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.