CHAPTER XII
VIOLA'S MOTHER
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.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CATEGORY
"Isn't it great!" exclaimed Tavia, shaking out her blue dress, and tying a worn handkerchief over its particular closet hook so that no hump would appear in the soft blue texture. "I never would believe boarding school was such fun. Here comes Rose-Mary with more Nicks to introduce. I hear her laughing – hasn't she got the jolliest little giggle – like our brook when it bubbles over."
"I wish, Tavia, you would confine your wardrobe to your own half of the closet," Dorothy remonstrated, as she took down several articles that had "crossed the line."
"Oh, I will, dear, only I was just listening to what those girls were saying. I thought I heard Viola's voice. Isn't it strange she does not call on us. I told her our room was Number Nineteen."
"I suppose she's busy, every one appears to be except Rose-Mary. She doesn't seem to mind whether her trunk is unpacked first day or on Christmas," said Dorothy, working diligently at her own baggage.
"I would just love to go the rounds with her," declared Tavia, "if you did not insist upon going right to work. I would rather have fun now and unpack later."
"But there is no later. We must go to bed at eight thirty, my dear, and we have no time to spare. School will begin to-morrow."
"All the more reason why we should have the fun now," persisted Tavia, who was nevertheless getting her clothes on the hooks in short order. "There! I'm all hung up," she declared, banging the closet door furiously, in spite of Dorothy's hat box trying to stop it.
"But your hats," Dorothy reminded her. "They have got to go on that shelf, and there isn't an inch of room left."
"Then I'll just stick the box under the bed," calmly remarked the new girl, making a kick at the unlucky box and following it up to the "goal."
"Against the rules," announced Dorothy, pointing to a typewritten notice on the door. "Read!"
"Haven't time. You read them and tell me about them. I'll take the box out if it says so, but if we have to keep things in such angelic order why in the world don't they give us room?"
"Room? Indeed this is a large room, given us especially, and it is quite a favor to be allowed to room together – only real sisters ever get a double."
"Heaven help the singles!" sighed Tavia in mock devotion. "But come on, Doro, – we are missing all the fun. I did think I heard the mob at our door."
Without further leave or license Tavia dragged Dorothy from her work and closed the door of Number Nineteen behind her. In the hall they found Rose-Mary, whom the girls called "Cologne," Amy Brook, Nita Brant, and Lena Berg. All were trying to talk at once, each had "the very most delicious vacation" to tell about, and to Dorothy it appeared the first requisite for boarding school ways was the coining of absurd and meaningless phrases. Tavia fell right into line, and could discount anyone of the crowd. "Splendifiorous, glorioutious and scrambunctious," were plainly hard to beat, and no one seemed willing to try. Cologne had a way of saying things in a jerky little jump that suggested bumping noses, Amy Brook fairly strangled with dashes and other unexpected shorts stops, while Nita Brant "wallowed" in such exclamations as:
"Fine and dandy! Perfectly sugary! Too killingly, dear, for anything!"
It was Cologne who declared Nita "wallowed" in slang, because the Nicks had decided that no ready-made slang should be used at meetings, and Nita persisted in ignoring the rule. Each new term brought the season's current phrases back in the custody of the sandy-haired Nita and now, on the first night, her companions took precious good care to remind her of the transgression.
Altogether Dorothy found it difficult to keep track of anything like conversation, and was forced to say "yes" and "no" on suspicion. Tavia had better luck, Edna Black (christened Ebony Ned) took her in charge at once, and the two (Ned had already established her reputation as a black sheep), dashed off down the corridor, bursting in on unsuspecting "Babes" (newcomers), and managing, somehow or other, to upset half-emptied trunk trays, and do damage generally.
"Hello! Hello!" came a shout from the first turn or senior row. "Come, somebody, and fan me!"
"That's 'Dick,'" Ned told Tavia. "Molly Richards, but we call her Dick. By the way, what shall we call you? What is your full name? The very whole of it?"
"Octavia Travers! Birthday is within the octave of Christmas," declared the Dalton girl impressively.
"Oct or Ouch! That sounds too much like Auch du lieber Augustine, or like a cut finger," studied Edna. "Better take yours from Christmas – Chrissy sounds cute."
"Yes, especially since I have lately had my hair cut Christy – after our friend Columbus," agreed Tavia, tossing back her new set of tangles. "I was in a railroad accident, you know, and lost my long hair. I had the time of my life getting it cut off properly, in a real barber shop. Dorothy's cousins, two of the nicest boys, were with us – Dorothy went too. It was such fun."
"All right, it shall be Chrissy then," decided Edna. "It's funny we always turn a girl's name into a boy's name when we can. Let's go and see Dick," and at this she dragged Tavia out of the corner of the hall where they had taken refuge from a girl who was threatening them for upsetting all her ribbons and laces.
"Oh, there you are, Ned Ebony," greeted Molly as the two bolted into her room. "Where's everybody. I haven't seen Fiddle yet."
"Viola Green?" asked Tavia. "Funny I should have thought of that name for her."
"You knew she plays the fiddle adorably."
"No, but I knew she had been named after her grandfather's violin. What a queer notion."
"Queer girl, too," remarked Molly, "but a power in her way. Did she come up yet?"
"On our train," said Tavia, too prudent, for once in her life, to tell the whole story.
"She is going to cut the Nicks," announced Edna. "She told me so first thing. Then she slammed her door and no one has caught a glimpse of her since."
Tavia was fairly bursting with news at this point, but she had promised Dorothy not to interfere with Viola in any way and she wisely decided not to start in on such dangerous territory as Viola's visit to Dalton. So the matter was dropped, and the girls went forth for more fun.
Dorothy had met Miss Higley, Mrs. Pangborn's assistant. She proved to be a little woman with glasses, the stems going all the way back of her ears. She seemed snappy, Dorothy thought, and gave all sorts of orders to the girls while pretending to become acquainted with Dorothy.
"The crankiest crank," declared one girl, when the little woman had gone further down the hall with her objections. "But, really, we need a chief of police. Don't you think so?"
"Isn't Mrs. Pangborn chief?" asked Dorothy.
"Oh, she's president of the board of commissioners," replied Rose-Mary. "Miss Honorah Higley is the chief of all departments."
"And Miss Crane?" inquired Dorothy. "I have met her."
"Oh, she's all right," declared the informer. "Camille Crane is a dear – if the girls do call her Feathers."
"I thought all that nick-name business was done in colleges," remarked Dorothy. "Every one here seems to have two names."
"Couldn't possibly get along without them," declared Cologne. "I've been Cologne since my first day – what have they given you?"
"I haven't heard yet," said Dorothy, smiling. "But I do hope they won't 'Dot' me. I hate dots."
"Then make it Dashes or Specks, but you must not be Specks. We have one already."
"Glad of it," returned Dorothy. "I don't like Specks either."
"I guess we will make it 'D. D.' That's good, and means a whole lot of things. There," declared Cologne. "I've had the honor of being your sponsor. Now you must always stick by me. D. D. you are to be hereafter."
"That will tickle Tavia," declared Dorothy. "She always said I was a born parson."
"Better yet," exclaimed Cologne. "Be Parson. Now we've got it. The Little Parson," and away she flew to impart her intelligence to a waiting world of foolish schoolgirls.
CHAPTER XIV
THE INITIATION
The first days at Glenwood revolved like a magic kaleidoscope – all bits of brilliant things, nothing tangible, and nothing seemingly important. Dorothy had made her usual good friends – Tavia her usual jolly chums. But Viola Green remained a mystery.
She certainly had avoided speaking to Dorothy, and had not even taken the trouble to avoid Tavia – she "cut her dead." Edna tried to persuade Tavia that "Fiddle" was a privileged character, and that the seeming slights were not fully intended; but Tavia knew better.
"She may be as odd as she likes," insisted the matter of fact girl from Dalton, "but she must not expect me to smile at her ugliness – it is nothing else – pure ugliness."
Dorothy had sought out Viola, but it was now plain that the girl purposely avoided her.
"Perhaps she is worrying about her mother, poor dear," thought the sympathetic Dorothy. "I must insist on cheering her up. A nice walk through these lovely grounds ought to brighten her. And the leaves on these hills are perfectly glorious. I must ask her to go with me on my morning walk. I'll go to her room to-night after tea – during recreation. I have not seen her out a single morning yet."
So Dorothy mused, and so she acted according to the logical result of that musing. At recreation time that evening Dorothy tapped gently on the door of Number Twelve.
The door was slightly ajar, and Dorothy could hear the sounds of papers being hastily gathered up. Then Viola came to the entrance.
"May I come in?" asked Dorothy, surprised that Viola should have made the question necessary.
"Oh, I am so busy – but of course – Did you want to see me?" and there was no invitation in the voice or manner.
"Just for a moment," faltered Dorothy, determined not to be turned away without a hearing.
Viola reluctantly opened the door. Then she stepped aside without offering a chair.
"I have been worried about you," began Dorothy, rather miserably. "Are you ill, Viola?"
"111? Why not at all. Can't a girl attend to her studies without exciting criticism?"
Dorothy's face burned. "Oh, of course. But I did not see you out at all – "
"Next time I leave my room I'll send the Nicks word," snapped Viola. "Then they may appoint a committee to see me out!"
Dorothy was stung by this. She had expected that Viola would resent the interference – try to keep to her chosen solitude – but the rudeness was a surprise.
"But you are getting pale, Viola," she ventured. "Couldn't you possibly take your exercise with me to-morrow? I would so like to have you. The walk over the mountains is perfectly splendid now."
"Thank you," and Viola's black eyes again looked out of their depths with that strange foreign keenness. "But I prefer to walk alone."
Dorothy was certain a tear glistened in Viola's eye.
"Alone!" repeated the visitor. "Viola, dear, if you would only let me be your friend – "
"Dorothy Dale!" and the girl's eyes flashed in anger. "I will have none of your preaching. You came here to pry into my affairs just as you did on the train, when you made me tell all about my dear, darling mother's illness, before those giggling girls. Yes, you need not play innocent. I know the kind of girl you are. 'Sugar coated!' But you may take your sympathy where strangers will be fooled by it. Try it on some of the Babes. But you must never again attempt to meddle in my affairs. If you do I'll tell Miss Higley. So there! Are you satisfied now?"
Dorothy was stunned. Was this flaming, flashing girl the same that had smiled upon her when the sick mother was present? What was that strange unnatural gleam in the black eyes? Anger or jealousy?
"I am sorry," faltered Dorothy; then she turned and left the room.
One hour later Tavia found Dorothy buried in her pillows. Tears would still come to her eyes, although she had struggled bravely to suppress them.
"Doro!" exclaimed her friend in surprise. "Are you homesick?"
"No," sobbed the miserable girl. "It isn't exactly homesick – ." Then the thought came to her that she should not implicate Viola, she had promised to save her from further suffering. Surely she had enough with the sick mother.
"Then what is it?" demanded Tavia.
"Oh, I don't know, Tavia," and she tried again to check her tears, "but I just had to cry."
"Nervous," concluded the Dalton girl. "Well, we must cure that. You know we are to be initiated this evening. Aren't you scared?"
"Oh, yes," and Dorothy sat upright. "I quite forgot. Do we join the Nicks?"
"Unless you prefer the Pills. They are the stiffest set – not a bit like our crowd. And the way they talk! A cross between a brogue and Tom Burbank. 'I came hawf way uptown before I could signal a car-r'," rolled out Tavia, mocking the long A's, and rolled R's of the New England girl. "How's that for English? I call it brogue."
"It does sound queer, but they tell me it is the correct pronunciation," Dorothy managed to say, while working diligently with her handkerchief on her eyes and cheeks.
"Then, as in all things else," declared Tavia, "I am thankful not to be orthodox – I should get tonsilitis if I ever tried anything like that."
"Where is the meeting to be held?" asked Dorothy.
"Don't know – we must not know anything. Ned says it will be easy. Dick is the guide, and I know Cologne has something to do with it. I do hope you won't be sad-eyed, Doro."
"You can depend upon me to do Dalton justice," declared the girl on the bed. "I'm anxious to see what they will do to us. No hazing, I hope."
"In this Sunday school? Mercy no! No such luck. They will probably make us recite psalms," asserted the irreverent Tavia.
"But being Parson that would be appropriate for me," Dorothy declared.
"And for a Chris! That would be all right also," added Tavia. "Well, I know one or two."
"There is someone coming to call us," and Dorothy jumped to her feet. "I must bathe my stupid eyes."
A half hour later the meeting was called. It was held in a little recreation room on the third floor. To this spot the candidates were led blindfolded. Within the room the shuffling of feet could be heard, then a weird voice said in a muffled tone:
"Hear ye! Honored Nicks! Let their scales fall!"
At the word the bandages were dropped from the eyes of Dorothy and Tavia.
A glimpse around the half-lighted room showed a company of masked faces and shrouded forms – sheets and white paper arrangements. On the window seat sat the Most High Nick – the promoter. At her feet was crouched the Chief Ranger.
"Number one!" called the Ranger, and Dorothy was pressed forward.
"Chase that thimble across the room with your nose," demanded the Ranger, placing a silver thimble at Dorothy's feet.
Of course Dorothy laughed – all candidates do – at first.
"Wipe your smile off," ordered the Promoter, and at this Dorothy was obliged to "wipe the smile" on the rather uncertain rug, by brushing her mouth into the very depths of the carpet.
"Proceed!" commanded the Ranger, and Dorothy began the thimble chase.
It is all very well for the "uppers" to laugh at the Babes, but it was no easy matter to get a thimble across a room by nose effort. Yet Dorothy was "game," her nominating committee declared in the course of time, and, between many pauses, chief of which was caused by the irrepressible smiles that had to be wiped off on all parts of the floor for every offense, Dorothy did get the thimble over to the corner.
"Number two," called the Ranger, and Tavia took the floor.
"The clock," indicated the Promoter, whereupon Tavia was confined in a small closet and made to do the "Cuckoo stunt." Each hour called was responded to by the corresponding "cuckoos," and the effect was ludicrous indeed. Every break in the call meant another trial, but finally Tavia got through the ordeal.
Next Dorothy was called upon to make a speech – the subject assigned being "The Glory of the Nicks." An impromptu speech might be difficult to make under such circumstances had the subject been a word of four letters, like Snow, Love or even Hate, but to extemporize on the society which was giving her the third degree – Dorothy almost "flunked," it must be admitted.
The final test was that of singing a lesson in mathematics to the tune of America, and the try that Tavia had at that broke every paper mask in the room – no, not every one, for over in the corner was a mask that never stirred, one that left the room before the candidates had been welcomed into the society of honorable Nicks. That mask went into room twelve.