CHAPTER XV
LOST ON MOUNT GABRIEL
A full month of school life had passed at Glenwood. The beautiful autumn had come to tint the leafy New England hills, when Mrs. Pangborn announced that her classes might go on a little picnic to the top of Mount Gabriel. The day chosen proved to be of the ideal Indian summer variety, and when the crowd of happy students skipped away through the woods that led to the mount, there seemed nothing to be wished for. Miss Crane had been sent in charge, and as Edna said, that meant just one more girl to make sport.
As usual Viola did not join the merry-makers. She had the continuous excuse of her mother's illness, which had really been a matter of great worry to her, as Mrs. Pangborn, if no other at the school, knew to be true.
"It's as warm as August," declared Nita Brant, scaling a darling little baby maple and robbing it of its most cherished pink leaves.
"Oh, Nita," sighed Tavia, "couldn't you take some other tree? That poor little thing never wore a pink dress before in all its young life!"
"Too young to wear pink," declared the gay Nita, affecting the brilliant leaves herself. "I just love baby leaves," and she planted the wreath on her fair brow.
This started the wreath brigade, which soon terminated in every one of the picnickers being adorned with a crown of autumn foliage.
At the foot of the mountain the girls made an effort to procure mountain sticks, but this was not an easy matter, and much time was taken up in the search for appropriate staffs. Those strong enough were invariably too hard to break, and those that could be procured were always too "splintery." But the matter was finally disposed of, and the procession started up the mountain.
It was growing late in the afternoon, the pilgrimage not having been taken up until after the morning session, and when the top of the mountain was finally reached, Miss Crane told her charges that they might scurry about and get such specimen of leaves or stones as they wished to bring back, as they would only remain there a short time.
The air was very heavy by this time, and the distant roll of thunder could be heard, but the gay girls never dreamed of a storm on that late October afternoon as they ran wildly about gathering bits of every procurable thing from moss to crystal rocks. Tavia wanted Jacks-in-the-pulpit, and sought diligently for them, getting away from all but Dorothy in her anxiety to find her home flower. She dearly loved Jacks – they grew just against the Dale wall in dear old Dalton, and she wanted to send one flower home to little Johnnie. It would be crushed in a letter of course, but she would put some dainty little ferns beside it and they would keep the lazy look. Then she could tell Johnnie all about the mountain top – send him some bright red maple leaves, and some yellow ones.
"Oh, Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "I see some almost-purple leaves," and down the side of a ledge she slipped. "Come on! The footing is perfectly safe."
Dorothy saw that the place was apparently safe, and she made her way eagerly after Tavia. Dorothy, too, wanted to send specimens home from Mount Gabriel, so she, too, must try to get the prettiest ones that grew there.
The roll of thunder was now heard by the pair but it was not heeded. Bit by bit they made their way along the newly-discovered slope; step by step they went farther away from their companions.
Suddenly a flash of lightning shot down a tree! The next minute there was a downpour of rain, like the dashing of a cloud burst.
"Oh!" screamed Dorothy. "What shall we do?"
"Get under the cliff!" ordered Tavia. "Quick! Before the next flash!"
Grasping wildly at stumps and brush, as they made their way down the now gloomy slope, the two frightened girls managed to get under some protection – where trees, overhanging the rocks, formed a sort of roof to a very narrow strip of ground.
"Oh! What shall we do?" cried Dorothy again. "We can never make our way back to the others."
"But we must," declared Tavia. "I'm sure we cannot stay here long. Isn't it a dreadful storm?"
Flash upon flash, and roar upon roar tumbled over the mountain with that strange rumble peculiar to hills and hollows. Then the rain —
It seemed as if the storm came to the mountain first and lost half the drops before getting farther down. It did pour with a vengeance. Several times Tavia ventured to poke her head out to make weather observations, but each time she was driven unceremoniously back into shelter.
"It must be late!" sighed Dorothy.
"That it must!" agreed her companion, "and we have got to get out of here soon. Rain or no rain, we can't stay here all night. The thunder and lightning is not so bad now. Come on! Let's go!"
Timidly the two girls crept out. But the rain had washed their path away and they could barely take a step where so short a time before they seemed to walk in safety.
"Don't give up!" Tavia urged Dorothy. "We must get to the top."
But the stones would slide away and the young trees, loosed by the heavy rain, would pull up at the roots.
"Try this way," suggested Tavia, taking another line from that which the girls knew ran to the mountain top.
This proved to be safer in footing at least. The rocks did not fall with such force, and the trees were stronger to hold on to.
But where was that path taking them? Both girls shouted continually, hoping to make the others hear, but no welcome answer came back to them.
Then they realized the truth. They were lost!
Night was coming, and such a night!
On a mountain top, in a thunder storm, with darkness falling!
The girls never knew just what they did in that awful hour, but it seemed afterwards that a whole lifetime had been lost with them in that storm. So far from every one on earth! Not even a bird to break that dreadful black solitude!
And the others?
The storm, violent as it was, did not deter them from searching for Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had shouted her throat powerless, and the others had not been less active. But by the strange circumstances that always lead the lost from their seekers, both parties had followed different directions, and at last, as night came on, Miss Crane was obliged to lead her weeping charges down Mount Gabriel and leave the two lost ones behind.
CHAPTER XVI
WHAT VIOLA DID
"When we get to the top we will surely be able to see our way down," declared Tavia. "So let us keep right on, even though this is not the path we came up."
"But the others will not find us this way," sighed Dorothy, "and isn't it getting dark!"
"Never mind. There must be some way of getting out of the woods. No mountains for mine. Good flat terra firma is good enough for Chrissy."
Dorothy tried to be cheerful – there were no bears surely on these peaks, and perhaps no tramps – what would they be doing up there?
"Now!" cried Tavia, "I see a way down! Keep right close to me and you will be all right! Yes, and I see a light! There's a hut at this end of the mountain."
To say that the lost Glenwood girls slid down the steep hill would hardly express the kind of speed that they indulged in – they went over the ground like human kangaroos, and made such good time that the light, seen by Tavia, actually stood before them now, in a little house against the hill.
Two ferocious dogs greeted their coming – but Tavia managed to coax them into submission, and presently a woman peered out of a dingy window and demanded to know what was wanted. She seemed a coarse creature and the place was such a hovel that the girls were sorry they had come.
"Don't answer her," cautioned Dorothy quickly. "Let's make our way to the road."
Tavia saw that this would be safest, although she was not sure the woman would allow them to pass unquestioned past her stone fence. But with a dash they did reach the highway and had made tracks along through the muddy narrow wagon road before the woman, who was now calling after them, could do anything more disagreeable. The dogs followed them up for a few paces, and then turned back while the woman continued to shout in tones that struck terror into the hearts of the miserable girls.
"We may be running away from Glenwood!" ventured Tavia, spattering along, "but this road surely goes to some place – if we can only get there."
"Oh, I'm so out of breath," panted Dorothy. "We can walk now. The woman has ceased shouting."
"Wasn't it dreadful!" exclaimed Tavia. "I was just scared stiff!"
"We do get into such awful predicaments," mused Dorothy. "But I suppose the others are almost as frightened as we are now, – I was dreadfully afraid when the woman shouted to us."
"Wasn't she a scarecrow? Just like an old witch in a story book. Listen! I thought I heard the girls!"
"Hark!" echoed Dorothy. "I am sure that was Edna's yoddle. Answer it!"
At the top of her voice Tavia shouted the familiar call. Then she listened again.
"Yes," declared Dorothy, "that's surely Ned. Oh, do let's run! They might turn off on another road! This place seems to be all turns."
When the welcome sounds of that call were heard by both parties little time was lost in reaching the lost ones. What had seemed to be nightfall was really only the blackness of the storm, and now, on the turnpike, a golden light shot through the trees, and wrapt its glory about the happy girls, who tried all at once to embrace the two who had gone through such a reign of terror.
"Hurry! Hurry!" called Miss Crane, skipping along like a schoolgirl herself.
To tell the story of their adventures, the Dalton girls marched in the center of the middle row – everyone wanted to hear, and everyone wanted to be just as near as possible to Tavia and Dorothy.
Taking refuge under the cliff seemed exciting enough, but when Dorothy told how they had lost the trail to the mountain top, and how all the footing slipped down as they tried to make the ascent, the girls were spell-bound. Then to hear Tavia describe, in her own inimitable way, the call of "the witch" – made some shout, ad the entire party ran along as if the same "witch" was at their heels.
When the report was made to Mrs. Pangborn, that dignified lady looked very seriously at Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had explained the entire affair, making it clear that the girls became separated from the others by the merest accident, and that the storm did the rest.
"But you must remember, my dears," said Mrs. Pangborn kindly, "that, as boarding school girls, you should always keep near to the teacher in charge even when taking walks across the country. It is not at all safe to wander about as you would at home. Nor can a girl depend upon her own judgment in asking strangers to direct her. Sometimes thoughtless boys delight in sending the girls out of their way. I am glad the affair has ended without further trouble. You must have suffered when you found you really could not reach your companions. Let it be a lesson to all of you."
"Oh, if Miss Higley had been in charge," whispered Edna, when the girls rehearsed their interview with Mrs. Pangborn. "You would not have gotten off so easily. She would have said you ran away from us."
So the days at Glenwood gently lapped over the quiet nights, until week after week marked events of more or less importance in the lives of those who had given themselves to what learning may be obtained from books; what influence may be gained from close companionship with those who might serve as models; and what fun might be smuggled in between the lines, always against the rules, but never in actual defiance of a single principle of the old New England institution.
"Just the by-laws," the girls would declare. "We can always suspend them, as long as we do not touch the constitution."
This meant, of course, that innocent, harmless fun was always permissible when no one suffered by the pranks, and no damage was done to property or character.
Rose-Mary Markin had become Dorothy's intimate friend. She was what is termed an all-round girl, both cultured and broad minded, a rare combination of character to find in a girl still in a preparatory school. She was as quick as a flash to detect deceit and yet gentle as one of the Babes in settling all matters where there was a question of actual intention. The benefit of the doubt was her maxim, and, as president of the Glenwood Club, the membership of which included girls from all the ranks, there was plenty of opportunity for Rose-Mary to exercise her benificence.
Viola Green had, as promised, resigned from office in the Nicks, and what was more she had organized a society in direct opposition to its principles. All the girls who had not done well in the old club readily fell in with the promises of the new order, and soon Viola had a distinct following – the girls with grievances against Rose-Mary, imagined or otherwise. Molly Richards kept her "eye pealed for bombs," she told Dorothy, and declared the "rebs" would be heard from sooner or later in the midst of smokeless powder.
"It's a conspiracy against someone," announced Molly to Rose-Mary one evening. "I heard them hatching the plot and – well I wouldn't like to be unfair, but that Viola does hate Dorothy."
"She can never hurt Dorothy Dale," answered the upright president of the Glenwood Club. "She is beyond all that sort of thing."
But little did she know how Viola Green could hurt Dorothy Dale. Less did she think how serious could be the "hurt" inflicted.
The mid-year examinations had passed off, and the Dalton girls held their own through the auspicious event. Dorothy showed a splendid fundamental education; that which fits a girl for clear study in subsequent undertakings, and that which is so often the result of the good solid training given in country schools where methods are not continually changing. Tavia surprised herself with getting through better than she had hoped, and credited her good luck to some plain facts picked up in the dear old Dalton schoolroom.
But a letter from home disturbed Tavia's pleasant Glenwood life – her father wrote of the illness of Mrs. Travers and said it was necessary that their daughter should come home. For a few weeks only, the missive read, just while the mother had time to rest up and recover her strength – the illness was nothing of a serious nature.
It did not seem possible that Tavia was packed and gone and that Dorothy was left in the school. A sense of this loneliness almost overpowered Dorothy when she realized that her sister-friend was gone – and the little bed across her room all smooth and unruffled by the careless, jolly girl who tried to make life a joke and did her best to make others share the same opinion.
It was Rose-Mary who came to cheer Dorothy in the loss of Tavia. She sat with her evenings until the very last minute, and more than once was caught in the dark halls, the lights having been turned out before the girl could reach her own quarters.
Rose-Mary and Dorothy had similar fancies. Both naturally refined, they found many things to interest them – things that most of the girls would not have bothered their pretty heads about. So their friendship grew stronger and their hearts became attuned, each to the other's rhythm, until Dorothy and Rose-Mary were the closest kind of friends.
Mrs. Pangborn had decided upon a play for mid-year. It would be a sort of trial for the big event which always marked the term's close at Glenwood and the characters would embrace students from all departments. The play was called Lalia, and was the story of a pilgrim on her way, intercepted by a Queen of Virtue and again sought out by the Queen of Pleasure. The pilgrim is lost in the woods of doubt, and finally brought to the haven of happiness by the Virtuous Queen Celesta. This Pilgrim's Progress required many characters for the queen's retinues, besides the stars, of course, and the lesser parts.
Dorothy was chosen for Lalia – the best character.
The part had been assigned by vote, and Dorothy's splendid golden hair, coupled with that "angelic face," according to her admirers, won the part for her. Rose-Mary Markin was made Celesta, the Queen of Virtue: and Viola Green, because of her dark complexion, being opposite that of Celesta, was elected to be Frivolita, the Queen of Pleasure.
Each queen was allowed to select her own retinue – a delicious task, said the ones most interested.
Mrs. Pangborn made a neat little speech at the Glenwood meeting where these details were decided upon, and in it referred to the lesson of the story, incidentally hinting that some of the pupils had lately taken it upon themselves to do things not in strict accord with the history of her school – the forming of a society, for instance, without the consent or knowledge of any of the faculty. This secret doing, she said, could not continue. Either the girls should come to her and make known the object of their club, or this club could no longer hold meetings.
This came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky – and by some Dorothy was promptly accused of tale bearing.
But in spite of it all another secret meeting was held and at it the "Rebs," as they actually called themselves, declared open rebellion. They would not submit to such tyranny, and, further, they would not take part in any play in which Dorothy Dale held an important part.
It was then the bomb was thrown by Viola, the bomb that she carried all the way from Dalton, and had kept waiting for a chance to set it off – until now – the hour of seeming triumph for Dorothy.
"I'll tell you the positive truth, girls," Viola began, first being sure that no one but those in the "club" were within reach of her voice, "I saw, with my own eyes, that girl, who pretends to be so good and who goes around with a text on her simpering smile – I saw her get out of a police patrol wagon!"
"Oh!" gasped the girls. "You really didn't."
"I most positively did. Indeed!" sneered the informer, "every one in Dalton knows it. Tavia Travers was in the same scrape, and in the same wagon. It was after that affair that they made up their minds, in a hurry, to get out of their home town and come to Glenwood!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE STRIKE OF THE REBS
One miserable day Dorothy found all her friends, at least those who had claimed to be her friends, suddenly lost to her. Those who were not openly rude enough to deliberately turn their backs upon the astonished girl, made some pretense of avoiding conversation with her.
It all came so unexpectedly, and without any apparent explanation, that Dorothy was stunned – even the effervescent Edna only gave her a measured smile and walked down the hall to the study room without breaking her silence.
The day wore on like a dream of awful fancies that try to choke but withhold even such a mercy as a final stroke.
What had she done? Where was Rose-Mary? And why would not someone come and accuse her outright, that she might at least know the charge against her – a charge serious enough to spread in one day throughout Glenwood school!
Evening fell, but even then Rose-Mary did not come to Dorothy's room. On the following day there was to be a rehearsal for the play, and how could Lalia repeat her lines? How could Dorothy pretend to be the happy little pilgrim who starts alone on the uncertain path of life?
Mrs. Pangborn was ready in the recreation hall, some of the others were there discussing their characters and other things. The hour for the rehearsal came, and with it appeared some twenty girls, among them, but not their leader (so it seemed) being Viola Green.
They approached Mrs. Pangborn and then Adele Thomas spoke.
"Mrs. Pangborn," she began with flushed cheeks, "we have come to say that we cannot take part in the play unless another girl is selected for the character of Lalia."
"Why!" demanded the astonished principal. "What does this mean!" and she too flushed at the very idea of her pupils' insurrection.
"Because – " faltered the spokeswoman, "we do not like her. She has pretended to be what she is not, and never will be."
This was a bold speech. Dorothy Dale paled to the lips.
"Hush this instant!" ordered the surprised Mrs. Pangborn. "Let no one dare make such an assertion. If anything is wrong my office is the place to settle it. Leave the hall instantly. I shall send for you when I desire to make an investigation."
Mrs. Pangborn placed her hand tenderly on Dorothy's shoulder as she passed out.
"Do not worry, dear," she whispered. "This is some nonsense those girls with the new club idea have originated. It will be all right."
But Dorothy flew to her room and alone she cried – cried as if her heart would break! If only Tavia had not left her! If Rose-Mary would only come to her! Where was Rose-Mary? She had not even appeared at class that day. But, after all, what did it matter? Perhaps she too – no, Dorothy could not believe that. Rose-Mary would never condemn her unheard.
How long Dorothy lay there sobbing out her grief on the little white bed, she did not know. Dusk came and the supper hour, but she made no attempt to leave the room. A maid had been sent to her with some toast and tea, and a line from dear Miss Crane, but Dorothy was utterly unable to do more than murmur a word of thanks to be repeated to the thoughtful teacher.
When it grew so dark that the window shadows no longer tried to cheer her with their antics, Dorothy was startled by a sudden tap at her door, and, the next moment, Rose-Mary had her in her warm, loving arms.
"What is it?" demanded the older girl at once. "Tell me about it. What have they said to you?"
"Oh, Rose-Mary," sobbed Dorothy, bursting into fresh tears, "why did you leave me all alone?"
"Why, I did not leave you! I had to go into Rainsville early this morning, and have just this very minute gotten back. Mrs. Pangborn knew I would be late and sent James with the cart to meet me."
"Oh, I did not know you were out of school," and the explanation afforded Dorothy at least one ray of relief.
"Didn't Nita tell you? I asked her to do so at study hour."
"Not a girl has spoken to me all day!" declared the weeping one. "Oh, Rose-Mary, what do you think it is all about?"
"I cannot find out. They seem determined not to let me know. I thought you could tell me."
"I haven't the slightest idea. If only Ned or Dick would tell you then I might have a chance – "
"I'll never sleep until I find out!" declared Rose-Mary. "The idea!" and her brown eyes flashed indignantly. "I never heard of such a thing! You poor little dear!" and she held Dorothy to her in an unmistakable embrace.
"If Tavia were here – "
"Yes, she would settle it soon enough – with her fists if necessary. And I do believe that such work deserves just such treatment. But I will do all I can for you, and perhaps our vengeance will be just as sure if not so swift!"
"It seems strange that all the girls should take the same view of it," reflected Dorothy. "I should think some of them would speak to me about it."
"No good to try guessing at such a thing," said Rose-Mary, wisely. "And now do eat up that toast. Who sent it?"
"Miss Crane."
"The dear! I hold Camille Crane the guardian angel of Glenwood. But eat her toast. There, take this sip of tea, or shall I light the lamp under it?"
"I like it cold," said Dorothy, whose lips were quite feverish. "I will take the toast – I feel so much better since I have you back."
"But if I am to see Dick and Ned I must be about it," spoke Rose-Mary, consulting her watch. "Just go to sleep and don't worry a single bit. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," and, with a hearty kiss, the sweet girl was gone.
As if events conspired to keep Dorothy worrying, it was announced the next morning that Mrs. Pangborn had been called to Boston and this meant, of course, that the investigation would have to wait for her return.
Neither was Rose-Mary successful in gaining the desired information. Molly had not heard all about it, neither had Edna, so they said, but they did admit they had promised not to tell either Rose or Dorothy, for that would mean trouble for the tale bearer.
"It's something about Dalton," said Edna, really anxious to tell Rose, but feeling she must keep her promise, as the matter had assumed such an importance.
Molly declared that Amy Grant had told her it was about Dorothy and Tavia being in some awful scrape and that they had been arrested for it.
This seemed so ridiculous that Rose-Mary did not for a moment credit it with being the story that caused the trouble. She would not insult Dorothy with a hint of that silly gossip, and, if those girls were foolish enough, she decided, to believe in any such nonsense, why, let them go right on, they must learn their own lesson. So it happened that Dorothy did not get the hint – that which would have been enough to afford her the opportunity of making an explanation. But Edna did speak pleasantly to her after Rose-Mary's talk, and Molly actually apologized.
Mrs. Pangborn had been away two days, then a week had passed since the promise of an investigation, and Mrs. Pangborn was not at school yet. The girls in Viola's club (they still regarded themselves as being in it, although the forbidden meetings were suspended), left Rose-Mary, Dorothy, Molly and Edna entirely to themselves.
"Dick" and "Ned" were charged with telling the story to Rose-Mary, although they stoutly denied the allegation. But Adele Thomas suspected them, they had always been such friends of the Dalton girls, it seemed best to the "Rebs" to keep them out of further affairs of the kind – they should hear no more of the secrets against the despised Dorothy.
Even the play was at a standstill, nothing but lessons and sadness seemed Dorothy's share at Glenwood now. If only Mrs. Pangborn would come and give her a chance to speak for herself, she would write home immediately and ask to go back to her dear "daddy," to thoughtful, brave little Joe, and to dear, darling, baby Roger.
Yes, and Aunt Libby would love her so – it would be so good to have all love again! And they were all at North Birchland, with Aunt Winnie. Every letter brought good news of the happy home established there since Dorothy left for Glenwood.
"I will ask to go home next week," sobbed Dorothy, "whether Mrs. Pangborn comes back or not. I simply cannot stand this – I feel like – Oh, I feel like I did when I stepped out of that awful police patrol."