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Dorothy Dale At Glenwood School

<h3> CHAPTER XVIII </h3> <h4> DOROTHY'S SACRIFICE </h4> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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