DOROTHY IS WORRIED
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.”