Dorothy Dale's Great Secret. Penrose Margaret
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.
CHAPTER IV
THE APPARITION
It seemed to Dorothy that she had scarcely closed her eyes when she was startled by someone moving about the room. She sat up straight to make sure she was not dreaming, and then she saw a white object standing before the mirror!
A beam of moonlight glimmered directly across the glass, and Dorothy could now see that the figure was Tavia.
Surmising that her companion had merely arisen to get a throat lozenge, for she had been taking them lately, Dorothy did not speak, expecting Tavia to return to her bed directly.
But the girl stood there – so long and so still that Dorothy soon called to her.
“What is the matter, Tavia?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” returned the other, without looking around.
“But what are you doing?”
“Making up,” and Dorothy could see her daubing cold cream over her face.
Still convinced that Tavia was busy with some ordinary toilet operation, as she had, of late, become very particular about such matters, Dorothy turned over and closed her eyes. But she could not sleep. Something uncanny seemed to disturb her every time she appeared to be dropping off into a doze.
Finally she sat up again. There was Tavia still before the mirror, daubing something over her face.
“Tavia!” called Dorothy sharply. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Making up,” replied Tavia a second time, and without moving from her original position.
Making up! Surely she was spreading cold cream and red crayon dust all over her face! Had she lost her mind?
For an instant Dorothy stood watching her. But Tavia neither spoke nor turned her head.
“Tavia!” she called, taking hold of the hand that held the red chalk. Dorothy noticed that Tavia’s palm and fingers were cold and clammy! And Tavia’s eyes were open, though they seemed sightless. Dorothy was thoroughly frightened now. Should she call someone? Miss Higley had charge of that wing of the school, and perhaps would know what to do. But Dorothy hesitated to make a scene. Tavia was never ill, and if this was only some queer spell it would not be pleasant to have others know about it.
Then, feeling intuitively, that this “making up” should not be made a public affair, Dorothy determined to get Tavia back into her own bed.
“Are you ill?” she asked, rubbing her own hand over her companion’s greasy forehead.
“Ill? No, indeed,” Tavia replied, as mechanically as she had spoken before. Still she smeared on the cold cream and red crayon.
“Come!” commanded Dorothy, and, to her amazement, the girl immediately laid down the box of cream and the stick of chalk while Dorothy led her to the bed and helped her to make herself comfortable on the pillows.
Then Dorothy quietly went to the dresser and lighted a tiny candle, carrying it over to Tavia’s bedside.
Peering anxiously into her face she found her room-mate sleeping and breathing naturally. There was no evidence of illness, and then, for the first time, it occurred to Dorothy that Tavia had been walking in her sleep! And making-up in her sleep!
What could it mean?
How ghastly that hideous color and the streaks made Tavia’s face appear!
And, as Dorothy sat beside the bed, gazing into that besmeared face, while the flicker of the little candle played like a tiny lime-light over the girl’s cruelly changed features, a strange fear came into Dorothy’s heart!
After all, was Tavia going to disappoint her? Would she fail just when she seemed to have turned the most dangerous corner in her short career – that of stepping from the freedom of girlhood into the more dignified realm of young-ladyship? And would she always be just ordinary Tavia Travers? Always of contradictory impulses, was she never to be relied upon – never to become a well-bred girl?
Tavia turned slightly and rubbed her hand across her face. She seemed to breathe heavily, Dorothy thought, and, as she touched Tavia’s painted cheek she was certain it was feverish. With that promptness of action that had always characterized Dorothy’s work in real emergencies, she snatched the cold cream from the dresser where Tavia had left it, and, with deft fingers, quickly rubbed a generous supply over the face on the pillows.
Although Tavia was waking now Dorothy was determined, if possible, to remove all traces of the red paint before Tavia herself should know that it had been on her cheeks. Briskly, but with a hand gentle and calm, Dorothy rubbed the cream off on her own linen handkerchief, taking the red mixture with it. Nothing was now left on Tavia’s face but a thin coating of the cold cream. That could tell no tales.
Tavia turned to Dorothy and opened her eyes.
“What – what is the matter?” she asked, like one waking from a strange dream.
“Nothing, dear,” answered Dorothy. “But I guess you had some night vision,” and she placed the candle, still lighted, on the dresser.
“Did I call? Did I have the nightmare? Why are you not in bed?”
“I got up to see if you were all right,” answered Dorothy truthfully. “Do you want anything? Shall I get you a nice cool drink from the ice tank?”
Tavia was rubbing her face.
“What’s this on my cheeks?” she asked, bringing down her hand, smeared with cold cream.
“I thought you were feverish,” said Dorothy, “and I put a little cream on your face – cold cream might be better than nothing, I thought, as we had no alcohol.”
Tavia did not seem her natural self, and Dorothy, not slow to note the change in her, was only waiting to see her companion more fully awake, and so out of danger of being shocked suddenly, before calling for help, or, at least, for some medicine.
“My head aches awfully,” said the girl on the bed. “I would like a drink of water – if – if it is not too much trouble.”
A call bell was just at the door and Dorothy touched the gong as she went out into the hall to get the water.
She had scarcely returned with the drink when Miss Higley, in gown and slippers, entered the room. The light had been turned on by this time, and Tavia could see that the teacher was present, but, whether too sick or too sleepy to notice, she seemed to take the situation as a matter of course, and simply drank the water that Dorothy held to her lips, then sank wearily back on her pillow.
Miss Higley, without saying a word, picked up the hand that lay on the coverlet and felt the pulse. Dorothy stood looking anxiously on.
Tavia really seemed sick, and the tinge of scarlet crayon, that remained after Dorothy’s cold cream wash, added a higher tint to the feverish flush that now suffused the girl’s cheeks.
“Yes, she has a fever,” whispered Miss Higley. “But it is not a very high one.