Dorothy Dale's Great Secret

“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.