Dorothy Dale's Great Secret

“Of course,” began Dorothy, breaking into the topic of summer vacation, “you will go home first, before you come to North Birchland. You will want to see everybody in Dalton – I wish I could go along with you. But I have no home in Dalton now.”

“Come with me,” suggested Tavia. “We have plenty of room.”

“Oh, I was only romancing. Of course I should like to see everybody in dear old Dalton, but I have to go to daddy and the boys. Isn’t it splendid to have a vacation? It makes school worth while.”

“Yes,” replied Tavia, vaguely, preparing to turn out the light.

“When do you think you will come to North Birchland?” asked Dorothy directly.

“I can’t tell. I expect to visit Grace Barnum in Buffalo. Her folks are old friends of mother’s. I had a letter from her yesterday, especially inviting me.”

“Oh, did you?” and Dorothy looked surprised. “I did not hear you speak of going to Buffalo. I thought you intended to come to Birchland as soon as you had seen your folks. You know Aunt Winnie expects you. And so do the boys.”

“Oh, I’ll get to the Birches some time during the summer I guess,” Tavia hurried to say, as she noted Dorothy’s disappointment. “You can depend upon it I expect to have some of the fine times – you are not to have a monopoly of the good things.”

“Then you are going to Dalton first, then to Buffalo, and what time do you count on getting to Birchland?” persisted Dorothy, determined to know, if possible, just what Tavia’s plans really were.

“Oh, my dear,” and Tavia indulged in a discordant yawn, “do let’s go to sleep. I’m almost dead.”

“But, Tavia, you always make some excuse when I ask you about vacation,” and Dorothy’s tone was in no way drowsy – she certainly was not sleepy.

“And you always ask such unreasonable questions,” retorted Tavia. “Just as if I can tell what may happen between now and – midsummer.”

“Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy with a sob. “I feel just as if something dreadful was going to happen. I don’t know why but you – you have – changed so,” and the girl buried her head in her pillow and cried as if something “dreadful” had really happened.

“Doro, dear,” and Tavia clasped the weeping girl in her arms, “what can be the matter? What have I done? You know I love you better than anyone in the whole world, and now you accuse me of changing!”

“But you have changed,” insisted Dorothy, sobbing bitterly. “Everybody is talking about it. And if you knew what a time I have had trying – trying to stand up for you!”

“To stand up for me!” repeated Tavia. “What have I done that need provoke comment? Surely it is my own business if I do not choose to be the school monkey any longer. Let some of the others turn in and serve on the giggling committee. I think I have done my share!”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” and Dorothy jabbed her handkerchief into her eyes, “but you are so – so different. You always seem to be thinking of something else.”

“Something else!” and Tavia tried to laugh. “Surely it is no crime to be – thoughtful?”

“Well, I think it is perfectly dreadful for a girl to go and grow straight up – without any warning.”

“What an old lady I must be,” and Tavia looked very severe and dignified. “But, Doro dear, you need not worry. You surely believe I would never do anything I really thought wrong.”

“That’s just it. You would not think it wrong, but suppose you did something that turned out to be wrong?”

Tavia made no answer but the “old lady” look came back into her face – that serious expression so new to her. She seemed to be looking far ahead – far away – at some uncertain, remote possibility.

For several minutes neither girl spoke. They could hear the “miscreants” who had been out after hours creeping past their door. Every one in Glenwood should be asleep. The last hall light had just been turned out – but the girls from Dalton were still thinking.

Dorothy, usually the one to mend matters, to-night seemed sullen and resolute. Plainly Tavia was hiding something from her, and while Dorothy could bear with any amount of mistakes or impulsive little wrongdoings, she could not put up with a deliberate slight – a premeditated act of deception.

Tavia saw that she was bound to hold out – to insist upon a “clearing up,” and, as this did not suit her, for reasons best known to herself, she attempted to pet Dorothy back to her usual forgiving mood.

But the storm that had been so long brewing was in no hurry to blow over, and Dorothy went to bed with swollen eyes and an aching head, while Tavia only pretended to sleep – she had an important letter to write – an answer to the one that had come in on the evening mail, and required to be replied to by return of post. This meant that the missive must be penned that night and dropped in the post-office the very first thing in the morning.

“Dear little Dorothy,” Tavia murmured as she looked down on the fair face, to make sure that the eyes were resting in sleep, “I will never do anything to disgrace you. Only have a little patience and you will understand it all. But I must – must – ” and then she broke off with a long, long sigh.

CHAPTER X

LEAVING GLENWOOD

But one more day remained of the school term at Glenwood. All the tests had been concluded, and, as there were to be no formal exercises the “last day” was given over entirely to packing up, and making ready for the departure from the institution.

Dorothy and Tavia were busy with the others. To Dorothy the prospect of seeing her dear ones so soon, filled every thought of this day’s work. Tavia, too, seemed more like her old self and “jollied the girls” as she flung things into her trunk with her usual disregard for order.

“They’ll all have to come out again,” she replied to Dorothy’s remonstrance, “so what’s the use of being particular how they go in?”

“But your pretty Christmas bag,” begged Dorothy. “Do be careful not to crush that.”

“Oh, indeed there’s nothing to crush. I took the ribbons out of it for the neck and sleeves of my white lawn, and when I extracted them from the flowered stuff there was nothing left but a perfectly flat piece of cretonne, with a row of little brass rings on one side. I just ran a bit of faded ribbon through the rings – and just wait until I show you.”

At this Tavia plunged her hands down into the depths of her trunk and presently brought up the article in question.

“There!” she exclaimed, clapping the bag on her head. “Isn’t that a pretty sunbonnet?”

Dorothy beheld it in amazement.

“It certainly does look sweet on you,” she said, “but what in the world will you want a fancy sunbonnet for? Surely you will not use it in Dalton – and in Buffalo – ”

“I think it would make a tremendous hit in Buffalo,” declared Tavia, wheeling around to show off the effect of her thick brown hair beneath the little row of brass rings that held the ribbon which bound the bit of flowered stuff to her neck. At the front her face seemed to fit exactly, and surely nothing could be more becoming than that Christmas bag.

“Oh, I think it’s a shame,” faltered Dorothy, “to spoil that beautiful bag to make a plaything.”

“But we all have to have ‘playthings,’” said Tavia, with a strong accent on the word “play.” Then, with one more swing around, like a figure in a show case, Tavia took off the sunbonnet and went on with her packing.

“It seems so queer,” Dorothy remarked, sliding her tennis racquet down the side of her trunk, “that we should be going in different directions. We have always been able to help each other in the packing before.”

“Well, I’d just like to leave half my old truck behind,” replied Tavia, “and I don’t know but what I will have to if this trunk won’t stretch a little. It’s chock full now, and just look at the commotion on the floor.”

“I told you,” insisted Dorothy, “that you would have to put the things in differently. Now you will have to take them all out again and roll them up tight. You can get twice as much in that way.”

“Take them all out!” Tavia almost shrieked. “Never!” And, following this exclamation the girl jumped into the trunk and proceeded to dance the “trunk traveler’s jig” on the unfortunate collection of baggage.

“Tavia! Don’t!” begged Dorothy. “I’m sure I heard something break.”

“Oh, that was my last summer’s hat breaking up its plans for this year. I put it in the bottom in hopes that it would meet an untimely end, but I really did not intend to murder it,” she joked, stepping out of the trunk.

“But at any rate,” she went on, as she flung part of the “commotion” off the floor into the hollow she had succeeded in making for the various articles, “the poor old thing will take up less room dead than alive, and there will be no possible danger of my having to wear it for a turn or two when I get home. Nothing like getting in one’s supplies while you’re fresh – before the folks have a chance to get too friendly with you. I’ve found that out.”

“But it was a real pretty hat.”

“Well, even pretty hats are not immune from accidents, and you saw yourself that it was an accident – pure and simple.”