Dorothy's Tour

This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act.

Winter has come. Since the expulsion of the King’s Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch’s hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King’s Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked.

Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King’s Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King’s Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King’s Son’s old home. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King’s Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs “I love thee, dear!”

The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor “Kingly Children.”

After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were driven straight home.

“Alfy,” said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, “you are such a funny girl. You didn’t half pay attention to the opera at all. All I saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes.”

“I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the one that glistened all over with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice low neck and long train,” said Alfy.

“Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?” laughed Dorothy. “Oh, oh! Just imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It’s so funny.”

“Why, Dorothy!” angrily added Alfy, “why couldn’t ma have a dress like that? And anyway, I couldn’t understand a word they were singing. I am going right to bed, I am, so there!”

“Alfy, dear, don’t you know that people only wear dresses like that to evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn’t understand, it was all in German. Here, kiss me good-night.” The girls kissed each other and were soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER VII.

AN EPISODE

The next morning no one arose very early. They were all quite willing to rest. Jim, first of all, was up and out. He had been working over a list of boarding houses as he had quite decided to take the position, and his salary would not permit him to live in an expensive hotel. He had not been very successful and on returning to the hotel found Aunt Betty reading in their sitting room.

“Aunt Betty,” said Jim.

“Yes,” answered Aunt Betty, “what is it? Do you want to talk business with me?”

“Yes, business,” responded Jim, doubtfully. “I have been out all the morning trying to find a boarding house.”

“A boarding house?” echoed Aunt Betty.

“Yes, a boarding house,” answered Jim. “You see I have quite decided to take the position. I received a letter from Mr. Ford’s secretary saying Mr. Ford is abroad, and not expected back for some time. And if I work there at the Edison, I must live in a boarding house not too far away from there. I didn’t have much luck.”

“Why not ask Mr. Ludlow? He might know of a place,” suggested Aunt Betty. “Or maybe you could see if there is a room at that place where Ruth, Miss Boothington, is staying. You remember her saying that she was tired of boarding house meals, do you not?”

“I never thought of that,” added Jim. “Suppose I ask Dorothy where she lives, maybe she knows.”

“Yes, call her,” replied Aunt Betty.

“Dorothy! Dorothy! Where are you?” called Jim.

“Here, in Alfy’s room, I have been writing in my diary,” answered the girl. “I will be there in just a minute. Oh, dear,” she continued to herself, “I just can’t seem to ever write to Frau. Every time I start on that letter someone calls, and then I stop writing, and it is so long before I can get at it again. I have to begin all over.”

“Well, young man, what is it this time?” she said, turning to Jim as she entered the room.

“It’s just this, Dorothy. You see, I am going to take the position in New York and I must live here,” started Jim.

“Ah, Jim, you never told me anything about really taking a position. I just supposed that – well, I don’t quite know – but I didn’t think you really meant to do it,” interrupted Dorothy.

“I do, Dorothy, mean it. And I have made up my mind to take it and work, so hard that some day I can make a man out of myself like Dr. Sterling and some others I know,” replied Jim. “But to get down to the point why we called you, Aunt Betty thought you might help in finding a boarding place for me. You see, I must live here in the city, and it’s hard to find a good boarding place. Miss Ruth, last night, said something about her place. Do you know where it is?”

“No, Jim, I can’t say that I do, but I heard her say that it was down on lower Fifth avenue – way downtown, she said. I might call up Mr. Ludlow and find out right now, or you can wait till to-night, for I play at that concert at the Hippodrome this evening, you know.”

“Call him up now, dear,” suggested Aunt Betty from her corner. “Then you and Jim can take a walk there this afternoon. Alfy and I can find something to amuse ourselves with. We could take one of those stages and ride up Fifth avenue on it. It’s a fine ride on a nice day like this.”

“Very well,” answered Dorothy, immediately going to the telephone, and acting on her aunt’s suggestion.

Jim and Aunt Betty sat quietly by till she had finished her conversation at the telephone.

“Mr. Ludlow says that Ruth lives on Fifth avenue, near Washington square, and it’s a very large, old-fashioned boarding house run by an elderly southern lady, who, being in very adverse circumstances, had to take hold and do something. He said that the rooms were fairly large, the meals first rate and the charges moderate, and that we had better see her at once because she has usually a pretty full house,” added Dorothy.

“Why not start at once, dear,” replied Aunt Betty. “Then you can come home and practice this afternoon, and as Alfy and I will be out there will be nothing to distract you.”

“Yes, let’s go now, Dorothy, if you can spare the time to go with me,” pleaded Jim. “Where is it near?”

“He says it is near Ninth street,” replied Dorothy. “All right, Jim, I will be ready in a few minutes. Oh dear,” she sighed to herself, “poor Frau will not get her letter very soon, I guess. Well, I can write this afternoon, after I practice, and I will make the letter extra long so as to make up for the time I have taken to write her.”

“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” called Dorothy a short time later.

“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” echoed Jim. “We’ll be back soon.”

With that the two disappeared and Aunt Betty from her corner sighed as she thought of what a charming pair the pretty Dorothy and the tall youth made.

“Shall we ride?” asked Jim.

“No. Let’s walk, it is not far, only a few blocks,” said Dorothy.

“That’s just what I wanted to do,” replied Jim, “only I was most afraid you would not care to. We haven’t had a good walk in a long time.”

They walked on silently as the streets were so crowded and there was lots to see, and the crossings required much attention, these two not being used to the busy streets of New York, where one has to look in all directions at once and keep moving lively to avoid being run into by the many automobiles or trucks that are hurrying along.

Finally Dorothy, observing the number on the houses, said: “Here we are, this is the house.”

Up the steps they ran and Jim gave the old-fashioned bell a vigorous pull. “Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,” vaguely sounded from somewhere within and presently a pleasant faced young girl with white cap and apron and dark dress, said in a low voice, “Whom do you wish to see?”

Jim answered, “Will you tell Miss Boothington that Miss Dorothy Calvert wishes to see her?”

Slowly they followed the neat maid into the old fashioned parlor and waited there for her to take the message to Ruth.

“Oh, Jim,” whispered Dorothy, very softly putting her hand on Jim’s arm. “Jim, if I were you I should love to stay here. It is more like a home, a real home than any place I have been in, in the big city.”

“Yes, it is. And it is so quiet and restful. I do hope there will be room for me here,” answered Jim.

Just then they heard foot-steps on the stairs and in a second Ruth’s cheery voice greeted them with a “Hello!” from the hall.

“Well, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you till to-night, Dorothy. Have I you to thank for bringing her to me?” she asked, smiling at Jim.

“Yes, I guess so,” replied Dorothy. “We came on business.”

“On business!” echoed Ruth.

“Yes, on business,” answered Jim. “It’s just this: You see I have taken a position in New York and I have to board here. We didn’t know of any place and Aunt Betty thought of something you had said the night before about boarding-house meals.”

“Yes,” continued Dorothy, “and I called Mr. Ludlow up and he recommended this place and we came right down here, and we have just fallen in love with the place at first sight. Haven’t we, Jim?”

“Wait. Let me see. You want to see Mrs. Quarren. She is out just now, but she is such a dear. I know! You must both stay to lunch. It is just eleven forty-five and we lunch here at twelve. You see so many of the boarders here do not come home at noon-time, they work too far to come back, so that there will be plenty of room. And then you can see how the table suits you. Mrs. Quarren is always in for meals. You see she is just a great dear mother to us all. I won’t know what to do without her.”

“I will lend you Aunt Betty when you are with us,” volunteered Dorothy. “But we must let her know we are going to stay here for lunch.”

“I’ll telephone her if you will show me where the ’phone is,” spoke up Jim.

“Right this way, please,” said Ruth, leading Jim into the hall where he saw the little table and ’phone. “Come back to the parlor when you are through,” and Ruth went back to Dorothy.

“You are to play to-night, are you not?” she inquired.

“Yes, and are you to sing?” questioned Dorothy.

“Right after you play. We are each to do just one thing to-night. I am going to sing ‘Still vie de Nochte,’ or in English, ‘Still as the Night,’ you see it’s just a little German song. What are you to play?” asked Ruth.

“I thought I was to play two selections – Mr. Ludlow said so – ” started Dorothy.

“Yes, dear, you were,” interrupted Ruth, “but he changed his mind after I had coaxed him and he has consented to let me sing so we each can have one number then.”

“Well, then I will play that old medley, ‘Southern Airs.’ I like that best of all. It makes me think of home,” answered Dorothy.

“And I always can just fairly see old Bellevieu when you play that piece,” added Jim from the doorway. “Aunt Betty said it was satisfactory, and that she and Alfy would go out this afternoon and for you to come home soon and practice.”

Just then the luncheon bell sounded and the three went quickly down stairs. They were seated at a small table near the window. Ruth always sat there and as the other guests at that table were never present for luncheon, Dorothy and Jim could sit there too. So the three had the little table all to themselves.

Just as soon as she could, Mrs. Quarren came over to the table, for she had returned from her duties outside. Ruth presented Dorothy and Jim to her, and as she sat pleasantly chatting, Jim told her of his want. She said she would see him after dinner in the library.

“Well, Dorothy, you come to my room with me while Jim sees Mrs. Quarren in the library,” said Ruth, rising and carefully pushing her chair back under the table.

“You are very kind. I would like to see your room. You lead and I will follow,” answered Dorothy.

“Oh, the room is not much. You come too, Jim, and I will show you where the library is,” said Ruth, leading the way upstairs. “Right in there, Jim.”

Jim entered the library and the girls ascended to the floors above.

“I am going out this afternoon with a friend,” said Ruth. “I promised I would go shopping with her,” and she opened the door of her room.

The room was a large, sunny one with simple furnishings.

“I’ll sit here,” announced Dorothy, “till you are ready to go.”

“I will just hustle with my things and be ready in a moment,” replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words.

In a very few minutes the girls were ready and slowly descended the stairs again to wait for Jim in the parlor.

“Well, here I am. Room engaged and all,” said a cheery voice from the hall which they knew as Jim’s.

“Where is it?” questioned Ruth.

“Yes, where?” echoed Dorothy.

“Where do you suppose?” mocked Jim. “Well, I will tell you. Ruth it is your room.”

“My room!” exclaimed the girl.

“Yes, your room,” laughed Jim. “I am to have it next Wednesday. Mrs. Quarren said you were to leave it Tuesday.”

“Tuesday!” interrupted Dorothy, in a very much surprised tone of voice.

“Yes, dear, Tuesday. Didn’t Mr. Ludlow tell you?” added Ruth. “Tuesday we go to Washington on the noon train.”

“Ah, is it so soon? I didn’t know it. It makes me feel so sad. I hate to leave New York now, just as I am becoming used to it,” wailed Dorothy. “Oh, I just must go back to the hotel. I have to practice and it is getting late.”

“Come on, Dorothy,” said Jim, rising and walking to the door.

“Good-bye till to-night,” said Dorothy.

“Good-bye, dear, till to-night,” answered Ruth.

With that Dorothy and Jim made their departure for home. The way back was rather quiet, for the news that the girls were to start so soon had made Jim sad. And Dorothy couldn’t help but feel the same way. When at last they had silently reached the hotel and had gone up to the rooms, Dorothy spoke.

“Jim, do you want to stay here and be my audience while I practice and tell me what you think of my playing?”

“Yes, indeed I do,” answered Jim, gladly grasping the opportunity to be near the girl, and when he had seated himself in a great chair added, “I’ll be more than audience, I’ll be newspaper reporter and a very exacting and critical one at that. And then, when you finish I will tell you what I would put in the paper about you and your playing.”

“That’s a bargain,” answered Dorothy, taking her violin in hand. “I will start right now.”

So saying she commenced playing slowly at first, anon faster and faster, then again more slowly that beautiful composition, “A Medley of Southern Airs,” putting all her love and yearning for her own southern home into the effort. Jim from his chair by the window could picture each phase of the piece, and when she had finished with the beautiful sad strains of “Home, Sweet Home,” he could hardly control himself, and man that he was, he could not keep the tears from his eyes.

For a brief moment neither spoke. Dorothy laid down her violin and came over to him. Jim arose and took both her hands, saying softly, “Dorothy girl, it was wonderful, but it makes me so sad. I just can’t bear to think of parting from you.”

“Jim, dear, you too feel sad?” she questioned softly, but withdrawing her hands.

Jim let the little hands slowly drop but took her by the shoulders, looking eagerly into her eyes. “You will miss me?” he questioned, “really miss me?”

“Of course I will, dreadfully so,” she answered.

Then without a word of warning he drew her gently to him and kissed her full on the lips. For one brief moment they clung together, then Dorothy withdrew his arms.

“Jim, oh, Jim! what have you done?” she sobbed.

“Girl, I just couldn’t help it,” answered Jim, gently drawing her into his embrace again. “Dorothy, little Dorothy, didn’t you know before? Couldn’t you guess?”

“Jim, dear, I never thought of you that way, and it’s so new and strange. I can’t realize it all.” And with that Dorothy rushed away and into her own room.

CHAPTER VIII.

“AMERICA.”

Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist.

She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair “up,” and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room.

“Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear,” he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her.

Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always was accustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. “What is it you want to say?” she asked, seating herself leisurely.

“It’s about what happened this afternoon,” Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child.

“Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can’t make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can’t help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn’t mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness,” he added, bitterly.

Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: “Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can’t we?”

“Yes, and no, Jim,” quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn’t realize and even now didn’t understand.

Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, “Could you love me? Could you? You don’t know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don’t leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?”

“Jim, I do, a little,” was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips.

“Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up,” she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, “I just can’t let you go now. I just can’t.”

“Jim, dear, you must or I won’t even love you a little,” she laughed.

“Well, if I must, I must,” he said, kissing her just once again. “My girl, my own girl,” he added.

“Jim, I haven’t promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I’d have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn’t call me yours. If, when I come back from my trip, and that’s a long time from now, I do love you – ” added Dorothy.

“You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!” cried Jim. “I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?”

“I said if I did love you then,” teased Dorothy, “and that’s if – ”

“You little tease,” interrupted Jim. “I will punish you.”

“No you won’t,” Dorothy added quickly. “And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I’ll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn’t disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it.”

“Very well,” acquiesced Jim, sadly, “it will be very hard though. I’ll promise if you will write me every day while you are away.”

“Every day!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Not every day. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“All you would have to say to me would be, ‘I love you,’ over and over again,” laughed Jim.

“But I can’t, cause maybe I don’t,” teased Dorothy, “but I’ll write sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” complained Jim, mournfully.

“Sometimes is better than never,” laughed the girl.

“Very well. I’ll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day,” said Jim. “Kiss me once more, then I won’t bother you again.” Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck’s comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played.

While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, “Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?”

“Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up to Ninety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again,” answered Aunt Betty.

“And what did you think of it, Alfy?” asked Jim, turning to the girl.

“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels – afternoon tea – and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah,” and Alfy heaved a great sigh, “I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get – oh, I just couldn’t tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad.”

And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her.

Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, “Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlow at the Hotel Astor at six o’clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts.”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” answered Aunt Betty.

So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, “Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they – Ruth and Mr. Ludlow – would call for me – about six o’clock. What shall I wear?”

“The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion,” answered Aunt Betty. “I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim.”

“Oh, Aunt Betty,” interrupted Dorothy. “I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth’s, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday – the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress.”

“And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?” questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned.