DOROTHY AND TAVIA
For more than a week after the happenings at Sunset Lake the pupils of
Glenwood School had little time for anything outside of the regular
program of the institution. It was a matter of sleep, eat, exercise, then
study and recite, and then the same schedule was begun all over again the
following day. But this was the end of the term and so much remained to
be done that it was necessary to “keep going” as the girls expressed it,
so that the “last day” would find the records of the year’s work up to
the usual high standard.
“This mental house-cleaning is perfectly terriblocious!” declared Tavia
one morning, showing her aptitude at coining alleged new words, this one
being a “contraction” of terrible and ferocious.
“But how nice it will be when we are all done,” Dorothy reminded her,
taking up her books and papers, to attend the last exercise in
mathematics.
“Perhaps,” sighed Tavia.
The conversation was ended abruptly by the sound of the bell summoning
the girls to class, and they went back to the “house-cleaning,” each
doing her best to finish honorably, in spite of the difference of their
respective motives.
That evening Dorothy and Tavia went to their room early. Tavia seemed
tired, and Dorothy did not wish to disturb her by coming in later.
Neither appeared inclined to talk, and, as Tavia went through her
elaborate toilet preparations (the facial massage and all the
accompaniments) Dorothy watched her in silence.
Strange as it was to believe Tavia so vain, Dorothy had become accustomed
to this nightly process, and now accepted it without comment. Neither had
she ever told Tavia of that night when, in her sleep, she had gone
through the making-up process.
But school would soon be over—and then—
For some time Dorothy had been putting off a talk she desired to have
with Tavia—a talk about their vacation plans. Somehow she dreaded to
undertake the topic that Tavia had been so obviously avoiding. But
to-night Dorothy felt that she must have an understanding—she must know
where her room-mate intended to spend her vacation.
Dorothy was just about to broach the subject when Tavia suddenly turned
to her with this surprising question:
“Dorothy, do you think I’m pretty?”
“Why, of course you are,” stammered Dorothy. “You know I have always
thought you—pretty.”
“But I do not mean what you always thought, Doro. I am awfully serious
now. Am I really pretty?”
“I don’t know,” replied her chum. “I could not tell what others might
think—but I have always thought you the prettiest kind of a girl—you know
that.”
“But do you think that in—in a crowd I might be considered—attractive?
Are my features good? Do I look—look interesting?”
This was said with such apparent simplicity that Dorothy almost laughed.
There stood a pretty girl—without question a remarkably pretty girl—of a
most unusual type—and she was begging for a compliment—no, for an opinion
of her personality!
Dorothy did not answer. She could not possibly say that at that moment
Tavia was a perfect vision, as she stood in her white robe, with her
freshly-brushed hair framing the outline of her sweet, young face. But
the girl before the mirror wanted to know.
“Dorothy, do tell me,” she begged. “What do you think? Am I pretty, or
not?”
“Tavia,” exclaimed Dorothy suddenly, “tell _me_, why do you want to
know?”
“Why,” and Tavia laughed a little to gain time, “I think any girl ought
to know just—what she is like.”
“But all this—this fussing. Why do you do it?”
“To experiment,” and Tavia laughed lightly. “They say one can do wonders
with a little care. I am tired of reading that in the magazines so I
thought I would just try it.” She had finished with the glycerine and
rose water now, so the “stuffs” were put away and Tavia sank down with a
“glad-of-it” sigh.
“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.