"When we get to the top we will surely be able to see our way down," declared Tavia. "So let us keep right on, even though this is not the path we came up."
"But the others will not find us this way," sighed Dorothy, "and isn't it getting dark!"
"Never mind. There must be some way of getting out of the woods. No mountains for mine. Good flatterra firmais good enough for Chrissy."
Dorothy tried to be cheerful—there were no bears surely on these peaks, and perhaps no tramps—what would they be doing up there?
"Now!" cried Tavia, "I see a way down! Keep right close to me and you will be all right! Yes, and I see a light! There's a hut at this end of the mountain."
To say that the lost Glenwood girls slid down the steep hill would hardly express the kind of speed that they indulged in—they went over the ground like human kangaroos, and made such good time that the light, seen by Tavia, actually stood before them now, in a little house against the hill.
Two ferocious dogs greeted their coming—but Tavia managed to coax them into submission, and presently a woman peered out of a dingy window and demanded to know what was wanted. She seemed a coarse creature and the place was such a hovel that the girls were sorry they had come.
"Don't answer her," cautioned Dorothy quickly. "Let's make our way to the road."
Tavia saw that this would be safest, although she was not sure the woman would allow them to pass unquestioned past her stone fence. But with a dash they did reach the highway and had made tracks along through the muddy narrow wagon road before the woman, who was now calling after them, could do anything more disagreeable. The dogs followed them up for a few paces, and then turned back while the woman continued to shout in tones that struck terror into the hearts of the miserable girls.
"We may be running away from Glenwood!" ventured Tavia, spattering along, "but this road surely goes to some place—if we can only get there."
"Oh, I'm so out of breath," panted Dorothy. "We can walk now. The woman has ceased shouting."
"Wasn't it dreadful!" exclaimed Tavia. "I was just scared stiff!"
"We do get into such awful predicaments," mused Dorothy. "But I suppose the others are almost as frightened as we are now,—I was dreadfully afraid when the woman shouted to us."
"Wasn't she a scarecrow? Just like an old witch in a story book. Listen! I thought I heard the girls!"
"Hark!" echoed Dorothy. "I am sure that was Edna's yoddle. Answer it!"
At the top of her voice Tavia shouted the familiar call. Then she listened again.
"Yes," declared Dorothy, "that's surely Ned. Oh, do let's run! They might turn off on another road! This place seems to be all turns."
When the welcome sounds of that call were heard by both parties little time was lost in reaching the lost ones. What had seemed to be nightfall was really only the blackness of the storm, and now, on the turnpike, a golden light shot through the trees, and wrapt its glory about the happy girls, who tried all at once to embrace the two who had gone through such a reign of terror.
"Hurry! Hurry!" called Miss Crane, skipping along like a schoolgirl herself.
To tell the story of their adventures, the Dalton girls marched in the center of the middle row—everyone wanted to hear, and everyone wanted to be just as near as possible to Tavia and Dorothy.
Taking refuge under the cliff seemed exciting enough, but when Dorothy told how they had lost the trail to the mountain top, and how all the footing slipped down as they tried to make the ascent, the girls were spell-bound. Then to hear Tavia describe, in her own inimitable way, the call of "the witch"—made some shout, ad the entire party ran along as if the same "witch" was at their heels.
When the report was made to Mrs. Pangborn, that dignified lady looked very seriously at Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had explained the entire affair, making it clear that the girls became separated from the others by the merest accident, and that the storm did the rest.
"But you must remember, my dears," said Mrs. Pangborn kindly, "that, as boarding school girls, you should always keep near to the teacher in charge even when taking walks across the country. It is not at all safe to wander about as you would at home. Nor can a girl depend upon her own judgment in asking strangers to direct her. Sometimes thoughtless boys delight in sending the girls out of their way. I am glad the affair has ended without further trouble. You must have suffered when you found you really could not reach your companions. Let it be a lesson to all of you."
"Oh, if Miss Higley had been in charge," whispered Edna, when the girls rehearsed their interview with Mrs. Pangborn. "You would not have gotten off so easily. She would have said you ran away from us."
So the days at Glenwood gently lapped over the quiet nights, until week after week marked events of more or less importance in the lives of those who had given themselves to what learning may be obtained from books; what influence may be gained from close companionship with those who might serve as models; and what fun might be smuggled in between the lines, always against the rules, but never in actual defiance of a single principle of the old New England institution.
"Just the by-laws," the girls would declare. "We can always suspend them, as long as we do not touch the constitution."
This meant, of course, that innocent, harmless fun was always permissible when no one suffered by the pranks, and no damage was done to property or character.
Rose-Mary Markin had become Dorothy's intimate friend. She was what is termed an all-round girl, both cultured and broad minded, a rare combination of character to find in a girl still in a preparatory school. She was as quick as a flash to detect deceit and yet gentle as one of the Babes in settling all matters where there was a question of actual intention. The benefit of the doubt was her maxim, and, as president of the Glenwood Club, the membership of which included girls from all the ranks, there was plenty of opportunity for Rose-Mary to exercise her benificence.
Viola Green had, as promised, resigned from office in the Nicks, and what was more she had organized a society in direct opposition to its principles. All the girls who had not done well in the old club readily fell in with the promises of the new order, and soon Viola had a distinct following—the girls with grievances against Rose-Mary, imagined or otherwise. Molly Richards kept her "eye pealed for bombs," she told Dorothy, and declared the "rebs" would be heard from sooner or later in the midst of smokeless powder.
"It's a conspiracy against someone," announced Molly to Rose-Mary one evening. "I heard them hatching the plot and—well I wouldn't like to be unfair, but that Viola does hate Dorothy."
"She can never hurt Dorothy Dale," answered the upright president of the Glenwood Club. "She is beyond all that sort of thing."
But little did she know how Viola Green could hurt Dorothy Dale. Less did she think how serious could be the "hurt" inflicted.
The mid-year examinations had passed off, and the Dalton girls held their own through the auspicious event. Dorothy showed a splendid fundamental education; that which fits a girl for clear study in subsequent undertakings, and that which is so often the result of the good solid training given in country schools where methods are not continually changing. Tavia surprised herself with getting through better than she had hoped, and credited her good luck to some plain facts picked up in the dear old Dalton schoolroom.
But a letter from home disturbed Tavia's pleasant Glenwood life—her father wrote of the illness of Mrs. Travers and said it was necessary that their daughter should come home. For a few weeks only, the missive read, just while the mother had time to rest up and recover her strength—the illness was nothing of a serious nature.
It did not seem possible that Tavia was packed and gone and that Dorothy was left in the school. A sense of this loneliness almost overpowered Dorothy when she realized that her sister-friend was gone—and the little bed across her room all smooth and unruffled by the careless, jolly girl who tried to make life a joke and did her best to make others share the same opinion.
It was Rose-Mary who came to cheer Dorothy in the loss of Tavia. She sat with her evenings until the very last minute, and more than once was caught in the dark halls, the lights having been turned out before the girl could reach her own quarters.
Rose-Mary and Dorothy had similar fancies. Both naturally refined, they found many things to interest them—things that most of the girls would not have bothered their pretty heads about. So their friendship grew stronger and their hearts became attuned, each to the other's rhythm, until Dorothy and Rose-Mary were the closest kind of friends.
Mrs. Pangborn had decided upon a play for mid-year. It would be a sort of trial for the big event which always marked the term's close at Glenwood and the characters would embrace students from all departments. The play was called Lalia, and was the story of a pilgrim on her way, intercepted by a Queen of Virtue and again sought out by the Queen of Pleasure. The pilgrim is lost in the woods of doubt, and finally brought to the haven of happiness by the Virtuous Queen Celesta. This Pilgrim's Progress required many characters for the queen's retinues, besides the stars, of course, and the lesser parts.
Dorothy was chosen for Lalia—the best character.
The part had been assigned by vote, and Dorothy's splendid golden hair, coupled with that "angelic face," according to her admirers, won the part for her. Rose-Mary Markin was made Celesta, the Queen of Virtue: and Viola Green, because of her dark complexion, being opposite that of Celesta, was elected to be Frivolita, the Queen of Pleasure.
Each queen was allowed to select her own retinue—a delicious task, said the ones most interested.
Mrs. Pangborn made a neat little speech at the Glenwood meeting where these details were decided upon, and in it referred to the lesson of the story, incidentally hinting that some of the pupils had lately taken it upon themselves to do things not in strict accord with the history of her school—the forming of a society, for instance, without the consent or knowledge of any of the faculty. This secret doing, she said, could not continue. Either the girls should come to her and make known the object of their club, or this club could no longer hold meetings.
This came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky—and by some Dorothy was promptly accused of tale bearing.
But in spite of it all another secret meeting was held and at it the "Rebs," as they actually called themselves, declared open rebellion. They would not submit to such tyranny, and, further, they would not take part in any play in which Dorothy Dale held an important part.
It was then the bomb was thrown by Viola, the bomb that she carried all the way from Dalton, and had kept waiting for a chance to set it off—until now—the hour of seeming triumph for Dorothy.
"I'll tell you the positive truth, girls," Viola began, first being sure that no one but those in the "club" were within reach of her voice, "I saw, with my own eyes, that girl, who pretends to be so good and who goes around with a text on her simpering smile—I saw her get out of a police patrol wagon!"
"Oh!" gasped the girls. "You really didn't."
"I most positively did. Indeed!" sneered the informer, "every one in Dalton knows it. Tavia Travers was in the same scrape, and in the same wagon. It was after that affair that they made up their minds, in a hurry, to get out of their home town and come to Glenwood!"
One miserable day Dorothy found all her friends, at least those who had claimed to be her friends, suddenly lost to her. Those who were not openly rude enough to deliberately turn their backs upon the astonished girl, made some pretense of avoiding conversation with her.
It all came so unexpectedly, and without any apparent explanation, that Dorothy was stunned—even the effervescent Edna only gave her a measured smile and walked down the hall to the study room without breaking her silence.
The day wore on like a dream of awful fancies that try to choke but withhold even such a mercy as a final stroke.
What had she done? Where was Rose-Mary? And why would not someone come and accuse her outright, that she might at least know the charge against her—a charge serious enough to spread in one day throughout Glenwood school!
Evening fell, but even then Rose-Mary did not come to Dorothy's room. On the following day there was to be a rehearsal for the play, and how could Lalia repeat her lines? How could Dorothy pretend to be the happy little pilgrim who starts alone on the uncertain path of life?
Mrs. Pangborn was ready in the recreation hall, some of the others were there discussing their characters and other things. The hour for the rehearsal came, and with it appeared some twenty girls, among them, but not their leader (so it seemed) being Viola Green.
They approached Mrs. Pangborn and then Adele Thomas spoke.
"Mrs. Pangborn," she began with flushed cheeks, "we have come to say that we cannot take part in the play unless another girl is selected for the character of Lalia."
"Why!" demanded the astonished principal. "What does this mean!" and she too flushed at the very idea of her pupils' insurrection.
"Because—" faltered the spokeswoman, "we do not like her. She has pretended to be what she is not, and never will be."
This was a bold speech. Dorothy Dale paled to the lips.
"Hush this instant!" ordered the surprised Mrs. Pangborn. "Let no one dare make such an assertion. If anything is wrong my office is the place to settle it. Leave the hall instantly. I shall send for you when I desire to make an investigation."
Mrs. Pangborn placed her hand tenderly on Dorothy's shoulder as she passed out.
"Do not worry, dear," she whispered. "This is some nonsense those girls with the new club idea have originated. It will be all right."
But Dorothy flew to her room and alone she cried—cried as if her heart would break! If only Tavia had not left her! If Rose-Mary would only come to her! Where was Rose-Mary? She had not even appeared at class that day. But, after all, what did it matter? Perhaps she too—no, Dorothy could not believe that. Rose-Mary would never condemn her unheard.
How long Dorothy lay there sobbing out her grief on the little white bed, she did not know. Dusk came and the supper hour, but she made no attempt to leave the room. A maid had been sent to her with some toast and tea, and a line from dear Miss Crane, but Dorothy was utterly unable to do more than murmur a word of thanks to be repeated to the thoughtful teacher.
When it grew so dark that the window shadows no longer tried to cheer her with their antics, Dorothy was startled by a sudden tap at her door, and, the next moment, Rose-Mary had her in her warm, loving arms.
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"What is it?" demanded the older girl at once. "Tell me about it. What have they said to you?"
"Oh, Rose-Mary," sobbed Dorothy, bursting into fresh tears, "why did you leave me all alone?"
"Why, I did not leave you! I had to go into Rainsville early this morning, and have just this very minute gotten back. Mrs. Pangborn knew I would be late and sent James with the cart to meet me."
"Oh, I did not know you were out of school," and the explanation afforded Dorothy at least one ray of relief.
"Didn't Nita tell you? I asked her to do so at study hour."
"Not a girl has spoken to me all day!" declared the weeping one. "Oh, Rose-Mary, what do you think it is all about?"
"I cannot find out. They seem determined not to let me know. I thought you could tell me."
"I haven't the slightest idea. If only Ned or Dick would tell you then I might have a chance—"
"I'll never sleep until I find out!" declared Rose-Mary. "The idea!" and her brown eyes flashed indignantly. "I never heard of such a thing! You poor little dear!" and she held Dorothy to her in an unmistakable embrace.
"If Tavia were here—"
"Yes, she would settle it soon enough—with her fists if necessary. And I do believe that such work deserves just such treatment. But I will do all I can for you, and perhaps our vengeance will be just as sure if not so swift!"
"It seems strange that all the girls should take the same view of it," reflected Dorothy. "I should think some of them would speak to me about it."
"No good to try guessing at such a thing," said Rose-Mary, wisely. "And now do eat up that toast. Who sent it?"
"Miss Crane."
"The dear! I hold Camille Crane the guardian angel of Glenwood. But eat her toast. There, take this sip of tea, or shall I light the lamp under it?"
"I like it cold," said Dorothy, whose lips were quite feverish. "I will take the toast—I feel so much better since I have you back."
"But if I am to see Dick and Ned I must be about it," spoke Rose-Mary, consulting her watch. "Just go to sleep and don't worry a single bit. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," and, with a hearty kiss, the sweet girl was gone.
As if events conspired to keep Dorothy worrying, it was announced the next morning that Mrs. Pangborn had been called to Boston and this meant, of course, that the investigation would have to wait for her return.
Neither was Rose-Mary successful in gaining the desired information. Molly had not heard all about it, neither had Edna, so they said, but they did admit they had promised not to tell either Rose or Dorothy, for that would mean trouble for the tale bearer.
"It's something about Dalton," said Edna, really anxious to tell Rose, but feeling she must keep her promise, as the matter had assumed such an importance.
Molly declared that Amy Grant had told her it was about Dorothy and Tavia being in some awful scrape and that they had been arrested for it.
This seemed so ridiculous that Rose-Mary did not for a moment credit it with being the story that caused the trouble. She would not insult Dorothy with a hint of that silly gossip, and, if those girls were foolish enough, she decided, to believe in any such nonsense, why, let them go right on, they must learn their own lesson. So it happened that Dorothy did not get the hint—that which would have been enough to afford her the opportunity of making an explanation. But Edna did speak pleasantly to her after Rose-Mary's talk, and Molly actually apologized.
Mrs. Pangborn had been away two days, then a week had passed since the promise of an investigation, and Mrs. Pangborn was not at school yet. The girls in Viola's club (they still regarded themselves as being in it, although the forbidden meetings were suspended), left Rose-Mary, Dorothy, Molly and Edna entirely to themselves.
"Dick" and "Ned" were charged with telling the story to Rose-Mary, although they stoutly denied the allegation. But Adele Thomas suspected them, they had always been such friends of the Dalton girls, it seemed best to the "Rebs" to keep them out of further affairs of the kind—they should hear no more of the secrets against the despised Dorothy.
Even the play was at a standstill, nothing but lessons and sadness seemed Dorothy's share at Glenwood now. If only Mrs. Pangborn would come and give her a chance to speak for herself, she would write home immediately and ask to go back to her dear "daddy," to thoughtful, brave little Joe, and to dear, darling, baby Roger.
Yes, and Aunt Libby would love her so—it would be so good to have all love again! And they were all at North Birchland, with Aunt Winnie. Every letter brought good news of the happy home established there since Dorothy left for Glenwood.
"I will ask to go home next week," sobbed Dorothy, "whether Mrs. Pangborn comes back or not. I simply cannot stand this—I feel like—Oh, I feel like I did when I stepped out of that awful police patrol."
The day had been unusually tiresome, all the little spots of jollity, club meetings, evening fudge parties and the like having suddenly been abandoned, and Dorothy, with Rose-Mary, was trying to find comfort in watching a winter sunset.
"Did you know Mrs. Pangborn had come back?" asked Rose, burying her chin in her palms, and dropping into a reclining attitude.
"No," said Dorothy, simply, still watching the floating clouds.
"Yes, and I overheard a maid ask Viola Green to go to the office after tea."
"Viola?" echoed Dorothy abstractedly.
"Of course you know it is she who made all this fuss, and I'm right glad she has been called to give an explanation at last."
"I have not been able to get the least hint of what it was all about," mused Dorothy. "I had a letter from Tavia to-day, and I'm afraid she cannot come back this term. My last lingering hope went out when I read that. Tavia would be sure to dig it out someway."
Rose-Mary thought how foolish had been the talk she had "dug out," and smiled when she imagined Tavia at work at such nonsense. But she would not pain Dorothy with the thought of that talk—too silly and too unkind to bother her with,—decided Rose, so that then, as well as on other occasions when the opportunity came to her to mention the arrest story, she let it pass.
"Let's go see Dick," suggested Rose, "we'll find Ned there and perhaps we may manage some fun. I'm positively getting musty."
"You go," said Dorothy, just as Rose had expected, "I'll do my exercises—I'm pages behind."
"Not without you," argued the other, "I have lots I ought to do, but I'm going to cut it for this night. Come along," and she took Dorothy's arm. "I'm dying to hear Ned sing a coon song."
But they found number twenty-three vacant. Edna was out, so was Molly, in fact everybody seemed to be out, for knots of girls talked in every corner of the halls and always stopped speaking when Dorothy and Rose came up to them.
"It's the investigation!" whispered Rose. "They are waiting for Viola; did you ever see such a crowd of magpies."
"I'm going in," said Dorothy, nervously. "I can't bear the way they look at me."
"All right," assented Rose, "I'll see you home since I dragged you out. And I'll promise to make known to you the words of the very first bulletin. Sorry to be so cruel, but I cannot find any sympathy in my heart for Viola Green."
"Oh, indeed I can," spoke up the kind-hearted Dorothy. "She has so much worry about her mother. And perhaps she inherits some peculiar trait—"
"Bottle Green, I suppose. Well, you can pity her if you like, but I will save mine until I know why."
So Rose-Mary kissed Dorothy good-night—she had done so regularly of late, and the two friends parted. For some time the hum of voices could be heard in the corridor outside Dorothy's door, then the lights were turned out and everything seemed as usual.
But in room twelve Viola Green was struggling—struggling with a weighty problem. What Mrs. Pangborn had said to her that evening in the office meant for Viola dismissal from school, unless—unless—
Viola was thinking of a plan. Surely she could make Dorothy agree to it, Dorothy was so easy to manage, so easy to influence.
In room nineteen Dorothy had not yet gone to her bed. She felt nervous and restless. Then too, she had fully decided to leave Glenwood and she had to think over what that meant for her, for her father and for Aunt Winnie.
What explanation could she make? She had never been a coward, why could she not face this thing and show everybody that she deserved no blame?
Surely Major Dale's Little Captain should display better courage than to let a crowd of foolish schoolgirls drive her from Glenwood!
Dorothy was thinking over the whole miserable affair when a timid knock came to her door.
It was too late for any of the girls—perhaps it was Mrs. Pangborn!
Dorothy opened the door promptly.
Viola Green stood before her—in a nightrobe, with her thick black hair falling about her like a pall.
"Viola!" whispered Dorothy, as kindly and quietly as if that girl had not stood between her and happiness.
"Oh, let me come in," begged the black-eyed girl in a wretched voice. "Quick! Some one may see me!"
"What is it?" asked Dorothy, making a chair ready and then turning up the light.
"Oh, please don't turn that up," begged the visitor. "I can't stand it! Dorothy, I feel as if I should die!"
Dorothy had felt that way herself a moment ago, but now there was someone else to look after; now she must not think of herself. How different it was with Viola! The ability to act is often a wonderful advantage. Viola made excellent use of her talent now.
"Dorothy," she began, "I have come to ask a great favor of you. And I do not know how to begin." She buried her face in her hands and left the other to draw out the interview as she might choose to. It was gaining time to lose it in that way.
"Is it about your mother?" asked the unsuspecting Dorothy.
"Yes, it is," wailed Viola. "It is really about her, although I am in it too."
"Is she worse?"
"Dreadfully bad"—and in this Viola did not deceive—. "I had a letter to-day—But Oh! Dorothy, promise you will help me!"
"I certainly will if I can!" declared Dorothy, warmly, quite anxious about Viola's grief.
"Oh, you can—and you are the only one who can! But how will I ask you?" and again Viola buried her white face in her equally white hands.
"Tell me what it is," said Dorothy, gently.
"Oh, you know that foolish story about the Dalton police wagon—"
"What about it?" asked Dorothy, perplexed.
"Oh, that nonsense about you and Tavia riding in it," and Viola tried to pass off the "nonsense" without allowing Dorothy time to realize just what she had to say.
"Well, what of that?" asked Dorothy again.
Would she ever grasp it? Viola was almost impatient, but of course she dare not show such a sentiment.
"Why, you know I told it to a couple of girls just for fun one day, and they took it up in earnest. The silly things!—and then to make all this trouble over it!"
"What trouble could that have possibly made?" and Dorothy seemed as much in the dark as ever.
Could it be that Dorothy had lived it all down and did not now consider it trouble? Viola's heart gave a jump for joy at the thought. It might after all be easier than she expected.
"I am so glad they have not said anything to you about it. I have been dreadfully worried over it," went on Viola with a sigh.
"I am sorry, I hope you haven't been worrying on my account."
"Well, I was. You did seem so sad—but I should have known you had better sense."
"I have been and am still very sad at Glenwood. In fact, I have almost made up my mind to leave."
"When?" gasped Viola. Then to hide the joy that Dorothy's words brought her, she continued, "Do you have to go? Is someone ill?"
"No, not at home. But I am afraid I'll be ill if I do not stop this worrying," and Dorothy indeed looked very pale and miserable. Even Viola could not help noticing that.
"I wouldn't blame you," spoke Viola. "It's dreadful to be homesick."
"But I am not homesick," replied Dorothy. "I would not allow that feeling to conquer me when I know what it meant for father to let me come here. I must make good use of my time, and not be foolish. But no matter how I try to be happy, it seems useless. And I know I am not strong enough to keep that up. So," and Dorothy sighed heavily, leaning her head against the blanket that covered the foot of her bed, "I feel I must go away!"
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She loved Glenwood and could not bear the thought of leaving the school which had been so pleasant before Tavia went, and before that awful afternoon in the hall.
"What I really wanted to ask you, Dorothy, is about that story."
"What story?"
"You are not listening to me, Dorothy, and I am just as miserable as I can be. Do tell me you will do what I ask."
"I certainly was listening, and I am sorry you are miserable. But what is it you want me to do?"
Viola decided instantly upon a bold strike. She would make her demand and then follow it up so closely Dorothy would not know just what she was giving her promise to.
"Mrs. Pangborn sent for me to-night, and gave me such a dreadful scolding, I just cried myself sick," said Viola, "and now when she sends for you, and asks you about that ride, I want you to promise you will not deny it!"
"Certainly I shall not deny it! Why should I?"
"Then, if she wants to know what it is all about, just don't give her any more information. Say you did ride in the patrol wagon and that I had not told a lie. She actually said she would dismiss me if—if you said I had told what was not true. And oh, Dorothy! You know that would kill mother! Just as sure as a shot from a gun would kill her, my dismissal from Glenwood would do it!"
"But why should you be dismissed? If you only told the story in fun, and it has done no harm—"
"Of course that's exactly the way to look at it. But I'm so afraid Mrs. Pangborn will take another view of it. Promise me, Dorothy! Oh, please promise me!" and Viola actually knelt before the girl on the bedside. "When Mrs. Pangborn asks for an explanation just say I told the truth, that you did ride in the police wagon. And then if she insists on hearing all the story make some excuse, but do not tell it! Oh! if you knew how worried I am! And how dreadful it would be if she took it into her head to dismiss me!"
As Viola expected, she did bewilder Dorothy. Why should Viola weep and carry on so? But of course her mother was very delicate and perhaps it might get mixed up so that Viola would be blamed!
As if anything could be more mixed than that story was at present! Dorothy arranging to leave school because she could not find out why her companions had taken a sudden dislike to her, and Viola there telling her why, and yet keeping the real truth as far from her as it had ever been hidden.
"But why should I not tell Mrs. Pangborn about the ride if she asks me?" insisted Dorothy, trying to see what was hidden from her.
"Because, don't you see, those girls may have made foolish remarks, and they will be blamed on me. Just because I was silly enough to believe they could see through a joke. And if you do not tell the story, there can be no further complications. It may be a little hard but, oh, Dorothy! do promise me!" and again Viola grasped both Dorothy's cold hands in hers.
"I certainly would not do anything that would bring trouble on you," reflected Dorothy aloud, "especially if that might worry your poor, sick mother."
"Oh, you darling! I knew you would promise. Now, no matter what Mrs. Pangborn says, promise you will not do more than admit you took the ride—be sure not to say why you took it!"
Dorothy was not suspicious by nature, else she would have seen through the thin veil that hung between Viola and that word "promise." She was using it too frequently for good taste, but she wanted and insisted on getting a real, absolute Promise.
"But it might be rude for me to refuse to tell why we were in the wagon, and at the same time to say we were in it."
"Rude!" echoed Viola. "What small account that would be compared to my dismissal from school."
Dorothy tried to think—just as Viola had planned, she was not able to reason it all out clearly—it was too complicated. The night was getting old, it was ten o'clock and every Glenwood girl was expected to be sleeping honestly, but these two were still far from reaching a satisfactory settlement of their difficulty.
"One thing is certain, Viola," said Dorothy firmly, "I cannot and will not do anything that would seem disrespectful to Mrs. Pangborn. Not only is she a grand, sweet woman, a kind, just teacher, but she was my mother's friend and is still my father's friend. So that it would be impossible for me to do, or say, anything rude to her!"
This was a declaration of principles at last. And Viola for the moment seemed beaten. But girls of her type have more than one loophole in such an emergency.
"I had no idea of asking you to do anything unlady-like," she said with a show of indignation. "It was you who made use of that word. I merely asked that you would, if possible, not make known to Mrs. Pangborn the details of the story. Of course I was foolish to think you would care about their effect upon me, or my dying mother."
Viola rose to leave. Tears were in her eyes and she did look forlorn.
"I will do all I can to save you," Dorothy assured her, "and if I can avoid the story, without being impertinent, I promise to do so."
"Oh, bless you, Dorothy Dale!" exclaimed the now truly miserable girl. "I am sure, then, that it will be all right. When you make a promise you know how to keep it!" and before Dorothy could say another word her visitor was gone.
What happened that night seemed like a dream to Dorothy. Accustomed to think of others and to forget herself, she pondered long and earnestly over the grief that Viola had shown. Surely there was some strange influence between mother and daughter. Dorothy remembered the looks akin to adoration that Mrs. Green continually gave her daughter that day in the train. Viola had certainly done an imprudent thing in telling the story, Dorothy had no idea it was more than imprudent; neither did she know how seriously that act had affected herself. Even now, as she tried to grasp the entire situation, it never occurred to her that this was the story that stood between her and the friendship of the Glenwood girls. For the time that unpleasant affair was almost forgotten—this new problem was enough to wrestle with.
Early the next morning Mrs. Pangborn sent for Dorothy. The president's appearance immediately struck the girl as different; she was in mourning.
"I hope you have not lost a dear friend," said Dorothy, impulsively, before Mrs. Pangborn had addressed her.
"Yes, Dorothy," she replied, "I have—lost my father."
There was no show of emotion, but the girl saw that no grief could be keener.
"I am so sorry," said Dorothy.
"Yes, my dear, I am sure you are. And your father knew him well. They were very old friends."
"I have heard him speak of Mr. Stevens."
"Yes, I suppose you have. Well, his troubles are over, I hope. But, Dorothy, I sent to ask you about that story some of the young ladies have been circulating about you. Of course it is all nonsense—"
"What story have you reference to, Mrs. Pangborn?"
"You must have heard it. That you and Octavia were seen getting out of a police patrol wagon in Dalton. It is absurd, of course."
"But we did ride in a patrol wagon, Mrs. Pangborn," answered Dorothy, trying hard to keep Viola's tearful face before her mind, to guide her in her statements.
"How foolish, child. It might have been a joke—Tell me about it!"
"If you would excuse me, Mrs. Pangborn, and not think me rude, I would rather not," said Dorothy, her cheeks aflame.
"Not tell me!" and the lady raised her eyebrows. "Why, Dorothy! Is there any good reason why you do not wish to tell me?"
"Yes, I have made a promise. It may not be of much account, but, if you will excuse me, it would relieve me greatly not to go over it."
Mrs. Pangborn did not answer at once. For a girl to admit she had ridden in a police van and for that girl to be Dorothy Dale! It seemed incredible.
"Dorothy," she began, gravely, "whatever may be back of this, I am sure you have not been at fault—seriously at least. And since you prefer not to make me your confidant I cannot force you to do so. I am sorry. I had expected something different. The young ladies will scarcely make apologies to you under the circumstances."
She made a motion as if to dismiss Dorothy. Plainly the head of Glenwood School could not be expected to plead with a pupil—certainly not to-day, when her new and poignant grief could not be hidden.
"I shall say to the young ladies," said the teacher, finally, "that they are to show you all the respect they had shown you heretofore. That you have done nothing to be ashamed of—I am sure of this, although you make the matter so mysterious. I would like to have compelled the girl who spread this report to make amends, but I cannot do that. You do not deny her story."
At that moment Dorothy saw, or at least guessed, what it all meant. That had been the story of her trouble! It was that which made the girls turn their backs on her—that which had almost broken her heart. And now she had put it out of her power to contradict their charges!
Mrs. Pangborn had said "good morning," Dorothy was alone in the corridor. She had left the office and could not now turn back!
Oh, why had she been so easily deceived? Why had Viola made her give that promise? Surely it must have been more than that! The story, to cause all the girls to shun her! And perhaps Mrs. Pangborn believed it all! No, she had refused to believe it. But what should Dorothy do now?
Oh, what a wretched girl she was! How much it had cost her to lose Tavia! Tavia would have righted this wrong long ago. But now she stood alone! She could not even speak of leaving the school without strengthening the cruel suspicion, whatever it might be.
What would she do? To whom would she turn?
Heart-sick, and all but ill, Dorothy turned into her lonely little room. She would not attempt to go to classes that morning.
"What did she say?" eagerly asked a knot of girls, as Viola Green made her appearance the morning after her interview with the head of Glenwood school.
"Humph!" sniffed Viola, "what could she say?"
"Did she send for Dorothy?" went on the curious ones.
"I have just seen her step out of the office this minute and she couldn't see me. Her eyes wouldn't let her."
"Then she didn't deny it!" spoke Amy Brook. "I could scarcely make myself believe that of her."
"Ask her about it, then," suggested Viola, to whom the term brazen would seem, at that moment, to be most applicable.
"Oh, excuse me," returned Amy. "I never wound where I can avoid it. The most polite way always turns out the most satisfactory."
"And do you suppose she is going to leave school?" asked Nita Brant, timidly, as if afraid of her own voice in the matter.
"She told me so last night," said Viola, meekly. "I don't blame her."
"No," said a girl with deep blue eyes, and a baby chin, "I do not see how any girl could stand such cuts, and Dorothy seemed such a sweet girl."
"Better go and hug her now," sneered Viola, "I fancy you will find her rolled up in bed, with her red nose, dying for air."
"It is the strangest thing—" demurred Amy.
"Not at all," insisted Viola, "all sweet girls have two sides to their characters. But I am sick of the whole thing. Let's drop it."
"And take up Dorothy again?" eagerly asked Nita.
"Oh, just as you like about that. If you want to associate with girls who ride in police wagons—"
"Well, I do want to!" declared Nita, suddenly. "And I don't believe one word against Dorothy Dale. It must be some mistake. I will ask her about it myself."
"If you wish to spare her you will do nothing of the kind," said Viola. "I tell you it is absolutely true. That she has just this minute admitted it to Mrs. Pangborn. Don't you think if it were a mistake I would have to correct it, when the thing has now been thoroughly investigated?"
It was plain that many of the girls were apt to take Nita's view. They had given the thing a chance to develop, and they were satisfied now that a mistake had been made somewhere. Of course the clever turns made by Viola, kept "the ball rolling."
"There's the bell!" announced Amy, reluctantly leaving the discussion unfinished. This was the signal for laying aside all topics other than those relative to the curriculum of Glenwood, and, as the girls filed into the chapel for prayers, more than one missed Dorothy, her first morning to absent herself from the exercise.
Miss Higley was in charge, Mrs. Pangborn also being out of her accustomed place.
Directly after the short devotions there was whispering.
"Young ladies!" called the teacher, in a voice unusually severe, "you must attend strictly to your work. There has been enough lax discipline in Glenwood recently. I will have no more of it."
"Humph!" sniffed Viola, aside, "since when did she buy the school!"
Miss Higley's eyes were fastened upon her. But Viola's recent experiences had the effect of making her reckless—she felt quite immune to punishment now.
"Attend to your work, Miss Green!" called Miss Higley.
"Attend to your own," answered Viola under her breath, but the teacher saw that she had spoken, and knew that the remark was not a polite one.
"What did you say?" asked the teacher.
"Nothing," retorted Viola, still using a rude tone.
"You certainly answered me, and I insist upon knowing what you said."
Viola was silent now, but her eyes spoke volumes.
"Will you please repeat that remark?" insisted Miss Higley.
"No," said Viola, sharply, "I will not!"
Miss Higley's ruddy face flashed a deep red. To have a pupil openly defy a teacher is beyond the forgiveness of many women less aggressive than Miss Higley.
"You had better leave the room," she said—"take your books with you."
"I won't require them," snapped Viola, intending to give out the impression that she would leave school if she were to be treated in that manner by Miss Higley.
"Get at your work, young ladies," finished the teacher, fastening her eyes on her own books, and thus avoiding anything further with Viola.
To reach her room Viola was obliged to pass Dorothy's. Just as she came up to number nineteen Dorothy opened the door. Her eyes were red from weeping, and she looked very unhappy indeed.
"Oh, do come in Viola," she said, surprised to see the girl before her. "I was going to you directly after class—I did not know you were out."
"I cannot come now," answered Viola. "I must go to my room!"
"Is there anything the matter?" inquired Dorothy, kindly.
"Yes," replied Viola, using her regular tactics, that of forcing Dorothy to make her own conclusions.
"Is your mother worse?"
"I, oh—my head aches so. You must excuse me Dorothy," and at this Viola burst into tears, another ruse that always worked well with the sympathetic Dorothy.
The fact was Dorothy had spent a very miserable hour that morning, after her talk with the president, and she had finally decided to put the whole thing to Viola, to ask her for a straight-forward explanation, and to oblige her to give it. But now Viola was in trouble—Dorothy had no idea that the trouble was a matter of temper, and of course her mother must be worse, thought Dorothy. How glad she was, after all, that she did make the sacrifice! It was much easier for her to stand it than to crush Viola with any more grief!
Crush her indeed! It takes more than the mere words of a just school teacher and more than the pale face of a persecuted girl to crush such a character as that which Viola Green was lately cultivating.
And as Viola turned into her room she determined never to apologize to Miss Higley. She would leave Glenwood first.
Meanwhile what different sentiments were struggling in Dorothy's heart? She had bathed her face, and would go into the classroom. She might be in time for some work, and now there was no use in wasting time over the trouble. She would never mention it to Viola, that poor girl had enough to worry her. Neither would she try to right it in any way. After all, Mrs. Pangborn believed in her, so did Edna and Molly, and a letter from home that morning told of the recovery of Tavia's mother. Perhaps Tavia would be back to school soon. It might be hard to meet the scornful looks of the other girls, but it could not possibly be as hard as what Viola had to bear.
So thought our dear Little Captain, she who was ever ready to take upon her young and frail shoulders the burdens of others.
But such virtue plainly has its own reward—Dorothy Dale entered the classroom at eleven o'clock that morning, with peace in her heart. Viola Green was out of the school room and was fighting the greatest enemies of her life—Pride, mingled with Jealousy.
It had been that from the first, from the very first moment she set her eyes on Dorothy Dale, whose beautiful face was then framed in the ominous black lining of the police patrol.
It had been jealousy ever since. Dorothy had made friends with the best girls in Glenwood, she had been taken up by the teachers, she had been given the best part in the play (but Viola could not stand that) and now that the play had been abandoned on account of the death of Mrs. Panghorn's father, and that Dorothy had been disgraced, what more did Viola crave?
Was not her vengeance complete?
But the girls were beginning to doubt the story, and those who did not actually disbelieve it were tiring of its phases. The promised excitement did not develop. All the plans of the Rebs were dead, and to be a member of that party did not mean happiness,—it meant actual danger of discipline.
Viola was too shrewd not to notice all this, and to realize that her clientele was falling off alarmingly.
Would she really leave Glenwood? The wrong done Dorothy seemed to be righting itself in spite of all her devices, and that girl, disgraced though she stood in the eyes of many, seemed happier at the moment than Viola herself.
"I wish I had gone home when I had father's last letter," reflected the girl, looking in her mirror at the traces of grief that insisted on setting their stamp upon her olive face. "But now, of course that old cat Higley will make a fuss—Oh, I wish I never had seen these cracked walls. I wish I had gone to a fashionable school—"
She stopped suddenly. Why not get away now to that swell school near Boston? She could surely set aside her mother's foolish sentiment about Glenwood,—just because she had met Mrs. Pangborn abroad and had become interested in this particular school for girls.
Viola had enough of it. She would leave—go home. And then perhaps—she might get to the Beaumonde Academy.