Dorothy Dale's Great Secret

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.