IN DIRE DISTRESS
Dorothy had traveled in parlor cars before but had never ridden in a
sleeper, which was the style of coach she now found herself in. The train
was a through one from the west and, as the regular parlor cars were full
Ned had to get a ticket in the sleeper which, by day, is much the same as
a parlor car.
As the porter set her valise down and arranged a seat for her near the
ladies’ retiring room Dorothy’s heart beat fast, and, though the
surroundings were new and novel to her she took no interest in them. But
as the train whistled off, and the other passengers began moving about,
Dorothy lifted her head and glanced around.
For a moment she felt that some mistake had been made. Surely this was no
train for ladies, for not a woman was in sight, instead the entire car
seemed filled with men in various stages of incomplete toilets. Some were
adjusting their neckties as they walked through the aisle, others were
fastening shoe laces, and a few buckling their belts or slipping on their
coats.
Then she noticed, for the first time, that the car was a sleeper, for the
interior was so dark because of the train shed when she entered that she
could not tell what it was. She saw the berths on both sides, with heavy
curtains lining the aisle. Only one or two beds had been shut up and
turned into seats like the one she was occupying.
Dorothy was annoyed. Was she to make her lonely trip in company with a
car full of men? She had expected, when she planned her journey, that
there would be other girls and ladies in the coach in which she was to
travel, and that she might appeal to them in case of need. But a whole
car full of men!
She looked about for the little electric call button, and, finding it in
the casement at the side of the window, pressed it vigorously. It was
some time before the porter responded as, all along his route, the
omnipresent men claimed his attention for various services. But finally
he reached the end of the car where the girl in the blue sailor suit sat
up very prim and stiff, waiting for him.
“Is this—er—a ladies’ car?” she asked timidly.
“A ladies’ car? Oh, yes, miss. This is all right. This is the car for
Rochester.”
“But I—never was in a car like—like this before,” Dorothy objected,
glancing about at the men who were still struggling in the aisles with
various refractory articles of clothing.
For a moment the porter seemed puzzled. Then, all at once, he understood
Dorothy’s objection.
“Oh, them’s only the gentlemen gettin’ ready to leave, miss. They’ll all
be out soon, and you’ll have more room. Anything I can do for you, miss?”
“No,” and Dorothy just checked herself from adding “thank you,” which she
felt would not be quite proper, and would show that she was unused to the
attention of a porter. Then the colored attendant made his way down the
aisle, while the only girl in the car held her face close against the
window pane and fell to thinking of the task that lay before her.
She was not now troubled about the car and the occupants. If it was all
right, and she would be brought safely to Rochester in it, that was all
she had to consider. Of course it would have been less lonely to have had
the usual day coach passengers with her, but she thought Ned must have
selected this car and she felt he knew best. Then, too, the porter had
said the men were rapidly leaving their berths and as soon as they did so
the colored man made the folding beds into broad velvet seats, similar to
the one occupied by Dorothy.
When these seats had replaced the hanging curtains, and the comfortable
places were occupied by the men who had been so lately sleeping, even
though there were no women among them, Dorothy recovered from her first
shock of embarrassment. The passengers all appeared to be gentlemen and
not one of them seemed to even glance in her direction, though they must
have realized how strange it was for a pretty girl to be the lone female
passenger.
When the spasm of brushing clothes into which the porter threw himself,
was finally over, which operation Dorothy could not help watching for it
was done with such dispatch, and when the men had gone to the dining car
for breakfast or become engrossed in their newspapers, she tried to map
out her day’s programme.
“I will get off at Rochester,” she told herself, “and then I’ll inquire
for the Criterion Theatre.” She looked at the slip of paper which she
carried so carefully in the little brown leather wrist bag. “Then,” she
went on, “if the company has left Rochester I will go to Rockdale. But if
it should get dark!” she cried in a low wail of terror. “If it should get
dark and I should be all alone in a strange city!”
Then came the thought of the folks at home and how they would worry if
night came on and she did not reach them. Was ever a girl so situated?
All sorts of dangers flashed before her mind, and now, though too late,
she realized sharply how unfit a young girl is to cope with a big,
strange world, how little the world cares for a girl’s tender feelings,
and how cold and heartless it is when she tries to make her way through
the city streets alone, yet crowded on every side by a throng of other
human beings.
“But Tavia had to go through it,” concluded Dorothy, “and I must not be
less brave than was she.”
The train was somewhat delayed on the run from Buffalo to Rochester, so
it was almost noon when Dorothy reached the latter city.
On a slip of paper she had the directions of the theatre she wished to
visit, and at the ticket station learned where the building was located.
Then off she started, with never a look at the shop windows filled with
wonderful displays of all kinds. She soon found the amusement resort, and
stepping into the lobby, approached the ticket window and asked timidly:
“Can you tell me where the ‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company is playing
to-night?”
The man looked at her sharply. Then he smiled so ironically that
Dorothy’s heart gave a painful thump, and a great lump came into her
throat.
“‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company,” he repeated, with the most prolonged
and distracting drawl. “I guess there isn’t any. It’s down and out.
Didn’t play to a house here last night big enough to pay the gas bills.”
“But the members of the company?” asked Dorothy with a choke in her
voice.
“Hum! How should I know?” he asked with a sneer. “In jail, maybe, for not
paying their board bills.”
For a moment Dorothy felt that she must cry out and tell him that the
matter was very vital to her—that she must find a young and friendless
girl who was a member of the company; but she realized what sort of a man
he was and her better judgment asserted itself.
“But are there any members of the company in this city?” she persisted
bravely, trying to keep up her courage, so as to get a clue as to the
whereabouts of Tavia.
“In this city?” he repeated with the same distracting drawl. “Well, no.
They managed to get out of here before the sheriff could attach their
baggage and the scenery, which he was ready to do. They certainly were as
poor a company as we ever had in this theatre. It was awful. Oh, no, they
didn’t dare stay here.”
“Then where did they go?”
“Rockdale was their next booked place, but maybe they didn’t dare go
there, for fear some word had been sent on ahead,” the ticket seller
sneered.
“How can I get to Rockdale?” asked the girl, trying to keep back her
tears.
“Get there on a train, of course,” and the man turned back to the paper
he had been reading when Dorothy came in. Perhaps he was angry because
she had not purchased a ticket to the current attraction.
“If you would be—be kind enough to direct me,” pleaded Dorothy. “I am a
stranger here, and I must find a—a young girl who is with that company.”
Something in her voice and manner seemed to touch the rather indifferent
man, for he straightened up in his tall chair and looked squarely and
more kindly at Dorothy.
“Oh, that’s it, is it? I didn’t know. I have a lot of silly girls always
asking about traveling companies after they’ve left here, and I thought
you might be one of them. Now you’re talking. Yes, of course, certainly.
If you’ve got to find anybody connected with that company you’d better be
quick about it, for I should think there wouldn’t be much left of ’em by
this time. I heard they had quite a time of it getting their trunks away
from here. Held up for board, you know. But of course they’re used to
that sort of thing.”
Dorothy took hold of the brass rail in front of her as she turned away
from the window. She felt as if she could hardly stand any more of the
man’s veiled insinuations. But it might not be true—surely it could not
be true—it was only his cruel, teasing way. Tavia could not be in such
distress.
“How can I get there?” Dorothy repeated.
“If you want to get to Rockdale,” the ticket seller answered after a
pause, “you can take the train at twelve forty-five.”
“Thank you,” murmured Dorothy, turning dizzily toward the street to make
her way to the station she had so recently left. How she managed to reach
the place she never knew. The great buildings along the way seemed about
to topple over on her head. Her temples were throbbing and her eyes shot
out streaks of flashing light. Her knees trembled under her. If only she
had time to get something to eat! But she must not miss that train. It
might be the last one that day.
Through the crowd of waiting persons she made her way to the ticket
office and purchased the slip of cardboard that entitled her to a ride.
She learned that the train was late and that she would have to wait ten
minutes. Grateful for that respite Dorothy turned to the little lunch
counter to get a sandwich, and some coffee. But, before she had reached
the end of the big depot where refreshments were sold, she suddenly
stopped—some one had grabbed her skirt.
Turning quickly Dorothy beheld a crouching, cringing figure, almost
crawling so as to hide herself in the crowd.
“Girl!” cried Dorothy, trying to shake off the grasp on her skirt. “Let
me go! What do you want?”
“Don’t you know me?” whispered the miserable creature. “Look again—don’t
you know—Urania, the Gypsy girl?”
Then beneath the rags and the appearance of age that seemed, in so short
a time to have hidden the identity of this young girl, Dorothy did
recognize Urania. How wretched—how forlorn she was; and even in danger of
arrest if she was seen begging in the depot.
“Don’t turn away from me, Miss!” pleaded the unfortunate Gypsy girl.
“Please help me!”
She stretched out to Dorothy a dirty, trembling hand. The gate to the
Rockdale train had been thrown open, and Dorothy felt that the time was
almost up.
“You should go home,” she said, dropping a coin into the outstretched
palm.
“Yes, yes, I want to go home,” cried the girl, and Dorothy was afraid her
voice would attract attention in the crowd. But the passengers were too
busy rushing for their trains to heed anything else. “I want to go home,”
pleaded Urania. “You should take me home,—it was your fine cousin—the boy
with the taffy-colored hair—that brought me here!”
“What!” cried Dorothy. “How dare you say such a thing?”
“Ask him, then, if it isn’t so. And ask him if he wasn’t in this very
station an hour ago, looking for some one—that red-headed girl, likely.”
“Do you mean to say you saw my cousin here to-day?” gasped Dorothy.
“Come; tell me the truth and you shall go home—I’ll take you home
myself—only tell me the truth.”
“Yes, I’ll do it,” answered the girl. “Well, him and his brother came in
here an hour ago. They asked the man at the window if he had seen a young
girl with a brown hand bag. I stood near to listen, but kept out of
sight. Then they dashed off again before I could ask them for a penny, or
throw it up to that dandy that it was the ride he gave me in the auto
that brought me to this.”
“Don’t talk so!” exclaimed Dorothy, much shocked. “Do you want to go back
to the camp where your people are?” She was too dumfounded at the news to
argue with the wild creature.
“Yes, oh, yes, back to the camp!” and Urania’s eyes flashed. “They’ll
take me back. Even Melea would not turn me out now for I am sick and
sorrowful.”
It needed but a glance to see that in this, at least, the girl spoke
truthfully.
“Come,” ordered Dorothy, “I’ll take care of you. But first I must get
something to eat. We have a few minutes.”
Without heeding the attention she attracted by almost dragging the beggar
girl up to the lunch counter, Dorothy made her way there and ordered
coffee and sandwiches for both. She hurriedly disposed of her own share,
being only a little behind Urania, who ate as though famished. Then,
hastily procuring another ticket, she bolted through the door, followed
by the Gypsy, who seemed to take it all as a matter of course.
The ride was, for the most part, a silent one. Dorothy was busy with her
thoughts, and the Gypsy girl was almost afraid to speak.
“But you will see me to my home—to the camp?” she pleaded once.
“Yes,” answered Dorothy. “But you must have patience—I have something
more important to attend to first.”
“I can wait,” answered the little Gypsy.
The Rockdale station was a brick structure, with a modest waiting-room
for women passengers at the far end. It was there that Dorothy took
Urania as they left the train which steamed away into the distance. The
room was without a single occupant, a matter of rejoicing to Dorothy, as
she had already experienced considerable difficulty in passing with
Urania through the ordinary marts of travel.
“Now you stay here,” she told the Gypsy girl, “and I’ll go out and get
you something. You must be sure to stay in this corner, and eat carefully
so as not to make crumbs. If the station agent should speak to you while
I’m gone, just tell him you are waiting for—for a lady, who told you not
to leave this room until she returned.”
Willingly enough Urania sank down on a corner of the bench, and tried to
smile her thanks at Dorothy. But Dorothy was too excited to notice the
feeble effort. She hurried to a little store opposite the station, bought
some crackers and cakes, and after putting the package into the Gypsy’s
hands, with another word of caution, was off again, this time to find the
Lyceum Theatre.
It seemed to Dorothy that any place must be easy to find in a small town,
and when she was directed to the theatre by a man on the street, she was
not surprised to find that it was but a few blocks from the depot.
Hurrying along, she reached a big hall, for the Lyceum, in spite of its
name, was nothing but a big country hall, with the additional attraction
of iron fire escapes. She knocked at the big broad wooden door, but soon
discovered that the place was locked up and, evidently, deserted. She
made a number of inquiries of boys she saw nearby, but all the
information she could elicit from the urchins amounted to nothing more
than laughter and “guying” to the effect that the company had come to
grief in its attempt to give Rockdale folks a hint as to what Lady
Rossmore’s “Secret” was. It appeared that the company had arrived in
town, but had at once gotten into legal difficulties because of some
trouble back in Rochester.
“But where are the members of the company?” Dorothy asked of one boy who
was larger than his companions, and who had not been so ready to make fun
of the unfortunates.
“Some’s gone back home I guess, that is if they has homes—some’s hanging
’round the hotel, where their trunks was attached as soon as the baggage
man brought ’em in—some’s sitting around on the benches in the green.
Guess none of ’em had any dinner to-day, for them hotel people is as mean
as dirt.”
“Where is the hotel?”
“That’s the hotel, over there,” answered the boy, pointing to a building
on the opposite corner. “Mansion House, they call it, though I never
could see much of a mansion about that old barn.”
The afternoon was wearing away and Dorothy felt that she must make all
possible haste if she was to get back to North Birchland that night, as
she knew she must for her own sake. So, thanking the boy she hurried over
to the hotel, and, after making some inquiries of a number of loungers on
the broad, low veranda, was directed to the office.
She asked some questions regarding the whereabouts of members of the
theatrical company, but the man at the dingy old desk was inclined to
make inquiries himself, rather than answer Dorothy’s. He wanted to know
if she had called to settle up for any of the “guys” and if not he
demanded to know if she took him for a bureau of information or a public
phonograph, and he grinned delightfully at his feeble wit.
“I don’t keep tabs on every barn-storming theatrical company,” he growled
out. “Much as I kin do to look after their baggage and see they don’t
skin me—that’s my game in a case like this.”
Dorothy pleaded with him to give her any information he might have as to
the whereabouts of any girl or woman member of the company, but he was
ugly, evidently because of the loss of some money or patronage in
connection with the theatrical fiasco, and would not give so much as an
encouraging word.
Dorothy looked about but could see no one who seemed to be an actor or
actress. She had learned in a measure to know the type. Fairly sick and
disheartened she turned away. How could she give up now, when she felt
that Tavia must be almost within hearing of her voice? How loudly her
heart cried out! Surely some kind fate would bear that cry to Tavia’s ear
and bring her to her friend Dorothy—for now Dorothy felt that she could
hardly go many steps farther in her weary search.
She heard a train steam into the station and go on without making a stop.
“Oh,” thought Dorothy, “if we could only get a train back again soon! But
I can not give her up! I must—must find her wherever she is!”
Exhausted and discouraged, she sank down by the roadside at a grassy spot
where the street turned into a country park. She felt that she must
cry—she would feel better when she had cried—out there alone—away from
the cruel persons—away from the seemingly cruel fate that was so
relentlessly urging her on beyond her strength—beyond the actual power of
human endurance. Was there ever so wretched a girl as was Dorothy Dale at
that moment? Yes, she would indulge in a good cry—she knew it would
relieve her nerves—and then she could go on.
The rough boys, playing nearby saw the girl sitting beside the road and,
whether out of kindness or curiosity they hastened over to the place and
stood looking down at Dorothy in respectful silence.
“Did they do anyt’ing to youse?” asked a little fellow with a ring of
vengeance in his small, shrill voice. “Dem hotel guys is too fresh, an’
me fader is goin’—he’s goin’ t’ do somet’ing to dem if dey don’t look
out.”
“Dat’s right,” spoke up another. “His fader is de sheriff an’ he’s goin’
t’ ’rest ’em, if dey don’t pay der own bills, fer all der talk of holdin’
de show trunks.”
Dorothy raised her head. Surely these boys were trying to comfort her in
their own rough but earnest way. Perhaps they could help her look for
Tavia.
“Do any of you know where the girls of this company are now?” she asked
of the boys collectively. “I am searching for a girl with brown hair—”
She stopped abruptly, realizing how useless it would be to give these
boys a description of Tavia.
“I sawr a girl wit a big kind of a hat and a little satchel, an’ I know
she was wit de show,” volunteered a red-haired urchin. “I was right
alongside of her when she bought five cents’ wort’ of cakes at Rooney’s,
an’ after dat I seen her sittin’ on a bench in de green.”
“Honest?” asked an older boy severely, turning to the one who had given
the information. “No kiddin’ now, Signal, or we’ll blow out your red
light,” this reference being to the boy’s brilliant hair. “We want t’
help dis gurl t’ find de young lady, don’t we fellers?”
“Sure,” came in a ready chorus.
“I did see her,” protested Signal, rubbing his hand over his fiery locks
and rumpling them up until they looked like a brush heap ablaze. “I sawr
her less ’n hour ago.”
“Where?” asked Dorothy, eagerly.
“On a bench in de green.” And the lad pointed out the direction to
Dorothy.
She followed the road to the end and there, stretching out before her was
an open common, or the green, as the boys called it. In the centre was a
little park, where a pretty fountain sent a spray of sparkling water high
into the air. Arranged about it were benches, under shady bowers formed
by overhanging bushes, and there were clumps of shrubbery that separated
the seats, and concealed them.
Dorothy walked straight to the fountain. She sank down on a bench where
she could watch the spurting water and listen to the cool tinkle as it
fell into the basin. The sun shone through the spray, making a small
rainbow.
It looked like a sign of hope, but she was too discouraged and dispirited
to place much faith in it. She wanted to see Tavia; yet where was she?
Here was the park the boys had spoken of, but there was no sign of the
missing girl.
Dorothy felt she could not stay there long. After a few minutes’ rest she
arose to make a circuit of the little park, hoping she might have
overlooked some spot where Tavia might be. As she crossed back of a clump
of shrubbery she saw the skirt of a girl’s dress showing on the border of
a little side path. It riveted her attention. She turned down the path.
There sat a girl—a most forlorn looking girl—her head buried in her arms
that rested on the back of a bench. Dorothy could see her shoulders
heaving under the stress of heavy sobs.
She started! She held her breath! It looked like—yet could it be her—was
it—she feared to ask herself the question.
The girl on the bench raised her tear-stained face. She looked full at
Dorothy.
“Tavia!” screamed Dorothy, springing forward.
“Dorothy!” echoed Tavia.
There was a rush, and the next instant Dorothy Dale held Tavia clasped
close in her arms, while she murmured, over and over again:
“Tavia! Dear Tavia! I have found you at last! Oh, I am so glad!”
Tavia could only sob.