DOROTHY IN BUFFALO
“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.