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Dorothy Dale At Glenwood School

<h2> DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL </h2> <h3> CHAPTER I </h3> <h4> TWO YOUNG GIRLS </h4> "And you are quite sure, daddy, I am not dreaming? That I am sitting right here with my arms around your neck, and you have just told me it is all perfectly true?" And, to make still more certain that the whole matter was one of unquestionable reality, the girl gave her parent such a flesh and blood hug that a physical answer came to her question in the shape of a protest from the very wideawake man. "Now, see here, Little Captain," he remarked, "it is all very well to make sure we are not dreaming, and that all the good news is real, but please remember I have put on a clean collar and—your tactics are quite military. You are acquiring muscle." Major Dale kissed his daughter fondly as she relinquished her hold on him, and smoothed back a stray lock of his silvery hair. "I'm so glad for you, daddy," she went on. "You do so need a real rest, and now we will not have to plan every day what we may spend to-morrow. I fancy I will still keep the note-book going with pounds and prices of things, and an occasional orange, and even some foreign fruit now and then. Dear me! I feel the good of that money already. We can have so many luxuries—no more scrimping and patching—" "But, daughter dear," interrupted the major, "you must not imagine that mere money can bring happiness. It depends entirely upon the proper use of that commodity—we must always exercise good judgment, whether one dollar or one hundred dollars are involved." "Oh, of course, I know we are not so very rich, we cannot just exactly live sumptuously, but we may live comfortably. And really, daddy, now that it is over, I may as well own up, I have longed with the longest kind of longing for a brand-new hat. May I really have one? Ribbons and all?" "Two, one for Sunday and one for every day," promptly responded the major, laughing. "But your hats always look new—" "They do say I have talent for hats, and that one must have originality to trim and keep old head-gear up to date. So, daddy dear, perhaps, some day, that hint of talent may develop—I may be an artist or something. Then I will bless the days when I had to make over hats to discover myself," and Dorothy promptly clapped upon her blond head such a confusion of straw and flowers, to say nothing of the dangling blue ribbons, that even the major, with his limited appreciation of "keeping old head-gear up-to-date" was forced to acknowledge that his daughter did know how to trim a hat. "When will the money come?" she asked, tilting her head to one side to get a look in the small oval mirror, that was sufficiently large for the major's neckties, but was plainly too short for hats. "We won't get it by the pound, like butter, you know, daughter. Nor is it a matter of so many blank checks to be filled out as we progress with penmanship—like copy-book work. As a matter of fact, I have just received the legal information that my dear old soldier uncle Ned—otherwise known as Captain Edward Dale on the retired list, resident of India, subject of Great Britain, has answered the last roll call—and left what he had to me. Uncle Ned was the hero of our family, daughter dear, and some day I will tell you why you are my Little Captain—his own successor," and the major laid his hand upon Dorothy's shoulder in a way he had of making a promise that he intended to keep. A commotion on the side porch interrupted their confidences, and the major took advantage of it to make his escape. He kissed Dorothy good-bye, and left her to the "commotion" that presently made its way in at the door in the shape of Tavia Travers, Dorothy's warmest friend in every thing. "Hurrah for the good news!" shouted Tavia, flinging her sailor hat up to the ceiling and catching it as promptly. "Three cheers for the money, When will it come? Give a feller some Tiddle-umtum-tum I have to say bunny, To make a rhyme with money!" And Tavia swung around like a pin-wheel to bring her "verse" to an effective full stop—a way she had of punctuating her impromptu productions. Dorothy made a comical "squat" to add more finish, and then the two girls, feeling better for having opened the safety valve of physical exertion to "let off" mental exuberance, sat down to talk it over quietly. "Are you perfectly positive, certain, sure, that it's just you, Dorothy Dale, and no fairy or mermaid," began Tavia, settling herself among the cushions on Major Dale's sofa. "Of all the delicious, delectable things! To have a rich, old uncle die 'way off in India, where you don't even have to make your nose red at his funeral. And to leave you a million dollars—" "Oh, not quite a million," interrupted Dorothy. "Something considerable less than that, I believe." "But it's all kinds of money I know," went on the other. "Dear me! I do wish some kind of money would run in our family even with red noses thrown in. But no such luck! When we have a funeral we always have to pay for the coach." "Tavia Travers! How dare you talk so, of such serious things!" "How else would you have me talk of serious things? The most serious thing in my life is money—its scarcity. Funerals, of course, take time, and are unpleasant in many respects, but, for right at home trouble, it's money." "It is nice to think that the dear old captain should be so good to father," said Dorothy. "Father was always his favorite relative, and he particularly liked him on account of his military honors." "Well, he ought to, of course," put in Tavia, "for your father keeps the name Dale up for military honors. But what in the world are you going to do with all the money? Don't, for goodness' sake, go away for your health, and other things, and leave poor me to die here without nobody nor nuthin'," and the girl burst into make-believe tears. "Indeed," said Dorothy. "We can enjoy the good fortune in no place better than in dear old Dalton, and among our own good friends," and she put her arms affectionately about Tavia. "But one thing has been definitely decided upon—" "You are going to buy the Harvy mansion?" "No, a new hat. Father has just this minute given his consent." "Make it a tiara and save the expense of hat-pins," suggested Tavia. "No, I have a hankering for a Gainsborough, the kind the lady hanging over Aunt Winnie's stairs wears—the picture queen, you know." "Oh, yes, she looks very nice in a picture over the stairs," remarked Tavia, "but my advice to you would be to wear elastic under your chin with a thing like that—or else try Gulliver's Glue. One breeze of the Dalton kind would be enough for a Gainsborough." "You shall help me pick it out," agreed Dorothy. "In the meantime don't sit on the only one I have. I just left it on the sofa as you came in—" "And if it isn't the dearest, sweetest thing now," exclaimed Tavia, rescuing the mass of perishables she had unwittingly pressed into something like a funeral piece. "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I did like that hat!" "And so did I!" declared Tavia. "That hat was a stunner, and I deeply regret it's untimely taking away—it went to pieces without a groan. That comes of having a real Leghorn. I could sit all over my poor straw pancake and it would not as much as bend—couldn't. It would have no place to bend to." "You could never wear anything that would become you more than a simple sailor," said Dorothy, with the air of one in authority, "and if I had your short locks I would just sport a jaunty little felt sailor all summer. But with my head—" "Jaunty doesn't go. I quite agree with you, picture lady, your head is cut out for picture hats. Another positive evidence of money running in your family—my head was cut out for an economical pattern—lucky thing for me!" and Tavia clapped her aforesaid sailor on her bronze head at a decidedly rakish angle, while Dorothy busied herself with a thorough investigation of the wreck of her own headpiece. As told in "Dorothy Dale: A Girl of To-Day," the first book of this series, these two girls, Dorothy Dale and Octavia Travers, were school friends, home friends and all kinds of friends, both about the same age, and both living in a little interesting town called Dalton, in New York state. Dorothy was the daughter of Major Dale, a prominent citizen of the place, while Tavia's father was Squire Travers, a man who was largely indebted to Dorothy for the office he held, inasmuch as she had managed, in a girl's way, to bring about his election. Tavia had a brother Johnnie, quite an ordinary boy, while Dorothy had two brothers, Joe, aged nine and Roger, aged seven years. There was one other member of the Dale household, Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, who had cared for the children since their mother had been called away. She was that sort of responsible aged woman who seems to grow more and more particular with years, and perhaps her only fault, if it might be termed such, was her excessive care of Roger—her baby, she insisted,—for to her his seven years by no means constituted a length of time sufficient to make a boy of him. The children called Mrs. Martin, Aunt Libby, and to them she was indeed as kind and loving as any aunt could be. Dorothy had an aunt, Mrs. Winthrop White, of North Birchland in summer, and of the city in winter, a woman of social importance, as well as being a most lovable and charming lady personally. A visit of Dorothy and Tavia to the Cedars, Mrs. White's country place, as related in "Dorothy Dale," was full of incidents, and in the present volume we shall become still better acquainted with the family, which included Mrs. White's two sons, Ned and Nat, both young men well worth knowing. Dorothy and Tavia might well rejoice in the good news that the major had so lately been informed of, for the acquirement of means to Dorothy would undoubtedly bring good times to Tavia, and both deserved the prospects of sunshine and laughter, for alas—in all lives, even those scarcely old enough to take upon their shoulders the burden of cares, there comes some blot to mar the page: some speck to break the glorious blue of the noonday sky. Dorothy Dale was not without her sorrow. A wicked man, Andrew Anderson by name, had come into her life in a mysterious way. Dorothy had befriended, and in her own way, helped back to a day of happiness an unfortunate man, Miles Burlock. This man had for years been in the strange power of Anderson, but before it was too late Dorothy had helped Burlock break the chains of strong drink that seemed to have bound him to the evil companion, and for this interference she had suffered—she was now the object of Anderson's hatred. Anderson was after the money that Miles Burlock had to leave at his death, but Dorothy and her father saved this for its rightful owner, a little daughter of Miles Burlock, who had for some years been kept away from her own father by Anderson. The child, now an orphan, came into the care of Major Dale, her legal guardian and so Anderson had new cause for his hatred for Dorothy—the money and child having both been put out of his reach. So this was Dorothy's sorrow: she had been persecuted because of her goodness. No one who knew Tavia Travers would have considered her capable of worry. She was as light-hearted as air, with a great faculty for mischief and a "hankering" for fun. But she did have a worry, a fear that some day Dorothy Dale might pass out of her life and end the attachment that came in childhood and waxed strong with girlhood. Dorothy was what might be considered a girl of the aristocratic class, while Tavia belonged to those who consider it a privilege to work for a living and have a keen appreciation of the opportunity—as Squire Travers proved when he turned in to show himself the best official, in the capacity of squire, of which Dalton ever boasted. Now a new danger threatened Tavia: Dorothy would be almost rich. Would that help to break the ties of love and friendship between the girls? Not that Dorothy could ever change in her sincere love for Tavia, but might not circumstances separate them, and then—? Tavia had been first to congratulate Dorothy on the good news and the smashed hat had furnished an incident sufficiently distracting to keep Tavia from the lamentations that at first filled her heart. Hence it has been necessary to take the reader through her sentiments in a very much less interesting way than Tavia herself would have disclosed them. She had a way of saying and doing things that was inimitable, and amusing, if not entirely elevating. "Then you think you will stay in Dalton?" asked Tavia, finally, as Dorothy succeeded in pulling the smashed hat back into some kind of shape, if not the right kind. "Why not?" asked Dorothy. "Are there not plenty of good people in Dalton?" "Oh, a few, perhaps. There's me and Johnnie—but we are not 'out' yet, and you will be looking for society friends. Well, here's good luck to you with your Indian millions, and don't forget that in your poorest days I used to lend you chewing gum," and at this Tavia threw her arms around Dorothy in a warm embrace, as if striving to hold to her heart and keep in her life the same old darling Dorothy—in spite of the new circumstances. "Say, Sis!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Do you realize that this is the very day you are to go for an automobile ride with Nat White?" "And that you are to go in the same machine with Ned White? Course I do, you selfish girl. So taken up with common money that you never noticed my get-up. Look at this," and Tavia drew from the folds of her skirt a cloud of something. "Automobile veil," she explained, giving the flimsy stuff a turn that sent it floating through the air like a cloud of smoke. "Splendid!" declared Dorothy. "Gloriotious!" remarked Tavia, "the real thing. I found it in an old trunk among dear old grandma Travers' things, and grandma loved it dearly. I persuaded mother to let me inherit it, and smell," putting the gray cloud of silk to Dorothy's face, "that perfume is lavender. Grandma always used it." "What a dear old lady she must have been," said Dorothy, looking over the dainty article critically. "You are not really going to wear it," she faltered, realizing the value of such an heirloom. "No, I am not, but—you are! There, Doro, darling, it is a gift for you from—me. You will always keep it and—love it—" "Indeed I will do no such thing as to take your dear grandma's things. You must always keep this yourself—" "But I want you to, Doro. It will make me happy to know I have given you something good—something I have loved, and something you will love for me. There," and she put the scarf over Dorothy's blond head, "you look like an angel. Grandma herself will be proud all the way from heaven, to see this fall upon the shoulders of one so worthy in face and in heart," and the two stood there clasped in each other's arms, the silvery veil of love falling about the shoulders of both, and binding "all the way to heaven," in its folds of sweetest lavender the hearts of two young girls. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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