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Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays

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<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> <h3>DOROTHY'S DISTRESS</h3> Complication upon complication! Dorothy could scarcely think—she was stunned, bewildered. The thought of Ned's disapproval of Tom's attention to her seemed the most bitter thought of all. She did love Ned, her own cousin. How could any girl not appreciate the joy of being a cousin to Ned White? And that he should misunderstand her! Think her frivolous, and even accuse her of flirting! Dorothy felt that even The Cedars now belonged to Ned, and she, with her father and brothers, were merely his guests. How ever could she make him understand? Why are girls neither women nor children in all the troublesome "between" years? Then Tavia's troubles. Dorothy had thought to do all Miss Brooks advised, but how could she do so to-night? And the letter Dorothy had given Tavia was certainly from Mr. Travers. Thoughts of the play, of little Mary's part, then the responsibility of insuring a success, crowded through Dorothy's confused brain. If the play was a success she had hoped to get little Bennie Baglin into the hospital. He suffered so, and surely could be helped, if not cured, by proper treatment. But the hospital would only accept patients from the Birchlands according as money was contributed from the place, and it would cost considerable to have an incurable (as Bennie was) taken in. But Dorothy had quietly planned his Christmas. She had saved a little tree from the decorating greens, and had already gathered and bought enough trinkets to trim it. "If only Ned is not badly hurt," she prayed as the night grew very late. "I do wish they would come." The sound of automobile wheels on the path answered her wish. The next moment she was at the door. "Open both doors," Mrs. White said to Major Dale, who stood beside Dorothy. "He cannot walk, and must not be jarred." Mrs. White's voice betrayed excitement and anxiety. Dorothy was too anxious to speak—she dreaded to know the actual trouble. Tom and Dr. Whitethorn carried the injured boy into the library. "How's that?" asked the doctor as Ned fell back amid the cushions of a couch. "All—right," replied the latter with evident effort. "Now just keep quiet, and don't attempt to move unaided," said the doctor, "and we'll see how it is in the morning. I think, Mrs. White, you might make him comfortable to-night on this floor. It will be safer." Ned was very pale. Dorothy could not bear to see his white face with the deep dark rings under his eyes. Tom did what he could, and then was ready to leave. He took Dorothy's arm and led her out into the hall. "See here, little girl," he began, "you are not to blame yourself in any way for this. If any one was at fault it was I. I saw how he—felt, and should not have tantalized him." "It was simply an accident," argued Dorothy feebly. "Certainly," answered Tom; "but Ned was out of sorts. He seemed to have a personal grudge against me." "Oh, you must have imagined that," answered Dorothy. "Ned is sensitive, but not—unreasonable." Tom pressed her hand warmly in parting. The action brought warm color to her cheeks. He was trying to cheer her, of course, but Ned would not have liked it. When the doctor had left, Mrs. White told the major that her son's hip was hurt. "And that does take so long to mend," she lamented. "The hip is such a network of ligaments." Acting on the doctor's advice, the injured young man was made comfortable in the library for the night. Nat wanted to stay with him—there were plenty of divans and couches that might be used in the emergency—but Mrs. White insisted upon caring for the boy herself. She noticed he was becoming feverish, and so hurried the others off to bed that the house might be quiet. Dorothy took Ned's warm hand in hers and touched his forehead with her lips. But she knew better than to utter one word—he must be quiet, very quiet. How strangely depressing was the house now with the gloom of sickness upon it! The awful uncertainty of an accident, what the result might be, how serious or trifling—every possibility seemed weighted with terrible consequences. Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed. Her heart was very full, everything seemed dark and gloomy now. All the difficulties of yesterday were engulfed in that one sorrow—Ned's accident. Dorothy seemed unable to pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the little tragedy. "If only I had told Tom—asked him not to! But how could I do that?" she argued against argument. "What would he think of Ned? Of me?" A step in the hall roused her from her reverie. There was a slight tap on the door, then Tavia entered. Although it was late she was still entirely dressed, and her face showed she had been crying. "Dorothy," she said, her voice trembling and the tears welling into her eyes, "I must—go home!" "Why?" asked Dorothy, surprised and startled. "Dad says so. I must go first thing in the morning." "Your letter?" "Yes, it was from father." "Has anything happened?" "Yes, and no. Father has—misunderstood some letters of mine. He found them since I came away—and he blames me—— Oh, Doro!" and Tavia covered her face with her hands. "How I wish I had told you before!" Tavia was sobbing bitterly. Instantly there came to Dorothy's mind the thought of Miss Brooks' warning, her advice to tell Tavia before it was too late, before all the harm was done. And had she delayed too long? Even that one day might have been sufficient time in which the threatened danger had become a certainty. "Tavia, dear, don't go on so! It cannot be—so very dreadful." "Oh, but it is! I never should have done such a thing. I knew better, and I tried to convince myself that I did not. Then I should never have taken your money. Oh, Doro, I deceived you, and I have deceived everybody!" "You are excited and everything seems worse to you now, dear. Try to be calm and tell me how I can help you." "You cannot—nobody can. Father is angry—he wrote such a terrible letter, and how I dread to face him!" "Perhaps we can arrange it so you will not have to go," said Dorothy in her own way of promptly attempting to save Tavia from the consequences of her own folly. "It is all about money, I know." "You know?" "Yes; Miss Brooks told me that much." "Miss Brooks told you!" "She merely said you were in some difficulty and asked me to advise you—to tell your father all about it," Dorothy said cautiously. "Miss Brooks has no right to interfere!" snapped Tavia, immediately taking offense. "Advice is always cheap!" "But she surely did it out of kindness," continued Dorothy, "and she really seemed very much concerned." "I don't want to hear or know anything more about that—person. She is evidently trying to cover up her little mistake in putting a ring in the wrong bag. She knows absolutely nothing about me—she is merely guessing." Tavia felt she was making bad worse; it was not a time to attempt further deception. But somehow the idea of Miss Brooks speaking to Dorothy angered her—she was the one to do that. Then followed the accusing voice of conscience: "But why did you not do so? Why do you not do so now?" "I suppose she told you that I——" "She told me nothing," interrupted Dorothy, "but that you had made some mistake in a money matter and then suggested that the way for you to rectify it would be to write to your father and tell him all about it." "I wonder she did not essay to do that herself—she seems perfectly qualified to attend to it all for me." "Now, Tavia," began Dorothy, assuming a voice at once commanding and kind, "it is utterly useless for you to take that view of the matter. If you dislike Miss Brooks' interference, pay no attention to it. Do what you think best. Look the whole question squarely in the face, and then decide." All Tavia's contrition and her determination to do what was right, which sentiment had entirely possessed her when she entered the room, seemed to have gone with the mention of Miss Brooks' name. "If she has told Dorothy," thought Tavia, "there is no need for me to repeat it." So vanished the blessed power, truth, and so did the confusing and conflicting powers of deceit throng about her, and more than ever preclude the possibility of a happy solution for her difficulties. "I must go home," she said dejectedly. "Dad said I should be home by noon to-morrow." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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