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Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays

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<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h3>BETWEEN THE LINES</h3> When Tavia had left her, Dorothy felt utterly helpless in facing the problems that now confronted her. "One thing is certain," Dorothy told herself. "Tavia must not go home. In her state of mind, and with her temper, there is no telling what she might do—leave home, or something else dreadful. If I could only see Squire Travers first," she argued, "I am sure I could manage it some way." "But I cannot possibly go to Dalton now," she decided, "with Ned sick, and the play to-morrow night. "And how can I persuade Tavia not to go? I suppose she has her bag packed already." Dorothy seemed incapable of reasoning further. She threw herself down on her bed and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, as if expecting some inspiration to come from the dainty blue and gold papering. How long she lay there she had no idea of computing—it was not now a question of time, although the night must be far advanced, but to the perplexed girl everything about her seemed to surge in one great sea of difficulties. She jumped up suddenly. "I wonder how Ned is?" she thought. "If only he is not seriously hurt. The doctor said if he slept, and no fever arose, he would do well. I wonder how I can find out. I might slip downstairs and listen." She drew her heavy blue robe around her, put on her slippers and softly opened the door. There was no light in the upper hall, and a turn from the first flight of stairs hid the dim light below. Directly at this turn a push-button connected with an electric drop lamp, and this button Dorothy touched as she passed. At the broad window-seat she hesitated for a moment, looked out at the clear, wintry night, and then slipped down the stairs so lightly that even the cushioned velvet carpet took no impress of her footfall. At the last step she stopped—a terrible fear clutched her heart. The library door was open, but no sound came from the room. She clung to the broad post and listened. Could Ned be worse? Then the chime of the hall clock startled her. It was just midnight! Dorothy had no idea it was so very late. She would just go to the library door—— Involuntarily she turned toward the vestibule. A strange sensation of some one watching her from without possessed her, terrified her, and at the same instant a light tap sounded upon the plate-glass door. Some one was watching her! For the moment Dorothy could not move or utter a sound. Then the thought of her sick cousin brought her back to a realization of the emergency. She must answer the knock and not arouse any one. Summoning all her self-control Dorothy moved toward the front door. Only the glass and a thin lace drapery separated her from without, as the storm door had been left open. Some one stood within the small entrance hall—the shadow was clearly outlined. She drew aside the lace curtain. There stood Tom Scott! "Open the door," he whispered "I—don't want to detain you." More surprised now than frightened, Dorothy shoved back the heavy bolt and gently opened the huge door. "I had no idea of startling you," began Tom, without waiting for her to speak, "but I have been so anxious! I've been watching the house, and when I saw the light flash upstairs I felt as if something must have happened. The doctor said by midnight——" "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, now realizing the cause of Tom's unexpected visit, "I was coming downstairs to see how he was. If you just wait I'll peek in at the door and see. Won't you step inside?" "Oh, no, indeed," Tom replied in an undertone. "I had no idea of disturbing any one. I thought just to look around the house and see if all was well. I am on my way home from the telegraph office. Aunt Margaret thought of an important message which she insisted had to go out to-night." Dorothy turned toward the library. Scarcely had she rounded the alcove when Tom noticed some one at the top of the stairs. It was Tavia. She stood for a moment looking at Tom, then she nodded her head in a friendly way and disappeared as quietly as she had come. "Awkward," thought Tom, "but any one would know I am here to hear about Ned." Dorothy was coming back now, and she was smiling. "Sound asleep," she whispered. "Good," breathed Tom. "Now I won't keep you another second. Awfully good of you to let me in." "Not at all," stammered Dorothy. "I was just a little frightened first. I will know better than to light up at midnight again." "The midnight alarm!" quoted Tom, making his way out. "Don't stand in the draft. It's cold enough. Good-night!" Then he was gone. Dorothy flew back to her room, agitated, but comforted that Ned was resting. This knowledge seemed to assure her that he was not seriously injured, and now she took up the Tavia question. "She must not go home," Dorothy repeated. "I will see if she is still up." A glimmer of light stole under Tavia's door. Dorothy tapped lightly, but opened the door unbidden. She found her chum bent over pen and paper, but as Dorothy came in Tavia dropped the pen and looked up in surprise. "Tavia," began Dorothy, "I came to coax you to stay—you must not go home to-morrow. I will telegraph your father. He was always so—kind to me. And when he hears all about it—about Ned and all—I am sure he will not be angry." "I cannot," answered Tavia. "I must go." "Oh, please, Tavia, do listen! If you go, what will you say? What will you do?" "I don't know." "Tavia!" pleaded Dorothy, a note of distress in her voice. The two girls looked into each other's eyes. Dorothy's were brimful, but Tavia's were too "frozen" for tears. "Tavia, dear," whispered Dorothy. Tavia's arm stole about Dorothy's neck. She touched the flushed cheek with her dry lips. Then she straightened up in an attitude of defiance. "I'll stay!" she exclaimed. "I don't care what they think of me." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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