A CUP OF TEA
“Dorothy,” began Tavia that evening, as the two girls sat alone in their
room, enjoying their usual good-night conference, “why couldn’t you take
that spin out to the auto meet. It would be no end of good fun.”
“Fun!” echoed Dorothy, surprised that Tavia should again venture to
propose such a thing. “Why, Tavia! Really you shock me!” Then she went to
the little dresser, under pretext of looking for something, but in
reality to gain time—she scarcely knew what to say to her chum, whose
sudden whim was so startling.
Tavia sat on the box divan, her hands in her lap, and her brown head bent
over, a strange and serious attitude for the girl who was never known to
sit still, even in church; and who had the reputation of being the
jolliest girl at Glenwood. For some moments she appeared to be
unconscious of Dorothy’s presence, so absorbed was she in her own
thoughts. Dorothy was now regarding her curiously. What could have turned
Tavia’s head? For turned from its usually bright and happy line of
thought it plainly was.
“What is it, Tavia?” she asked finally, stealing up to the crouched
figure, and placing her arm gently about her chum’s neck.
“Why?” inquired the other, with a sudden start, as if afraid Dorothy
would divine her thoughts.
“You are worried about something—come tell me what it is!”
“Worried!” Tavia jumped up, shaking off Dorothy’s arm. “Worried! Dorothy
Dale, I believe you’re not well! You act morbid—creepy!”
Dorothy turned away. She was hurt—crushed—that Tavia should spurn her
affection and refuse her confidence.
“We always told each other everything,” and Dorothy almost sighed, as her
words came slowly, and with strange coldness. “I never imagined you would
keep any important secret from me.”
“You silly!” exclaimed Tavia, throwing her arms around Dorothy this time.
“Who said I had a secret? What in the world has put that wild notion into
your yellow head?—bless it!”
This last expression brought a kiss to the golden ringlets, and, as the
two girls sat there, Dorothy with a far-away look in her eyes that were
clouded with unbidden tears, Tavia with her cheek pressed lovingly
against the blond head, and her own eyes looking into some unknown
future, their pose was like a stage picture—the kind usually presented
when one sister is about to leave a country home, and the other bids her
stay.
“Aren’t we a couple of jays!” broke in Tavia, as soon as she appeared to
realize the melo-dramatic effect. “I declare we ought to travel as ‘The
Glum Sisters—Mag and Liz.’ There! Wouldn’t we make a hit for teary ones?
Weeps are in great demand they say. Smiles are being overworked in the
profresh!” and she strode up to the mirror with a most self-satisfied
glance at her pretty face.
“Tavia, you are getting awfully big for slang—it seems more like sneering
than joking,” exclaimed Dorothy. “And I’ve been wanting to say that to
you—some of the other girls have noticed it. They say you act more like a
chorus girl than a Glenwood pupil. Of course I don’t want to hurt your
feelings, but I thought it would be better for me to tell you than for
you to hear it from some one else.”
“Chorus girl! Thanks! No need to apologize, I assure you. That’s from
silly, little Nita Brandt, I suppose? Well, better to act like a chorus
girl than—a fool!” blurted out Tavia with a show of temper. “And any
silly girl, who can not keep things to herself—well, I always thought
Nita was a featherhead and now I know it!”
“Oh, indeed it was not Nita!” Dorothy hastened to assure her. “It was at
the lawn tea the other day. You were ‘acting’; don’t you remember? Doing
that funny toe dance you are always trying lately.”
“O-o-o-o-h!” and Tavia made a queer little pout, and a very funny face.
“So they appreciated my maiden effort, eh? I am indeed flattered! Tell
the girls I’m much obliged and I’ll see that they get passes for the
initial performance. Tell them, also, to have the bouquets tagged—it’s so
annoying to have a great stack of ‘Please accepts’ to answer, with the
superscriptions ‘cut out’ so to speak. I know all the girls will send
pansies—they are so sweet, and would make such wicked faces for the girls
who could not conveniently present their own adorable ‘phizes’!”
“What in the world are you talking about?” asked Dorothy, who had been
listening to the outburst with a queer idea that all this stage business
was not mere idle chatter—that there might be a reason for Tavia’s
cynicism.
“Talking about auto rides,” quietly answered Tavia, recovering herself
with an effort. “Wasn’t that a dandy this afternoon? And to think we
might have missed that ‘Horatius at the bridge’ business if I had been
silly enough to mention that the planking was gone!”
“Don’t talk of it!” exclaimed Dorothy, shuddering. “I cannot bear to
think of what might have happened. And, Tavia, you must not think I have
adopted the lecture platform for good, but I must say, it was careless of
you not to mention about the bridge—especially as you knew what a hill
led down to it, and how the Fire Bird can cover hills.”
“Of course you know I entirely forgot it, Doro,” and now Tavia showed
some remorse at the reprimand.
“My! There’s the bell!” exclaimed Dorothy as a clang sounded down the
corridor. “I had no idea it was so late,” and she jumped up to disrobe.
“Quick, or Miss Higley will see our light.”
“Let her,” answered Tavia indifferently. “I don’t feel very well, and
would just love something warm—say a nice little cup of tea—”
A tap at the door interrupted her remarks. Dorothy jumped into a large
closet and Tavia calmly opened the portal.
It was Miss Higley, the second assistant teacher, with rather a
forbidding expression on her wrinkled face, and who, among the girls,
bore a reputation characterized as “sour.”
“Why is this?” she demanded, stepping in and brushing Tavia aside.
“I was just thinking of calling you,” answered Tavia, clapping her hand
to her waist line. “I have such a dreadful—Oh, dear!” and she sat down
without further explanation.
“Do you need anything?” asked Miss Higley, her tone more kindly.
“Oh, no; certainly not,” sighed Tavia. “I would not trouble you. But if I
might have a sip of tea—that tea you brought Dorothy did her so much good
the other night.”
She paused to allow a proper expression of agony to spread over her face,
and gently rubbed her hand over the region covered by her belt.
“I suppose you made that tea yourself, didn’t you? It was so good,
Dorothy told me.”
That settled it. For any one to praise Miss Higley’s brew! So few persons
really do appreciate a good cup of tea. As usual Tavia had “won out.”
“Why of course I’ll get you a cup. I have just made a small pot—I felt
rather—rather tired myself. I don’t, as a rule, drink tea at night, but I
was not altogether well. Where is Dorothy?”
“Just slipping on a robe,” with a glance at the closet where her chum was
concealed. “I’m afraid I disturbed her,” went on Tavia glibly.
“Well, I’ll get the tea,” Miss Higley remarked, as she started to leave
the room. “I’ll bring the pot here and we can take it together.”
“Quick!” called Tavia to Dorothy as the door closed. “Slip on your robe.
Tea with Higley! Of all the doin’s!” and she promptly turned a somersault
on the hitherto unrumpled bed. “Won’t the girls howl! I do hope she
brings biscuits. There, get down your box, you precious miser! Just think
of ‘crackering’ Higley!”
Dorothy appeared dumfounded. It had all been arranged so quickly—and
there was Miss Higley back again. She carried a tray with a small china
teapot and three blue cups to match.
“I thought Dorothy might like a cup,” she remarked in a sort of
apologetic way. “There now,” as Tavia and Dorothy relieved her of the
tray, “it will be pleasant to have a sip together. Of course we would not
do it but for Octavia’s illness.” (Tavia looked to be in dreadful pain at
that moment.) “But since we have to give her a cup of tea, we may as well
make a virtue of necessity.”
“It is very kind of you, Miss Higley,” Dorothy said, rather hesitatingly.
“I’m sure that we—that is I—I mean Tavia—should not have put you to all
this trouble—but of course one can’t help being ill,” she hastened to
add, for she felt she was rather giving Tavia’s secret away.
“It really is too bad to make all this fuss,” the supposed sufferer
interjected. “You went to a lot of trouble for me, Miss Higley, and I
appreciate it very much,” and Tavia winked the eye next to Dorothy, but
concealed the sign from the sight of the instructress. Tavia was trying
hard not to laugh, and her repressed emotion shook the tray to the no
small danger of upsetting the teapot, cups and all.
“I never consider my duty any trouble,” answered Miss Higley, seeming to
feel the obligation of being dignified. In fact, it did not occur to her
just then that she was doing a most unprecedented thing—taking tea with
two school girls, and after hours at that! However, she had committed
herself, and now there was no way out. Dorothy presented her package of
chocolate crackers, and Miss Higley took some, while Tavia arranged the
tea tray on the little table.
Surely the scene was mirth-provoking. Dorothy in her pretty blue robe,
Tavia with her hair loose, collar off and shoes unlaced, and Miss Higley,
prim as ever, in her brown mohair, with the long black cord on her
glasses. There the three sat, sipping tea and “making eyes,”—“too full
for utterance,” as Tavia would say.
“Such lovely tea,” Dorothy managed to gulp out at the risk of allowing
her mouth to get loose in a titter, once the tight line of silence was
broken.
Then, all at once they stopped drinking—some one was coming down the
hall. Miss Higley arose instantly. The gentle tap on the door was
answered by Tavia.
Mrs. Pangborn!
“Oh,” she apologized, “I did not mean to disturb a little social tea. Do
sit down, Honorah,” to Miss Higley. “I’m very glad to see you enjoying
yourself,” and Mrs. Pangborn meant what she said.
“Oh, indeed, I merely came to administer to a sick girl. Octavia was
suddenly taken with cramps.”
Mrs. Pangborn glanced at Tavia.
“But that cup of tea has made me feel so much better,” declared Dorothy’s
room-mate, with that kind of truth that mere words make—the kind that
challenges falsehood.
“I am always glad to see you looking after the girls, Honorah,” went on
the principal, “but I am equally glad to see you consider yourself. I’m
sure you have a perfect right to take a cup of tea here. My dear,” to
Dorothy, “perhaps you have a sip left?”
Dorothy found there was another cup of the beverage, still warm in the
little teapot, and this she poured into her own pink and white china cup
for Mrs. Pangborn.
Miss Higley remained standing, seemingly too abashed to move.
“Do finish yours,” said Tavia, pushing the empty chair toward the
embarrassed teacher.
But Tavia’s mirth showed through her alleged illness, and Miss Higley
began to feel that she had been imposed upon.
“If you—if you will excuse me,” she stammered.
“Oh, do finish your tea,” begged Mrs. Pangborn, and so the severe little
teacher was obliged to sit down again.
An hour later Tavia was still trying to “untwist her kinks,” as she
described her attacks of muffled laughter.
“Oh, wasn’t it gloriotious!” she exclaimed. “To think I couldn’t get a
single twinge in my entire system! If I only could put that sort of a
cramp in alcohol, wouldn’t it be an heirloom to Glenwood!”
“Please do stop,” pleaded Dorothy, from under her quilt. “The next time
they may bring a doctor and a stomach pump, and if you don’t let me go to
sleep I do believe I will call her.”
“You dare to and I’ll get something dreadfully contagious, so you will
have to be disinfected and isolated. But Higley the terrible! The abused
little squinty-eyed tattle-tale! Oh, when Mrs. Pangborn said she was glad
to see her enjoying herself! That persecuted saint enjoying herself!
Didn’t she look the part?”
But even such mirth must succumb to slumber when the victim is young and
impressionable, so, with yawns and titters, Tavia finally quieted down to
sleep.