CHAPTER XVII
AT THE PLAY
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.
CHAPTER XVIII
BEHIND THE SCENES
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.”
“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 the Leader, 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.”
“Nonsense, child, sit still. You won’t bother me the least bit. I’ll go right on. Now tell me who it is you’re looking for?”
Dorothy watched the actress toss aside a mass of brown hair that was so like Tavia’s. Then she saw a string pulled and – the wig came off. The real, naturally blond hair of Miss Riceman fell in a shower over her shoulders.
Turning to Dorothy the performer instantly realized that the scene was new to her visitor and, with that strange, subtle instinct which seems to characterize the artistic professional woman, she at once relieved the situation by remarking:
“Do you know we never feel like removing our ‘make-up’ before the reporters. Even women representatives of the press (and of course we never admit any others to our dressing rooms) have such a funny way of describing things that I should be mortally afraid of taking off my wig before one. I thought you were Miss – Oh, what’s her name – I never can think of it – from the Leader. I expected her to call. But, do you know that women reporters are just the dearest set of rascals in the world? They simply can’t help being funny when it’s a joke on you. Now, whom did you say you were looking for? I do rattle on so!”
All this, of course, was giving Dorothy time – and she needed it badly, for her story was by no means ready for a “dress rehearsal.”
But there was something so self-assuring about the actress – she was not in the least coarse or loud-spoken – she was, on the contrary, the very embodiment of politeness. Dorothy felt she could talk freely with her about Tavia.
“I am looking for a young girl named Octavia Travers,” began Dorothy bravely, “and I thought possibly she might be with this company.”
“Was she with this company previously? I don’t seem to recall the name.”
“Oh, I don’t know that she is with any company,” Dorothy hastened to add, feeling how foolish it must seem to be looking for a girl in a theatrical troupe when one had no more assurance that she might be with such a company than that she might be working in a department store.
“Haven’t you her address?” asked Miss Riceman, as she stood before the glass, daubing on some cold cream to remove the last of the “make-up” from her face.
“No,” answered Dorothy miserably enough. “I only wish I had.”
The actress with the cream jar turned around in time to see the tears coming into Dorothy’s eyes. Miss Riceman dropped the jar down on her improvised dresser and came over to where her visitor sat on the trunk.
“Tell me all about it,” she said kindly, sitting down beside Dorothy. “Perhaps I can help you. She is not your sister, is she?”
“No,” was the answer, and then began a confidence of which Dorothy had scarcely believed herself capable. She told how Tavia was as much to her as a sister could be, and how she feared her chum had taken to the stage on account of her peculiarities while at school. Then Dorothy described Tavia’s appearance – how pretty she was – what beautiful hair she had.
“And her eyes,” Dorothy almost cried, “I have never seen eyes like Tavia’s. They are as soft a brown as the inside of a chestnut burr.”
“Exactly!” chimed in Miss Riceman. “I would not be surprised but that I saw that very girl the other day. It was in the manager’s office. She came alone and she looked – well – I knew at once that she was a total stranger to the business. And when the manager asked how old she was (for they have to be particular about age you know) I think she said seventeen, but I knew she was not quite as old as that.”
Dorothy clasped her hands in a strained gesture. How she wanted to find Tavia, yet how she feared to discover her in this way!
“That might be her,” she faltered thoughtfully.
“If it was, she is with a company playing on the same circuit we do,” went on Miss Riceman. “Let me see,” and she consulted a slip of paper pinned to the wall. “Yes, they follow us in some towns. It was the ‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company that the girl I am speaking about applied to, and I’m sure she was engaged, for I was interested in her appearance, and later I asked some one about her. Now the thing for you to do is to come to the manager’s office here to-morrow afternoon, between five and six. He has control of several companies, including the one I’m with and the L. R. S. as we call it for short, the ‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ I mean. Just ask him for your friend’s address – or, better still, just ask where the company is playing and she’ll be sure to be with it. He might not pay much attention to you if he thought you were looking for some one in particular and hadn’t any clue to her whereabouts.”
“I’ll do it,” said Dorothy determinedly, as she arose to go.
“Now don’t leave here until you are positive you feel all right,” cautioned Miss Riceman. “I’m sure I’m very glad to have met you and I hope I have been able to help you. I’m sorry I can’t tell you where the Rossmore company is, but I haven’t made a memoranda of the complete booking as I sometimes do. I thought I had it on a slip of paper but I find I haven’t.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve helped me a lot,” exclaimed Dorothy, hardly able to put her gratitude into words, but the busy little actress looked entirely satisfied with her visitor’s thanks as she showed Dorothy the way out of the stage door. She smiled cheerily at her as she waved her hand in good-bye and then she went back behind the scenes again, to her dressing room to resume the removal of the “make-up” from her face.