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Dorothy Dale At Glenwood School

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<h3> CHAPTER XII </h3> <h4> VIOLA'S MOTHER </h4> At the change of cars the Dalton girls were met by Viola and Mrs. Green. Viola and her mother soon arranged seats for four in the chair car, and Dorothy, with Tavia, joined them in such comfortable quarters as are provided for long distance passengers. Then the little party settled down for a long ride—and all the enjoyment that might be discovered therein. Viola appeared delighted to meet the Dalton girls—she inquired particularly about Dorothy's cousin Nat, but this society "stunt," as Tavia termed it, was due more to the city habit of remembering friends' friends, than a weakness on Viola's part for good looking boys. But it was Viola's mother who interested both Dorothy and Tavia. She was a small woman, evidently of foreign extraction (Spanish, Dorothy thought) and with such a look of adoration for Viola that, to Dorothy and Tavia, observing the wonderful mother-love, it seemed like something inhuman, divine perhaps, or was it a physical weakness? They noticed that Mrs. Green used her smelling salts freely, she often pressed her hand to her head, and seemed much like a person too delicate to travel. "Are you all right, momsey?" Viola would ask continually. "I do wish you had not risked coming." "But I could not allow you to travel all alone," the mother would answer with a delightful foreign accent. "And you know, my daughter, that father was too busy." "But, momsey, do not sit up if you are tired," cautioned Viola. "Just lie back and try to be comfortable." "I am enjoying every word you speak," declared the little woman, inhaling her salts. "You and your charming friends." Dorothy had never seen so wonderful a mother—to actually hang on her daughter's frivolous nonsense. And the attention was a positive tonic to Tavia's chatter. She said such amusing things and saw such ridiculous comparisons—the kind little children surprise their elders with. To Dorothy, who had never known a mother's affection (she was such a tot when her own dear mother left her), this devotion appeared to be nothing short of marvelous. Tavia thought it unusual—Viola seemed worried when it became too extreme. Then she would urge her mother to rest and not excite herself over foolish schoolgirl talk. Even such an admonition from a mere daughter did not appear to bother the strange little woman, with the almost glaring black eyes. Tavia observed this peculiarity, then made a mental observation that whatever ailed Viola might have to do with a similar affliction on the mother's part—perhaps a family weakness! As they journeyed on Dorothy found it very pleasant to talk with Mrs. Green and so left Viola and Tavia pretty much to themselves. Numbers of Glenwood girls were picked up at various stations, and, as each was espied, the chair car party hailed them, Viola being acquainted with the last year's girls. Before the last station—some twenty miles from the destination of the students—had been struck off the time-table, there were actually twelve "Glenwoods," aboard. Those from Dalton felt just a bit "green" Tavia admitted, never before having mingled with a boarding school "tribe," but on the whole the scholars were very sociable and agreeable, and made all sorts of promises for future good times. "You see," explained Rose-Mary Markin, a very dear girl from somewhere in Connecticut, "we count all this side of Boston in the Knickerbocker set, 'Knicks,' we call them. The others are the Pilgrims; and isn't it dreadful to nickname them the 'Pills?'" Tavia thought that "the best ever," and declared she would join the Knicks (spelled "Nicks" in the school paper) no matter what the initiation would cost her. "Viola is secretary of the Nicks," volunteered Amy Brook, a girl who wore her hair parted exactly in the middle and looked classical. "We have lots of sport; plays and meetings. You will join, surely, Dorothy, won't you?" "But I will not be secretary this year," interrupted Viola, without allowing Dorothy to answer Amy. "It's too much trouble." "But you can't resign until the first regular meeting in November," said Amy, surprised that Viola should wish to give up the office. "I intend to resign the very first thing," asserted Viola. "The Nicks can get along with a pro-tem until the regular meeting." Mrs. Green now fixed her strange gaze upon her daughter, and Dorothy, who was plainly more interested in the delicate little woman than in the schoolgirls' chatter, noticed a shadow come into the pale face. Evidently Mrs. Green could stand no arguments, no confusion, and, when the girls continued to discuss the pros and cons of a secretary pro-tem, Dorothy suggested that they change the subject as it might be distressing to Mrs. Green. Quick as a flash Viola was all attention to her mother, inquiring about her head, offering to bring fresh ice water, and showing unusual anxiety, so it seemed to Dorothy's keen observation, when the lady was not really ill. Then, at the first opportunity Viola called the girls down to the end compartment, and told them that her mother had only just recovered from a serious illness. "She had a dreadful attack this time," said Viola, "and she should never have come on this journey." "Then why did she?" asked Tavia, in her blunt way. "Well, she seemed so set upon it," declared Viola, "that the doctors thought it more dangerous to cross her about it than to allow her to come. Our doctor is on the train, but mother does not know it. I do wish she could get strong!" The tears that came to the girl's eyes seemed very pitiable—every one of the party felt like crying with Viola. Dorothy attempted to put her arms about the sad girl, but Viola was on her feet instantly. "We must go back," she said. "Then we can arrange to sit in another place," suggested Dorothy. "Perhaps if she were quiet she might fall off asleep." Viola left the compartment first. There were people in the aisle—in front of her mother. What had happened? "Oh!" screamed the girl. "Mother! Let me go to her!" and she hurried through the car, pushing aside the trainmen who had been summoned. "Mother! Mother!" called the frightened Viola, for her mother was so pale and so still! "Oh, she is dead!" whispered Tavia, who had succeeded in reaching the chair. "Open the windows!" commanded Viola. "Call Dr. Reed, quick! He is in the next car!" It seemed an eternity—but in reality was only a few minutes—before the doctor reached the spot. Dorothy could see that Mrs. Green had not fainted—her eyes were moving. But poor Viola! How could they ever have thought ill of her when this was her sorrow: this her sad burden! Dorothy Dale resolved in her heart, at that moment, that never a care nor a sorrow should come to Viola Green if she could protect her from it. She would be her champion at school, she would try to share this secret sorrow with her; she would do anything in her power to make life brighter for a girl who had this awful grief to bear. "It's her mind," Dorothy had heard someone whisper. Then the doctor had the porters carry the sick woman to a private compartment, and with her Viola remained, until the train reached Hanover. There Dr. Reed left the train and with him went Mrs. Green in care of an attendant. When they were gone Viola returned to her companions weeping and almost sick herself. "The doctor would not let me go back home," she sighed, "and as soon as mother was conscious she insisted on me going on to school. Dr. Reed can always manage her so well, and if I were with him perhaps mother would fret more. But I did think she would get over those awful spells—" and the girl burst into fresh tears. "Viola, dear," said Dorothy soothingly. "Try to be brave. Perhaps the trip may benefit her in the end." "Oh, don't try to be kind to me," wailed the unhappy girl. "I can't stand it! I hate everybody and everything in this world only my darling little sweet mother! And I cannot have her! She can never go with me to her own country now, and we had planned it all! Oh, mother darling! Why did you inherit that awful sickness! Why can't we cure you!" and so the sad daughter wailed and wept, while her companions looked on helplessly. "But you will let me be you friend," pleaded Dorothy. "Try to think it will all come right some day—every sorrow must unfold some blessing—" "My friend!" and Viola looked with that same sharp glance that her mother had shown—that queer glare at Dorothy. "Dorothy Dale, you do not know what you are talking about!" And every girl present had reason to remember this strange remark when days at Glenwood school proved their meaning. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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