This last possibility was the one that Dorothy dreaded most to dwell upon. Tavia must have loved the stage, else why did she constantly do the things she did at school, so like a little actress, and so like a girl “stage-struck,” as Aunt Winnie called it?
These and similar fancies floated through Dorothy’s brain hour after hour, in spite of whatever diversion presented itself for her amusement.
The afternoon, following Nat’s trip to Dalton, Dorothy, with her brothers, Roger and Joe, went to gather pond lilies near the waterfall. It was a delightful day, and the sun glistened on the quiet sheet of the mill pond, making liquid diamonds. The lilies, of which there was an abundance, looked like carved wax that had frozen the sun’s gold in each heart. But, somehow, Dorothy, could not work up her usual enthusiasm in gathering the blossoms.
It was delightful to dip her hands into the cool stream and surely to hear little Roger prattle was an inspiration, but all the while Dorothy was thinking of crowded Buffalo, and wondering what a certain girl might be doing there on that summer afternoon.
In the evening Major Dale and Mrs. White, taking Dorothy with them, went for a drive along the broad boulevard that was the pride of that exclusive summer place—North Birchland. Dorothy tried bravely to rouse herself from her gloomy reveries but, in spite of her efforts, Mrs. White complained that her niece was not like her usual self—“Perhaps not feeling well,” she ventured.
“I’m ‘glumpy’ ever since I left Glenwood,” admitted Dorothy. “Not because I want to be, nor that I am not having a most delightful time, but I simply have the ‘glumps.’ At Glenwood they prescribe extra work for an attack like this,” and the girl laughed at her own diagnosis.
“You certainly should dispel the ‘glumps,’” said Mrs. White. “I can’t imagine what could produce an attack here at the Cedars, with all your own folks around you, Dorothy, dear. I do believe you are lonely for those impossible girls. What do you say to paying some of them a little visit, just to break in on your holiday?”
“Really, aunty,” protested Dorothy, “I am perfectly content. What sort of girl would I be to want to run away and leave you all after being away so long at school? No, indeed, I’ll stay right here at the beautiful Cedars, and I’ll try to be a better girl—to get rid at once of my spell of the ‘glumps’ as we used to call them at Glenwood.”
“But girls are girls,” insisted her aunt, “and you have no control, my dear, over such sentiment as I imagine you are afflicted with at present. Just plan out a little trip somewhere and, I’ll vouch for it, the visit to some giggling Dolly Varden of a girl will do you no end of good. And then, too, you may invite her back here with you.”
Mrs. White divined too well the reason for Dorothy’s “blue spell.” She could see perfectly how much her niece missed the light-hearted Tavia, and in advising her to take a little trip Mrs. White was sure Dorothy would choose to go where her chum might be.
In this she was right, but concerning what Dorothy might do to reach Tavia Mrs. White had no idea. She merely suggested a “little trip somewhere,” believing Dorothy would find Tavia, either in Dalton, or visiting some girl friend, as Dorothy had told her Tavia intended doing. But circumstances conspired to give Dorothy the very opportunity she longed for—she would go somewhere—anywhere—to look for her “sister-friend”—the girl who had been to her more than friend and almost a sister.
Ned and Nat had planned a trip to Buffalo at the beginning of their vacation. They were to meet a number of their chums there, and do some exploring in the neighborhood of Niagara Falls. They were to make the journey in the Fire Bird, and when Mrs. White suggested a trip for Dorothy it was the run to Buffalo, in the automobile, that immediately came into the girl’s mind.
“If I only could go with the boys,” she pondered. “But what excuse would I have?”
All the next day she turned the subject over in her mind. Then something very remarkable happened. Persons who believe in thought controlling matter would not call the incident out of the ordinary perhaps, but, be that as it may, when Dorothy strolled down to the post-office, having a slender hope of a letter from Tavia, she did find a letter in the box—a letter from Rose-Mary Markin, stating that she, and her mother, were going to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a few days, and, as Buffalo was only about a day’s trip from North Birchland, perhaps Dorothy could take a “run” to Buffalo, and spend a few days with them.
Dorothy’s head thumped when she read the letter. The very thing of all others she would have wished for, had she been as wise as the unknown fate that worked it out for her, without any action on her own part!
She felt light enough now to “fly” over the road back to the Cedars, to show the invitation to Mrs. White. The boys were to leave for Buffalo the next day, so there was little time to be lost, should Major Dale and Mrs. White think it best for Dorothy to make the trip. How the girl trembled while waiting for the decision. What if she should be disappointed? It was a long ride in the auto—but with her cousins—
Mrs. White read Rose-Mary’s little note a second time while Dorothy stood there waiting. The aunt noticed how delicately Rose-Mary indicated her own mother’s anxiety to meet Dorothy, and then with what a nicety the whole matter was referred to Major Dale and Dorothy’s aunt. This carefully written note, neither stilted nor indifferent in its tone, convinced Mrs. White at once that the writer was exactly the girl Dorothy had described her to be—her very best friend at Glenwood—excepting only Tavia.
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t go with the boys,” spoke her aunt finally. “They are always careful, and if you leave here, as they intend to do, at sunrise (that will be an experience for you) you should get into Buffalo in time for the evening dinner. I’ll just sound the major,” giving Dorothy a loving embrace. “Not that a mere man, even be he Major Dale, can hold out against two such Sampson-like wills as ours.”
From that moment, until the time of her stepping into the Fire Bird next morning, and waving a good-bye to the little party that stood on the porch to see them off, it all seemed like the strangest, subtlest dream to Dorothy. She was going to find Tavia—going herself to look for her, and find out for herself all the questions that, for weeks, had been eating away her happiness with dreaded uncertainties.
“And now,” remarked Ned after they had skimmed along for awhile, “I suppose, Dorothy, you can’t deny me the long-looked for opportunity of meeting the sweetest girl in Glenwood (according to you) Cologne—Rose-Mary Markin, to be exact.”
“Oh, I know you will like her, Ned. She certainly is a very sweet girl,” replied Dorothy.
“The very thing for me. I have been looking for that brand for some time. And now, O Edward, prepare thyself!”
“Mind your wheel!” cried Nat, for Ned had raised his right hand in the air to give emphasis to his dramatic utterance and came close to a large stone. “Save that for later.”
Dorothy was as bright and animated as possible during the trip and chatted with the boys about the Glenwood girls, giving a full share of praise to Cologne. After all, Dorothy reflected, Ned was a young man, handsome, and, in many ways, desirable, and it would be nice if he were to take the two girls around Buffalo. But this thought was overshadowed by another—If Tavia were only with them. What good times they might have! Tavia and Nat always got along so well together. Each seemed to be an inspiration of mirth to the other.
But Tavia!
Nat seemed quiet, and even serious as they speeded along the lonely country roads. His brother was not slow to notice the unusual look of concern and attempted to “jolly” it away.
“Cheer up, Nat,” he said. “The worst is yet to come,” and he made a wry face. “You know we expect to find your little friend somewhere out this way. I really wouldn’t want a corner on happiness. I do feel, somehow, that Cologne will be my fate, but that is no reason why you and Doro shouldn’t hitch on to the band wagon. Let me see, Doro, you say she has brown eyes and blue hair—”
“Ned! You must not make fun of Cologne—”
“Fun of her! As soon bite my own tongue. I said it sideways by mistake. It should have read blue eyes and brown hair. Wasn’t that it?”
“Yes, that’s more like it,” admitted Dorothy. “And she has the most adorable little mouth—”
“Oh, here, Nat! Get hold of this wheel. I really must have a chance to think that over. Say it again, Dorothy, please,” and the lad went through a series of queer antics, that seem so very funny when the right boy attempts to be funny, but so very flat when one tries to either describe them or imitate the original.
“And isn’t there a brother in this visit to Buffalo?” asked Nat drolly.
In spite of herself the color flew to Dorothy’s cheeks. Of course Rose-Mary had a brother, two years older than herself. But Dorothy had never met him, although Rose-Mary talked so much at school of Jack, that Dorothy almost felt acquainted with the youth. But now she would certainly meet the family for they were all together at the Buffalo hotel.
“Oh, yes,” chimed in Ned. “Isn’t there a brother?”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy. “I believe there is.”
“Now I call that real jolly,” went on Ned. “Just one apiece—if Nat finds Tavia, of course.”
A few hours later the Fire Bird swung up to the portico of a leading Buffalo hotel, and, scarcely had the puffing machine come to a stop than a girl in lavender, with blue eyes and brown hair, had Dorothy in her arms.
“Oh, you dear, old sweetheart!” exclaimed Rose-Mary, as she embraced Dorothy with that effusion of delight peculiar to schoolgirls and babies, as Nat remarked in a whisper to Ned.
“And you were so good to think of me,” Dorothy tried to say, from the midst of the embrace.
“Think of you! As if I ever forgot you for one single moment!” Then Rose-Mary turned to the two boys in the auto and paused.
“These are my cousins,” began Dorothy. “This is Mr. Edward White and the other one,”—with a little laugh,—“is his brother Nathaniel.”
The boys bowed and made what were probably intended for complimentary acknowledgments of the introduction, but which were mere murmurs. Rose-Mary, however with the usual advantage of girls over boys in such matters, showed no embarrassment.
“There is one real nice thing about Dorothy,” spoke Nat when he had, in a measure recovered his composure. “She always makes Ned my brother. That counts.”
The girls laughed merrily and then a tall young man, the “very image of Rose-Mary only taller,” according to Dorothy, stepped down to the curb.
“Jack!” called Rose-Mary. “Come here instanter and get acquainted with Dorothy.”
Jack looked at the group. His eyes plainly said “only with Dorothy?”
“Oh, help yourself! Help yourself!” cried Ned, laughing at the confusion Cologne’s speech had caused. “We will be ‘among those present’ if you like.”
“Now you know very well what I mean!” and Rose-Mary shot a challenging look at Ned. “I want you all to be the very best of friends—”
“Thanks, thanks!” exclaimed Nat, as he and his brother bowed in mock deference. “We promise, I assure. We’ll do our best.”
“Oh, boys are all just alike,” stammered Dorothy’s host. “A pack of teases! Come along Dorothy. Mother is waiting to welcome you. Jack, perhaps you will tell Dorothy’s cousins what to do with their machine. I guess you know how to get acquainted with them without any more introductions.”
This last was said with a defiant look at Ned, who returned it with just the suspicion of a smile. In effect his look said:
“Miss Lavender, you have met a boy who may be like other boys, but he is particularly himself—Ned White—and he just loves to tease girls—like you!”
Rose-Mary was leading Dorothy up the broad steps to the hotel entrance. She turned to see what the boys were doing.
“Well I declare!” she exclaimed. “There they’ve all gone for a ride! I’m sure they’ll have a jolly time. What nice boys your cousins are. Oh, I’m so glad you could come!”
The hotel veranda was thronged with persons enjoying the approach of twilight, for the auto party had not made a hurried trip, having stopped for lunch on the way. It seemed to Dorothy that the chairs were mostly filled with stout ladies with blond hair. She had never before seen so many blonds in one group.
Rose-Mary led the way into the parlor and escorted Dorothy up to a smiling, pretty woman, with such beautiful white hair—the kind that goes with brown eyes and seems to add to their sparkle.
“Mother, dear, this is Dorothy,” said Rose-Mary. “She must be tired after her long, dusty ride. Shall we go upstairs?”
“I’m so glad to meet you, my dear,” declared Mrs. Markin, warmly. “Daughter talks so much about you. Yes, Rosie, do take Dorothy upstairs and let her refresh herself. It must be a very long ride from North Birchland.”
“But I’m not the least tired,” protested the visitor. “So don’t go upstairs, if you were enjoying the air.”
“Air indeed!” echoed Rose-Mary, slipping her arm through Dorothy’s. “Mother, will you come?”
“No, dear,” replied Mrs. Markin. “I’ll let you have Dorothy all to yourself for awhile. I just know how many things you will want to talk about. Later, after dinner, I’ll claim you both. But I’m going to improve this time to write a few belated letters. The desk is clear so I can do them down here.”
Rose-Mary left Dorothy while she made a place for her mother at the little private desk in the ladies’ sitting room, then the two girls took the elevator, in the broad hall, and soon Dorothy found herself in a cozy room, with a dainty white bed, and pretty flouncings—Rose-Mary’s apartment of course, which she had surrendered to her guest for the visit, while Cologne would share her mother’s room.
“Now make yourself comfortable,” began Rose-Mary, assisting Dorothy to lay aside her auto wraps. “Perhaps you want to wash. Here are the things,” and she pulled open a little door, disclosing a bathroom.
“Isn’t it charming here,” Dorothy said as she at once began to make herself presentable for dinner. “I have a blue dress in my bag,” indicating one the porter had brought up.
“Drag it out,” commanded her companion. “You must wear blue. I have told Jack how heavenly you look in blue.”
“And I have whispered to Ned how angelic you look in—lavender,” interrupted Dorothy, not to be outdone in bestowing compliments. “Isn’t Ned a lovely—boy!”
“Very saucy, I should say,” and Cologne laughed mischievously. “But I’ll try to be nice to him on your account.”
“And I hope I’ll not say anything to hurt Jack’s feelings,” spoke Dorothy, still keeping in with her friend’s humor.
“Couldn’t! He hasn’t any,” declared Rose-Mary. “He drives me frantic when I really want to make him mad.”
“But you do look lovely in that lavender gown,” insisted Dorothy, with unmistakable admiration. “I believe you have grown prettier—”
“Comparative degrees, eh?” and she made a queer little face. “Now, Doro dear, you must say I’ve grown positively handsome. I will never be content with the little, insignificant comparative degree in a suite of rooms like these. Aren’t they really scrumptious? You know dad couldn’t come, and he was so anxious that we would be comfortable, that the dear old darling just wired for good rooms, and that’s how we got these. They’re good, aren’t they?”
Dorothy looked out of the broad window, down at the big city stretched before her view. She could not help thinking of Tavia, although she thought it best not to speak of her to Rose-Mary—just yet at least. Cologne was busy hanging up the things she had pulled out of Dorothy’s bag.
“How long can you stay?” she asked, shaking out Dorothy’s light blue linen frock.
“Well, it was the queerest thing! Aunt Winnie got it into her head that I needed some of the girls, and she proposed a little trip for me, just as your letter came. It seemed providential.”
“Providential? That’s what I call dead lucky, girlie. You can’t expect a real proper providence to get mixed up in all our little scrapes. And, to be honest, I’m just dying for a real genuine scrape. The kind Tavia used to ‘hand out’ to us at Glenwood.”
Dorothy smiled but did not reply. Somehow the idea of Tavia still being kept busy “handing out scrapes” struck her as somewhat significant.
Presently the boys returned, which fact was made known by a shrill whistle over the private telephone in the apartment, and Jack’s voice following with a command for “Rosie” to come down.
The girls found the three boys and Mrs. Markin waiting for them, Ned and Nat having declined Jack’s invitation to take dinner with him at the hotel. They said they had to be off to meet the youths with whom they had arranged to stop while in Buffalo.
Dorothy wanted so much to ask Nat to take her to look for Tavia. She felt she would not sleep until she found the house of Tavia’s friend, Grace Barnum, but she was too uncertain of Tavia’s whereabouts to say openly that she wanted to go to the address that Nat had brought her from Mrs. Travers.
The Fire Bird had been left in quarters provided by the boys of the “Get There” club, members of which were to be Ned’s and Nat’s guests, and the two Birchland youths were thus free to walk about the big city that evening. Perhaps Dorothy might also go for a walk, with Rose-Mary and Jack.
But, Dorothy, as she reflected on this possibility, realized that it would not afford her an opportunity of getting to Grace Barnum’s. It would not do for the entire party to go there, Dorothy felt, as she could never allow any one to suspect her anxiety concerning Tavia. Only Nat was in the secret so far, and even he was not made fully aware of all it involved and of its depth—he did not know why Dorothy was so anxious—or that she had any other than a foolish schoolgirl whim urging her on.
So, in spite of all the surroundings and excitement, incident to life in a big hotel with its many strange phases, Dorothy kept turning the question over and over in her mind. How should she go about her search for Tavia? Just as she expected the party planned to go out that first evening of her visit to “look over the town.” All were going except Mrs. Markin, and she consented to let the young folks enjoy themselves without her chaperonage, on account of the circumstances and the number who were going.
Ned and Nat both essayed to look after Rose-Mary, and this added to the merry-making, since, when one lad would attempt some courtesy the other would immediately undertake to outdo him. Dorothy found Jack Markin splendid company, and this, she told herself, could not be otherwise, since he was brother to Cologne.
At a pretty palm-festooned ice-cream parlor they met a friend of the Markin family, Alma Mason, who was also a visitor in Buffalo. She was bright and interesting, chatting pleasantly on many subjects, until, to Dorothy’s surprise, she asked abruptly:
“Do you happen to know a Grace Barnum?”
“No,” Dorothy answered, as she felt her face burning with excitement. “I do not know her personally, but she is a friend of a chum of mine.”
“The pretty girl, with the golden-brown hair? Oh, I have met her,” Alma went on, taking Dorothy’s look to signify the correctness of the guess that the “pretty girl with the brown hair” was Dorothy’s friend. “Isn’t she splendid? Grace was just wild over her—she was so jolly and funny.”
That Miss Mason used the past tense Dorothy instantly noticed. Nat was also listening with interest, and he observed the same thing.
“Is she not with Miss Barnum now?” Dorothy found courage to inquire finally.
“No, I think not. I think Grace said she had gone to Rochester. She has, I believe, a friend in that city.”
Dorothy was startled at the news that Tavia had left Buffalo. Her heart sank, but she tried to conceal her feelings. Tavia in Rochester! The girl in Rochester was she who had once written Tavia concerning the stage and its attractions. And Tavia possibly was with her, after she had promised to have no further correspondence with that press agent!
The remainder of the evening was like a blank page to Dorothy. She heard and saw what was going on around her, but her heart and her attention was not with the merry little party from the hotel. Jack Markin would have accused her of being dull had he not determined to meet more than half way his sister’s estimate of Dorothy Dale. Then too, he reasoned as an excuse for her obvious low spirits, she must be tired after the long, dusty auto run.
The evening passed quickly (to all but Dorothy) amid a variety of entertainments, and when the boys from North Birchland said good-night in the hotel office and Rose-Mary had taken Dorothy to her room, it was quite late.
It was a relief, however, Dorothy had to admit to herself at least, and in her heart she was grateful to Mrs. Markin when that lady cautioned the two girls against further talking, and urged Dorothy to go to bed. For Dorothy wanted to be alone and think. She wanted to plan. How should she proceed now? If Tavia was not with Grace Barnum—
But of this she must first make certain, and to do so she would ask Nat to take her to Miss Barnum’s house the first thing next morning.
But little light was thrown on the disappearance of Tavia through any information Dorothy could obtain from Grace Barnum. In fact that young lady was quite as puzzled as was Dorothy, and when told that Tavia was not to be found at home a few days previous (this being within the time when Tavia had left Buffalo ostensibly for her residence in Dalton), Miss Barnum wanted to communicate immediately with the missing girl’s parents.
Nat, with kind consideration, had declined to step inside when Dorothy called at the Barnum home. He thought he might better give the two young ladies a chance to discuss the situation alone, and so, under pretense of strolling through the little park opposite the house, left Grace and Dorothy together.
It took the girls but a moment to arrive at the same point of interest. Grace showed keenest anxiety when Dorothy inquired for Tavia, for she had fears of her own—since her friend’s visit.
“I must write at once,” she insisted. “What would Mrs. Travers think of me if anything happened to Tavia?”
“But I have already begun a letter,” stated Dorothy, truthfully enough, “so perhaps I had better make the inquiry. You know how excitable Mrs. Travers is. Perhaps I could write without causing her any alarm, whereas she would surely expect you to know whether or not Tavia was home. I haven’t the slightest doubt but that she is home—now,” Dorothy hastened to add. “I am expecting her at North Birchland any day.”
This had the effect of putting Grace at her ease. Of course, she reflected, Tavia might even be at the Cedars now, as her mother had given her permission to go about almost as she wished, and she had expected to pay a number of visits to friends, no special time being set for them. This Grace knew for she had seen a letter to that effect from Mrs. Travers to Tavia.
“You see,” said Dorothy, rising to go, “they have always given Tavia so much her own way. She has been—well, sort of superior to the others at home. That, I think, is a real mistake, for a girl is expected to know more of the world and its ways than is consistent with her actual experience.”
“Exactly,” admitted Grace. “That is what I thought once when Tavia acted so—well so self-reliant. I do hope she is safe at home. You will let me know, won’t you Dorothy? I may call you that, mayn’t I? I feel as if I had known you for a long time, as Tavia has talked so much about you.”
So the two girls parted, and Dorothy’s heart seemed to grow heavier at each new turn in her quest for the missing one.
“Why should Tavia act so?” she asked herself over and over again, as she walked along with Nat who tried to cheer her up.
“If you don’t stop worrying, Doro,” he counseled as he noted the look of anxiety on her face, “you’ll be a sick girl ’way out here in Buffalo.”
“I’m going to be excused from the party to-night,” she answered. “I really have a headache, and I must have time to write some letters.”
“Great headache cure—letter writing. But I suppose you’ll not rest until you sift this matter to the very bottom. And, to be honest, Doro, I can’t say I blame you. I’d give a whole lot, right now, to know where the wily Tavia tarries.”
As discreetly as she could, Dorothy wrote the letter to Mrs. Travers to ask the mooted question. She did not say she had been to Grace Barnum’s, but simply inquired for Tavia’s address. On an early mail the next day (a remarkable thing for Mrs. Travers to answer a letter so promptly) came the reply that Tavia was at the Barnums! There was some other news of Dalton in the epistle, but that concerning Tavia, which her mother had apparently set down as a matter of fact, stood out prominently from all the rest.
In spite of her fears, when the letter presented the actual fact that Tavia was not at home, and, as Dorothy knew she was not at Grace’s, it came like a shock to the girl already in a highly nervous state because of what she had gone through. Hoping against hope she had clung to the slim possibility that some explanation might come from Dalton, but now even this was shattered.
One thing Dorothy quickly decided upon. She must have another talk with Alma Mason, and she must be careful not to excite suspicion as to the real purpose of the conversation.
Realizing at once that she must now move cautiously in the matter, for the slightest intimation that Tavia was away from home and friends, without either the latter or relatives having a clue to her whereabouts, would be sure to ruin Tavia’s reputation, Dorothy now determined that even Nat should not know of her plans for continuing the search.
How hopeless Dorothy felt all alone in such a work! But find Tavia she must, and to find her very soon she felt was imperative, for, even in Buffalo, with her friends, Dorothy could see the dangers of a large city to an unprotected and unsuspecting young girl.
But the boys were going back to North Birchland the next day! How could Dorothy act in time to get to Rochester? For to Rochester she felt that she now must go. Everything pointed to the fact that Tavia was either there, or that there a clue to her whereabouts could be obtained.
On taking her morning walk alone, for Rose-Mary was a little indisposed, after the party of the evening previous, Dorothy met Miss Mason. It was not difficult to renew the conversation concerning Tavia. Bit by bit Alma told of Tavia’s infatuation for the stage, until Dorothy became more than ever convinced that it was in theatrical surroundings that the missing girl would be found.
Mrs. Markin had planned a little theatre party for Rose-Mary and some of her Buffalo friends that afternoon. The play was one especially interesting to young girls—a drama built on lines, showing how one ambitious girl succeeded in the world with nothing but a kind heart and a worthy purpose to start with. It abounded in scenes of rural home life, wholesome and picturesque, and one of the features, most conspicuous in the advertising on the billboards was that of the character Katherine, the heroine, holding a neighborhood meeting in a cornfield, among the laborers during the noon hour. The girl appeared in the posters perched upon a water barrel and from that pulpit in the open she, as the daughter of a blind chair caner, won hearts to happiness with the gospel of brotherly love—the new religion of the poor and the oppressed.
While Rose-Mary and Alma enthused over the prospect of a particularly pleasant afternoon, Dorothy seemed nervous, and it was with some misgivings that she finally agreed to attend the party that was really arranged for her special entertainment. The boys, Ned, Nat and Jack were going, of course, and to make the affair complete Rose-Mary had also invited Grace Barnum.
Grace was a particularly bright girl, the sort that cares more for books than pretty clothes, and who had the temerity to wear her hair parted directly in the middle in the very wildest of pompadour days. Not that Grace lacked beauty, for she was of the classic type that seems to defy nationality to such an extent, that it might be a matter of most uncertain guess to say to what country her ancestors had belonged.
This “neutrality” was a source of constant delight to Grace, for each new friend would undertake to assign her to a different country, and so she felt quite like the “real thing in Cosmopolitan types” as she expressed it. The fact, however, might have been accounted for by the incident of Grace having been born under missionary skies in China. Her mother was an American blond, her father a dark foreigner of French and Spanish ancestry and, with all this there was in the Barnum family a distinct strain, of Puritan stock, from which the name Barnum came. Grace, being distinctly different from other girls, no doubt attracted Tavia to her, and now, when received among Tavia’s friends she was welcomed with marked attention that at once established a bond of friendship between her and the other girls.
The boys, naturally, were not slow to “discover her” so that, altogether, the little matinee party, when it had reached the theatre, was a very merry throng of young people. Mrs. Markin acted as chaperone and, five minutes before the time set for the play to begin Dorothy and her friends sat staring at the green fire-proof curtain from a roomy box. Dorothy was like one in a dream.
All about her the others were eagerly waiting, looking the while at the programmes, but Dorothy sat there with the pink leaflet lying unheeded in her lap.
“How much that picture of Katherine resembles Tavia,” was the thought that disturbed her. “The same hair—the same eyes—what if it should be she?”
The curtain was swaying to and fro as those behind it brushed past in their preparations for the presentation of “Katherine, the Chair Caner’s Daughter.”
Dorothy’s heart beat wildly when she fancied Tavia amid such scenes—Tavia the open-hearted girl, the little Dalton “wild flower” as Dorothy liked to call her. Surely no stage heroine could be more heroic than she had always been in her role of shedding happiness on all who came within her sphere of life.
Suddenly Rose-Mary turned to Nat and remarked:
“How Tavia would enjoy this.” She looked around on the gay scene as the theatre was filling up. “What a pity we could not bring her with us for the good time.”
Dorothy felt her face flush as Nat made some irrelevant reply. Jack turned directly to Dorothy and, noting her inattention to the programme opened his to point out some of the items of interest.
But still Dorothy stared nervously at the big asbestos curtain and made feeble efforts to answer her companion’s questions. Even Mrs. Markin observed Dorothy’s rather queer manner, and she, too, showed concern that her daughter’s guest should be ill at ease.
“Aren’t you well, dear?” she asked quietly.
Dorothy fumbled with a lace flounce on her sleeve.
“Yes,” she answered, “but there is so much to see and think about.” She felt as if she were apologizing. “I am not accustomed to city theatres,” she added.
Then the orchestra broke into the opening number, and presently a flash of light across the curtain told that the players were ready to begin.
The introductory scenes were rather of an amateur order—a poor country home—the blind chair caner at work, and his more or less amusing customers. One flashily-dressed woman wanted him to put a rush bottom in a chair that had belonged to her grandmother, but absolutely refused to pay even the very low price the caner asked for the work. She wanted it as cheaply as though rush bottoms could be made by machinery. He was poor and needed work but he could not accept her terms.
The woman in a red silk gown, with a bewildering shower of veils floating about her, did not gain any applause for her part in the play. Dorothy noted that even on the stage undesirable persons do not please, and that the assumed character is taken into account as well as their acting.
It was when the blind man sat alone at his door step, with his sightless eyes raised pitifully to the inviting sunset, that the pretty Katherine came skipping into view across the footlights.
Instinctively Nat reached out and, without being observed grasped Dorothy’s hand. “How like Tavia!” he mused, while Dorothy actually seemed to stop breathing. From that moment to the very end of the play Nat and Dorothy shared the same thought—it might be Tavia. The others had each remarked the resemblance, but, being more interested in the drama than in the whereabouts of Dorothy’s chum (whom they had no occasion to worry about for they did not know the circumstances,) they merely dwelt on it as a passing thought—they were interested in what happened to the chair caner’s daughter.
At last every member of the company found some excuse to get on the stage, and then the end was reached, and the curtain went down while the throng hurried out, seemingly indifferent to the desire of the actors to show themselves again as the curtain shot up for a final display of the last scene.
The Markin party was to go to a restaurant for ice-cream, and so hurried from the box. Dorothy drifted along with them for a few moments, and then again that one thought came to her, overwhelming her.
“What if that should really be Tavia?”
She had but a moment to act, then, when the crowd pressed closer and there was difficulty in walking because of the blockade, Dorothy slipped back, stepped out of her place, and was at once swallowed up in a sea of persons.
For a moment Dorothy felt as if she must make her way back after her friends—it was so terrifying to find herself in such a press—but a glance at the wavering canvas that now hid from the public the company of players and helpers, inspired her with new courage. She would go behind the scenes and see if that girl was Tavia!
In a short time the theatre was emptied, save for the ushers and the boys who dashed in and out among the rows of seats, picking up the scattered programmes, and making the place ready for the evening performance. One of the ushers, seeing Dorothy, walked over to her.
“Waiting for anybody?” he asked mechanically, without glancing up at her, but indicating that he was ready to turn up the seat before which she was standing.
“Yes,” replied Dorothy.
“In the company?” he inquired next.
“Yes. The young lady who played Katherine.”
“This way,” the young man exclaimed snappily, but in no unpleasant tone. He led the way along the row of seats, down an isle and through a very narrow door that seemed to be made of black oil cloth.
Dorothy had no time to think of what was going to happen. It had all come about so quickly—she hardly knew how to proceed now—what name to ask for—or whether or not to give her own in case it was demanded. She wondered what the actress would think of her if Katherine did not turn out to be Tavia.
“You mean Miss Riceman,” the usher went on as he closed the narrow door. “This way, please,” and, the next moment, Dorothy found herself behind the scenes in a big city theatre.
The place was a maze of doors and passageways. Wires and ropes were in a seeming tangle overhead and all about were big wooden frames covered with painted canvas—scenes and flies that slid in and out at the two sides of a stage, and make up a very important part of a theatrical company’s outfit.
These immense canvases seemed to be all over, and every time Dorothy tried to walk toward a door indicated by her guide, who had suddenly disappeared, she found she was in front of or behind some depiction of a building, or the side of a house or a street. Mechanics were busy all about her.
Suddenly a girl thrust her head from one of the many doors and shouted to an unseen person:
“Nellie! Nellie, dear! I’m ready for that ice-cream soda. Get into your street togs quick or you’ll be having soup instead—”
“Nellie! Nellie!” came in a chorus from all sides, though the owners of the voices remained hidden, and then there rang out through the big space a spontaneous burst of a line from the chorus of the old song:
“I was seeing Nellie home. I was seeing Nellie home.It was from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, I was seeing Nellie home.”
“I was seeing Nellie home. I was seeing Nellie home.
It was from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, I was seeing Nellie home.”
“Ha! Ha! How’s that, Nellie?” inquired a deep bass voice.
Dorothy stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. This was better than the play, she thought, as she vaguely wondered what sort of life must be led behind the scenes. Then the thought of her position sent a chill over her. She must seek out the performer who went by the name of Miss Riceman, and then—
By this time a number of the characters appeared from their dressing rooms, and Dorothy stepped up to a girl with an enormous hat on her head, and a pair of very small shoes in her hand. As the girl sank gracefully down on an upturned box to adjust her ties, and, incidentally, to get a breath of air after the atmosphere of the stuffy dressing room, Dorothy asked timidly:
“Can you tell me where Miss Riceman’s dressing room is?”
“That first door to the left,” answered the girl, tilting her big hat back far enough to allow a glimpse of her questioner.
Dorothy stepped up to the door. Surely Tavia could not be there! Dorothy’s heart beat furiously. She was trembling so she could hardly knock, but managed to give a faint tap.
“Who?” called a girlish voice.
“Miss Dale,” answered Dorothy mechanically, feeling as if she would almost be willing to give up her search for Tavia if she could be well out of the place. There was a moment’s wait and then the door swung open.
“Come in,” invited the girl from within the little room. “Oh, you’re Miss—let me see—I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name—you’re from theLeader, aren’t you?”
“No,” replied Dorothy, breathing easier, now that she found herself alone with a girl—a simple human being just like any other girl. “I am looking for—for a friend,” she went on, stammeringly, “and I thought perhaps you could tell me—”
“You poor child,” interrupted Miss Riceman whose toilet was so unceremoniously interrupted “just come in and sit down on this trunk. Then let me get you something. You actually look ill.”
“I’m just—just a little fri—frightened,” Dorothy gasped, for indeed she was now feeling queer and dizzy, and it was all getting black before her eyes.
“Nettie!” called the actress, “get me some cold water and call to the girls in the ‘Lair’ and see if they have made coffee. Hurry now,” to the woman who helped the actresses dress. Then she offered Dorothy a bottle of smelling salts. “Take a whiff of that,” she said kindly. “The woman will be back soon with some ice water. I’m sorry you’re not well. Was it the smell from the gas lights? I don’t see why they make us poor actresses put up with them, when they have electric light in front. It’s abominable! And the smoke from the powder they use to make the lightning! It fairly chokes me,” and she blew aside a curling wreath of vapor that sifted in through the door. A moment later the woman handed in a pitcher of water and a glass. “No coffee?” in answer to some message. “Well, all right.”
The actress flew over to a box that served as a dresser and poured out a glass of water for Dorothy. As she did so Dorothy had a chance to look at Katherine, whom she imagined might be Tavia. There was not the slightest resemblance now that the actress had her “make-up” off. How could a little paint, powder and the glare from the footlights perform such a miracle, thought Dorothy. This girl was as different from Tavia as Dorothy was herself. And yet she did look so like her—
“Here’s a nice drink of water,” spoke Miss Riceman.
“Now please don’t let me bother you so,” pleaded Dorothy, sitting up determinedly and trying to look as if nothing was the matter. But she sipped the water gladly. “I’m quite well now, thank you, Miss Riceman, and I’ll not detain you a moment longer from your dressing.”