had betrayed Tavia’s secret in clearer terms than even Dorothy would admit to herself. But if Tavia should run away! And if Dorothy had not warned the Travers folks in time!
That evening, after mailing her letter, Dorothy made an excuse to leave the rest of the family and so remained in her own room. She wanted to be alone—to think. In fact, she had been so accustomed to those little solitary thinking spells in Glenwood that the time at the Cedars seemed to be a trifle too exacting. The boys wanted to be with their sister, and Mrs. White had so much to talk over (it was so delightful to have a “big daughter” to converse with), then the major needed Dorothy’s counsel in many small, but important matters, so that, altogether, the girl from Glenwood found herself busy—just a little too busy, considering the problem she was trying to solve, which was how to get immediately into communication with Tavia.
That night she dreamed of it all, and for three days following the mailing of her letter she could scarcely think of anything other then why the expected answer did not arrive.
Finally, Dorothy felt that she must take some one into her confidence. All the nervous energy of her young nature had, for days, been so set upon that one point—to hear from Tavia—that the whole circumstance had assumed great importance. She could think of nothing else. Every hour added to her anxiety. She imagined all sorts of dreadful things. Yes, she must tell somebody of it and thus relieve her mind or she felt she would be ill. This seemed to her the greatest trouble she had ever encountered.
It was a delightful summer evening when Dorothy, dressed in her sea-foam mulle gown, with its dainty silver white trimmings stepped out on the porch, and had the good fortune to find Nat there alone. It was to her young cousin that she had made up her mind to confide her worries, and here he was, as if he was just waiting to help her in this matter of her own heart and Tavia’s.
“Great Scott! But you startled me!” exclaimed Nat, jumping up from the hammock. “I do believe, Doro, that I had clean forgotten that you were with us—no offense—but you see I was sort of dreaming and when you glided through that window—well—I say, Doro, I thought my dream had come true!”
“Nat, could you come for a little walk?” asked Dorothy. “You should not dream so early, and besides, you should not, at any time, dream of young girls. You admitted as much, you know. But Nat, I just want a quiet talk—come out along the road as far as the bridge. I want to make sure we are entirely alone.”
“Now you don’t expect me to move the bridge, do you, Doro? We may be all alone with the exception of the old stone walls and the planks.”
Tucking Dorothy’s arm under his own, Nat led the way down the path, then out upon the open road, which was now streaked with faint beams of moonlight, that filtered down through the trees. Nat seemed to feel that Dorothy wanted to talk of Tavia, for he had not been slow to notice the growing look of anxiety that had come upon his cousin’s face in the last few days.
“Heard from Tavia?” he asked in a matter-of-fact way, thinking to help Dorothy on with her story.
“No, Nat,” she answered, “and that is just what I want to talk about. I am almost worried to death about her. Whatever do you think it means?”
“Think what what means? That Tavia has not answered a letter? Why that doesn’t mean anything—at least it didn’t last winter, when she would write me for something she wanted me to get for her, and forget to write again saying she had received it. I suppose all girls think they should take their time writing to a fellow, but Tavia was about the limit. So you have no reason to fret, as she will probably write to you the day she packs her trunk to come to the Cedars. Then she won’t have time to mail the letter, so, when she gets here, and steams off the uncancelled stamp, she will calmly hand over the note. Now that’s Tavia and her way of being prompt.”
“But this is different,” said Dorothy. “I did not know Tavia wrote to you last winter.”
“Now don’t go to romancing. I believe I did get two letters from Miss Travers in answer to five I had written to her. It was about that little colored boy you heard me joking about—some imp Tavia had taken a fancy to, and she wanted to get him a small express wagon. So she wrote to me, being aware of my unusual ability in the line of selecting suitable express wagons for little colored boys.”
“But listen, Nat,” exclaimed Dorothy, eagerly, “I wrote to Dalton a week ago to-day, sent a special delivery stamp for a quick reply, and I haven’t heard a word since.”
“Oh, that’s it. You sent a special stamp. That was where you made a big mistake. Miss Tavia wanted to write to that girl in Buffalo—had been putting it off as usual—and when she saw your blue stamp it brought her the inspiration. She wrote to ‘Dolly,’ if Dolly is her name, used your stamp, and ‘Dolly’ answered ‘come.’ Tavia went. There you are. Now what do you think of me as a wireless sleuth?”
“Do you really think Tavia is in Buffalo?” asked Dorothy, endeavoring to bring her cousin down to a common-sense viewpoint.
“Sure of it. But, say, Doro. I’ll tell you what! I’ll just take a fly in the Fire Bird to-morrow morning, and find out for you for sure. That will be better than the special delivery boy on his bicycle that never moves. I’ll be back by lunch time.”
“Oh, that will be splendid!” cried Dorothy, giving her cousin’s arm a tight squeeze. “You see I could not trust another letter, and I’m so anxious to know. Oh, Nat, you are the very best cousin—”
“Not so bad,” interrupted Nat, “when it comes to special messengers. But, little cousin, you can depend on me. I won’t let any one hold up the automobile mail coach.”
The soft moonlight was now peeping through the screen of maple leaves that arched the old stone bridge, as the shifting shadows of early evening settled down to quiet nightfall. Dorothy and her cousin did not at once turn their steps toward the Cedars; instead they sat there on the bridge, enjoying the tranquil summer eve, and talking of what might happen when all their schooldays would be over and the long “vacation” of the grown-up world would be theirs to plan for, and theirs to shape into the rolling ball of destiny.
Nat declared he would be a physician, as that particular profession had ever been to him the greatest and noblest—to relieve human suffering. Dorothy talked of staying home with her brothers and father. They would need her, she said, and it would not be fair to let Aunt Winnie do so much for them.
“But I say, Dorothy,” broke in Nat. “This moonlight is all right, isn’t it?”
Dorothy laughed at his attempt at sentimentality. “It is delightful,” she replied, “if that is what you mean.”
“Yes, that’s it—delightful. For real, home-made sentiment apply to Nat White. By the pound or barrel. Accept no substitute. Good thing I did not decide to be a writer, eh? The elements represent to me so many kinds of chemical bodies, put where they belong and each one expected to do its little part in keeping things going. Now, I know fellows who write about the moon’s face and the sun’s effulgence, just as if the poor old sun or moon had anything to do with the lighting-up process. I never speculate on things beyond my reach. That sort of thing is too hazy for mine.”
“Now, Nat, you know very well you are just as sentimental as any one else. Didn’t you write some verses—once?”
“Verses? Oh, yes. But I didn’t get mixed with the stars. You will remember it was Ned who said:
“‘The stars were shining clear and brightWhen it rained like time, that fearful night!’
“‘The stars were shining clear and bright
When it rained like time, that fearful night!’
“I was the only one who stood by Ned when he penned that stanza. It could rain like time and be a fearful night while the stars were shining—in China. Oh, yes, that was a great composition, but I didn’t happen to win out.”
The school test of versification, to which both had reference, brought back pleasant memories, and Dorothy and Nat enjoyed the retrospection.
“What is that?” asked Dorothy suddenly, as something stirred at the side of the bridge on the slope that led to the water.
“Muskrat or a snake,” suggested Nat indifferently.
“No, listen! That sounded like someone falling down the path.”
“A nice soft fall to them then,” remarked Nat, without showing signs of intending to make an investigation.
“Ask if anyone is there,” timidly suggested Dorothy.
At this Nat jumped up and looked over the culvert.
“There sure is some one sliding down,” he said. “Hi there! Want any help?”
“A stone slipped under my foot,” came back the answer, and the voice was unmistakably that of a young girl or a child.
“Wait a minute,” called Nat. “I’ll get down there and give you a hand.”
The path to the brook led directly around the bridge, and it took but a moment for the boy to make his way to the spot whence the voice came. Dorothy could scarcely distinguish the two figures that kept so close to the bridge as to be in danger of sliding under the stone arch.
“There,” called Nat. “Get hold of my hand. I have a good grip on a strong limb, and can pull you up.”
But it required a sturdy arm to hold on to the tree branch and pull the girl up. Several times Nat lost his footing and slid some distance, but the street level was finally gained, and the strange girl brought to the road in safety.
The moonlight fell across her slim figure, and revealed the outlines of a very queer little creature indeed. She was dark, with all the characteristics of the Gypsy marked in her face.
Dorothy and Nat surveyed her critically. Whatever could a child of her age be doing all alone there, in that deserted place after nightfall?
“Thanks,” said the girl to Nat, as she rubbed her bare feet on the damp grass. “I almost fell.”
“Almost?” repeated Nat, “I thought you did fall—you must have hit that big rock there. I know it for I used to fish from the same place, and it’s not exactly a divan covered with sofa cushions.”
“Yes, I did hit my side on it,” admitted the girl, “but it doesn’t hurt much.”
“What is your name?” asked Dorothy, stepping closer to the stranger.
“Urania. But I’m going to change it. I don’t believe in Urania any more.”
“Then you are a Gypsy girl,” spoke Nat. “I thought I’d seen you before.”
“Yes, they say I’m a Gypsy girl, but I’m tired of the business and I’m going away.”
“Where?” asked Dorothy.
“Any place as long as it’s not back to camp. I left it to-night and I’m never going back to it again—never! never!” and the girl shook her disheveled head in very positive emphasis.
“Why?” asked Dorothy. “You’re too young to be out alone and at night. You must be frightened; aren’t you?”
“Frightened?” and the girl laughed derisively. “What is there to be afraid of? I know all the snakes and toads, besides the birds.”
“Aren’t there tramps?” inquired Nat.
“Perhaps. But it would take a slick tramp to catch me. Gypsy girls know how to run, if they can’t read and write.”
It seemed to Dorothy that this remark was tinged with bitterness; as if the girl evidently felt the loss of education.
“But you had better run back to the camp like a good girl,” pleaded Nat. “Come, we’ll walk part of the way with you.”
“Back to the camp! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve started out in the world for myself, and could not go back now if I wanted to. That woman would beat me.”
“What woman?” Nat asked.
“The one my father married. They call her Melea. She has her own little girl and doesn’t care for Urania.”
“But where will you stay to-night?” inquired Dorothy, now anxious that the little Gypsy would change her mind, and run back to the camp at the foot of the hill before it would be too late—before she might be missed from her usual place.
“I was going to sleep under the bridge,” replied Urania calmly, “but when I heard you talking I came out. I love to hear pretty words.”
“Poor child,” thought Dorothy, “like a little human fawn. And she wants to start out in the world for herself!”
“I heard what you said about going to Dalton,” Urania said to Nat, as she tried to hide her embarrassment by fingering her tattered dress, “and I was wondering if you could let me ride in the back of your automobile. I want to go to the big city and it’s—it’s a far walk—isn’t it?”
“It would be a long walk to Dalton,” replied Nat in surprise, “but Dalton isn’t a big city. Besides, I could never help you to run away,” he finished.
“Some boys do,” Urania remarked with a pout. “I know people who run away. They come to Melea to have their fortunes told.”
Nat and Dorothy laughed at this. It seemed queer that persons who would run away would stop long enough to have their fortunes told by a Gypsy.
“And couldn’t I ride in the back of your automobile?” persisted the girl, not willing to let so good a chance slip past her too easily.
“I’m afraid not,” declared Nat. “I wouldn’t help you to run away in the first place, and, in the second, I never take any girls out riding, except my cousin and her friend.”
“Oh, you don’t eh?” sneered Urania. “What about the one with the red hair? Didn’t I see you out with her one day when we were camping in the mountains—near that high-toned school, Glendale or Glenwood or something like that. And didn’t she come to our camp next day to have her fortune told? Oh, she wanted to start out in the world for herself. You would help her, of course, but poor Urania—she must die,” and the girl threw herself down upon the grass and buried her head in the long wet spears.
Dorothy and Nat were too surprised to answer. Surely the girl must refer to Tavia, but Tavia had never ridden out alone with Nat, not even while he was at the automobile assembly near Glenwood. And Tavia could scarcely have gone to the fortune teller’s camp.
“I say I have never taken out any girl without my mother or my cousin being along,” Nat said, sharply, recovering himself.
“Then it was your girl with another fellow,” declared the wily Gypsy, not willing to be caught in an untruth. She arose from the grass and, seeing the telling expression on the faces of her listeners, like all of her cult, she knew she had hit upon a fact of some kind.
“My girl?” repeated Nat laughingly.
“Yes,” was the quick answer. “She had bright, pretty colored hair, brown eyes and her initials are O. T. I heard her tell Melea so.”
The initials, O. T., must surely be those of Octavia Travers thought Dorothy and Nat. But Nat knew better than to press the subject further. This cunning girl, in spite of her youth, he was sure, would make answers to suit the questions, and such freedom on the subject of Tavia (especially, now, when there were enough rumors to investigate), would simply be inviting trouble.
But Dorothy was not so wise in her eagerness to hear more. She wanted to know if her chum had really gone to the Gypsy camp from Glenwood, but she would not deign to ask if Tavia really went auto riding with some boys who attended the meet. That would be too mean even to think about! And besides, thought Dorothy suddenly, Tavia was sick during all the time of the automobile assembly.
“I can tell you more if you’ll give me money,” boldly spoke Urania. “I know all her fortune. I heard Melea tell her. I was outside the tent and I heard every word.”
“I thought that was against the practice of the Gypsies,” said Nat severely.
“Practice!” sneered the girl. “When a pretty girl comes to our camp I always listen. I like to find out what that kind think about! To see if they are different from Urania!”
“Come,” said Dorothy to Nat. “We must go. It is getting late.”
“And you don’t want to hear about the girl that is going to run away to a circus?” called the Gypsy as Dorothy and Nat turned away.
“No, thank you, not to-night,” replied Nat. “You’d better run home before the constable comes along. They put girls in jail for running away from home.”
“Oh, do they? Then your red-headed friend must be there now,” called back the Gypsy with unconcealed malice.
“What can she mean?” asked Dorothy, clinging to her cousin’s arm as they hurried along.
“Oh, don’t mind that imp. She is just like all her kind, trying to play on your sympathies first and then using threats. She was listening to us talking and picked up all she told us. She got the initials at Glenwood—likely followed Tavia and asked some other girl what her name was. I remember now, there was a Gypsy settlement there. That part’s true enough.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Dorothy with a sigh. “I know Mrs. Pangborn positively forbade all the girls to go near the Gypsy camps, but some of the pupils might have met Urania on the road.”
“That’s about it,” decided Nat. “But she ought to stick to the game. She’d make a good player. The idea of waylaying us and pretending to have fallen down.”
“It’s hard to understand that class,” admitted Dorothy. “But I hope she’ll not stay out all night. I should be worried if I awoke, and heard her walking about under the trees near my window.”
“No danger,” declared Nat. “I must go and see that the garage is locked. She might take a notion to turn the Fire Bird into a Pullman sleeper.”
Then, leaving Dorothy on the veranda with his mother, Nat went around to the little auto shed, fastened the door securely and put the key into his pocket.
Dorothy was not sure whether she dreamed it, or really heard sounds stirring under the trees. She had been thinking of the Gypsy girl, and Tavia, as she fell asleep, and when she suddenly awoke in the middle of the night, there seemed to be some one moving about just under the window of her room. It was so quiet that even faint sounds could be heard, and Dorothy lay there listening for some time, after being aroused. Presently something banged—like a blind being slammed back. There was no breath of wind—surely someone must have opened the shutter!
The moonlight came in through the casement and illuminated the room enough for her to see to get up and reach her door. It was but a step to the boys’ apartment. She would call them, she decided, but was most anxious not to disturb her father or aunt.
Strange to say when Dorothy had slipped on her dressing gown and slippers and knocked at the door of the boys’ room, she found them both awake, for they had answered her light tap at once. A moment later they were in the corridor, attired in their big bath robes.
“I’m sure I heard a footstep at the side porch,” whispered Dorothy.
“So did I,” answered Ned. “I’ve been awake for a long time, listening.”
“Perhaps you had better go down,” suggested Dorothy nervously. “It might be a tramp.”
“Tramp nothing,” declared Nat boldly, as he made his way softly to the front door. “I’ll bet it’s our friend Urania. I was sure she would call this evening.”
Without the slightest fear the brothers opened the door, and searched about for a possible intruder. They even looked under the lilac bush at Dorothy’s window, but no midnight prowlers were discovered.
Dorothy bravely stood at the front door, waiting to call for more help in case the boys should need assistance, but they finally returned from their hunt more disgusted than alarmed. Dorothy was entirely satisfied now that no one was about the place.
“I call that mean,” grumbled Nat. “I was all primed for an adventure.”
“You should be careful what sort of acquaintances you pick up after dark,” cautioned Ned. “Your little Urania may turn out troublesome if you cross her. Gypsies have a way of making people ‘pony up’ with the money, you know.”
“Don’t wake the folks,” cautioned Dorothy, leading the way back to the sleeping rooms. “I’m not a bit afraid now.”
“Well, if she comes back again, ask her in,” spoke Nat in a hoarse whisper. “I think Urania needs a talking to.”
Dorothy fell asleep again, after listening for some time, and was not disturbed any further that night, until the bright sun shining into her windows, called her to get up to begin another day.
As they had planned, Nat was to start early for Dalton. He could easily make some excuse for his solitary trip—say that he wanted to see some friends who were off camping, or that he wanted to go fishing. He mentioned these two objects vaguely as he started off.
Dorothy warned him not to let an inkling of her fears concerning Tavia reach the ears of any one in Dalton, but there was no need for this, as Nat was as anxious as was his cousin to keep the matter secret between them.
“It’s an easy thing to start gossip in a place like Dalton,” he whispered to Dorothy as he threw in the clutch to send the auto on its way, “and you can depend upon me to give them another ‘think’ if they’re looking for news.”
As the Fire Bird swung out along the path Nat turned to wave a reassuring good-bye to Dorothy who stood on the porch watching him spin away.
The morning which had begun so bright and pleasant now took on a gloomy aspect for Dorothy. How could she wait for Nat’s return? And what would he find out concerning Tavia and her plans? Suppose she should really be in Buffalo? That would not necessarily mean that she had gone away—she might be visiting her friend, Grace Barnum.
It seemed impossible for Dorothy to become interested in anything save Nat and his mission. She tried to sew, but soon laid aside the dainty little work basket Aunt Winnie had provided for the summer hours on the porch. Then Ned invited her to go bicycling, and she had to make some excuse for refusing the invitation. Even writing some letters for the major did not distract her, and she could think of nothing but Nat and his trip to Dalton.
But, somehow, the morning wore on, and it was almost time for Nat to return, as Dorothy knew in his swift car he could make the journey in record time over the good roads.
“But I’m sure something will delay him,” said Dorothy to herself. “I feel as if something will surely happen!”
And a well-grounded fear it was for, meanwhile, something was happening to Nat—something quite unexpected.
Having reached, in due time, Dalton and the little cottage where the Travers family dwelt, Nat steered the machine up in front of the door. Then he remembered he had to tighten the bolt of the clutch pedal, and decided to do it before making his inquiries, as it was important that the pedal be tight. He turned back to the machine, from which he had jumped, to get his wrench from the tool box under the rear seat. He unbuttoned the leather curtain that reached down to the floor of the tonneau, and was feeling about for the wrench when he started back in surprise.
There, under the seat, stretched out so as to be concealed while the curtain was down, was Urania, the Gypsy girl! The confined space made her hump up like an angry cat, and her dark face peered sharply into Nat’s from under the leather flap.
For a moment Nat could not find words to speak to the girl, who remained in her hiding place, grinning out at him with a mocking look on her elfin face.
“Hello!” she exclaimed presently. “I had a lovely ride.”
“Get out of there instantly,” exclaimed Nat, in angry tones. “How in the world did you ever get in there?”
“Oh, easy enough. You locked the door, but you left the shed window open last night, and I crawled in. I was almost a goner, though, when you and your brother came out on the porch looking for spooks. I was just trying your hammock then. That’s a softer cradle than this stuffy place.”
“I guess I’d better hand you over to a constable,” went on Nat, realizing what it might mean to try to drag the girl from her hiding place just then.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” was the cool answer. “I believe I’ve had enough of riding, and I’d like to stretch out a bit.”
By this time the Travers family had become aware of the presence of the Fire Bird at their door, and Mrs. Travers, impressed with the distinction, had stepped back quickly to her room to tidy herself up a bit. This gave Nat a few moments longer to think of what he had best do with the Gypsy girl.
“Here,” he said to her, rather fiercely, “you just stay under that seat until I’m ready to take you to a place of safety. Now, if you dare to move while I’m in this house I’ll—I’ll have you arrested,” and with that Nat fastened down the curtain securely, with a catch that snapped on the outside and was incapable, as he supposed, of being opened from the inside.
He walked up the path to the front door and, after a few seconds, his knock was answered by Mrs. Travers. With unlimited protestations of welcome she showed Nat in, and offered him a seat in the far corner of the room, some distance from the front windows. He felt that he had better keep his eye on the machine, because of his concealed passenger, so, after a moment’s hesitation, he took a chair near the front of the apartment, remarking, as he did so, what a pretty view there was from the window.
“What brings you to Dalton?” asked Mrs. Travers.
“I was—er—just passing through, and I thought I’d stop to inquire—about the family. Dorothy would like to know,” said Nat.
“Oh, we’re about as well as usual,” said Tavia’s mother.
“How’s Tavia? Is she home?” asked Nat quickly, feeling that this was as good an opening as he could desire.
“No, and I’m very sorry, for she’d be delighted to see you. She went to Buffalo just after coming from school. We scarcely had a good look at her. I wanted her to stay home for a week, but she was so set on going that she started off bag and baggage, and I’m sure I can’t say when she will be home. Of course she’s with friends,” the mother hastened to add, seeing the look of surprise that flashed over Ned’s face in spite of his effort at self-control.
“My cousin, Dorothy, wrote to her,” Nat hastened to say, to cover his confusion, “and, not receiving an answer, thought it likely that she might be ill, or away.”
“Tavia’s father forwarded the letter to her,” said Mrs. Travers. “She should have answered it by this time. We have only had one souvenir card from her since she went away, but it was a real pretty one; I’d like to show it to you, but I guess I’ve mislaid it. I can’t think where I put it.”
“Never mind. I suppose it takes some time for a letter to travel when it’s been forwarded from one place to another. I dare say Dorothy will soon hear from her. I’m glad all the family are well. Major Dale is always glad to hear news of the Dalton folks.”
“And indeed we all miss the major,” spoke Mrs. Travers with a show of feeling. “Not to say we don’t miss the entire family, for the boys were fine little fellows, and, as for Dorothy—”
The intended tribute to Dorothy ended with a little catch in Mrs. Travers’s voice, for she was very fond of her daughter’s companion, and sometimes showed her feelings with a touch of sentimentality.
Then, as Nat was really in a hurry (for he could not stop thinking of Urania under the seat) he made his excuses as quickly and as politely as the circumstances would allow, and was soon out of the house. He lost no time in cranking up and, in a few minutes, was chug-chugging at top speed down the country road.
He had made up his mind to take the Gypsy girl back to North Birchland, and was vaguely wondering, as he dashed along, why she did not knock on the seat and demand to be let out of her uncomfortable quarters.
“I think I’ll stop and just take a look at her. She may be crying,” the lad remarked to himself, and, bringing the machine to a halt alongside the road, he stepped out.
He assumed a determined look before unfastening the curtain, for he was bound not to let his sympathies run away with him in dealing with the unruly girl. He shoved back the catch and raised the leather flap.
Urania was gone!
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” cried Nat aloud, so great was his astonishment at the second surprise the Gypsy had given him. “If she isn’t a dandy! How in the world did she slip out without me seeing her?”
But Nat had forgotten the few moments when he sat on the sofa at the rear side of Mrs. Travers’s parlor, some distance from the front windows, and it was in those few moments that Urania had managed to undo the catch, in spite of its supposed security, and slip out of the Fire Bird. Swiftly, as no girl but a Gypsy can run, she had fled down the street, across the Dalton bridge, and into the deep woods beyond, where she would have time to plan out the remainder of her day’s travels.
“Well, she’s gone—good riddance,” thought Nat, as he started up the machine once more, and turned, at a swift speed, into the turnpike leading to North Birchland.
Whizzing along the road Nat tried to decide how it would be best to break the disappointing news to Dorothy. Of his escapade with Urania he had fully determined not to say a word. Dorothy had enough girls to worry about, he argued, and if she heard of this one she would form a searching expedition, and set out at once to hunt the Gypsy who, Nat thought, was like a human squirrel and able to take care of herself.
The return trip seemed shorter than that which took Nat out to Dalton, and as the Fire Bird swung into the Cedars’ entrance somewhat later than the youth expected to get back, Dorothy was at the gate awaiting to hear news of Tavia.
“Buffalo,” announced Nat sententiously, as Dorothy came up beside the car which jerked to a stop amid a screeching of the brake. “She went there some time ago. She’s at Grace Barnum’s. Wait. I have the address.”
Without delaying to put the machine up, Nat produced a slip of paper upon which he had written, at Mrs. Travers’s direction, the street and number of Miss Barnum’s residence. He handed it to Dorothy.
“Do you think it’s all right?” asked Dorothy, looking at the directions.
“’Course it is. Everybody in Dalton is as chipper as possible. You’re the only one who’s worrying. Now, if I were you, I’d just let up, Doro. You’ll be down sick if you don’t.”
“Perhaps I am foolish. And I have given you a lot of trouble,” spoke up the girl a little sadly.
“Trouble? Nothing!” exclaimed Nat. “I just like the lark. When you want any more sleuthing done apply at headquarters. I’m the gum-shoe man for this section,” and at that he turned his attention to the Fire Bird, while Dorothy walked thoughtfully back to the house.
Poor Dorothy! An instinctive foreboding of danger had taken possession of her now, and, try as she did to dispel it, an unmistakable voice seemed to call out to her:
“Find Tavia! She needs you, Dorothy Dale!”
“Perhaps,” thought Dorothy, “she has run away and is really with some circus troupe, as the Gypsy girl said. Or perhaps she is at some watering place, taking part in a play—”