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Dorothy Dale At Glenwood School

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<h3> CHAPTER XIX </h3> <h4> THE TANGLED WEB </h4> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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