Elizabeth often speaks of the time when she poisoned The Kid. She says she never had such a 'turn' in all her life, and wouldn't go through such an experience again for all the money in the world. Neither, indeed, would I, or Henry, or Marion. Looking back on the matter, I don't think The Kid cared for it either.
It was a peaceful summer evening. The Kid had just gone to bed and we-Henry, Marion and I-had foregathered in the study. Marion spends most of her time with us, being one of those delightfully restful persons who doesn't need to be 'entertained,' who doesn't talk to you if you want to do a little writing at meal times, and is altogether a desirable visitor. Thus, at the moment of which I write, we sat in perfect amity and silence, Henry working, I working, while every time I looked up my eyes fell on the gratifying vision of dear Marion making a blouse for me. Suddenly the door opened and Elizabeth entered.
'That there medicine you told me to give Miss Moira,' she said. 'I just been looking at it and I see it's got your name on the bottle.' She held it out to me as she spoke.
'Why is The Kid taking medicine?' inquired Marion.
'It's only a little tonic the doctor prescribed. But,' I stared at the bottle Elizabeth had brought in, 'this is my medicine. The chemist must have mixed up the prescriptions when I took them to him.' Suddenly I sprang to my feet. 'Great Heavens! My tonic contains strychnine!'
'And as you've been taking it for some time, I expect the dose has been increased,' said Marion excitedly. 'How much did you give her, Elizabeth?'
'A teaspoonful, miss, as usual.'
I wrung my hands. 'I take only six drops at a time myself! What are we to do?'
'One place I was at,' put in Elizabeth, 'the master was rather fond of a drop too much, an' 'e come 'ome very late one night an' drank spirits o' salt thinkin' it was something else, so we give 'im stuff to bring it up agen.'
'Of course,' said Marion, 'that's the very thing.' Long ago, during the war, she worked in a hospital, so she affects to know something of medicines. 'Give The Kid an emetic at once. Ipecac. Dose 5 minims. Repeat, if necessary. Or salt and water. I'll dash off to the doctor's and ask him what's to be done.' And seizing the bottle she hurried out.
The Kid was sitting up in bed eating her supper when Elizabeth, Henry and I burst breathlessly into her room. Her face was shining with quiet contentment.
'Look, Mama, dear,' she said, 'at the beautiful baked custard Elizabeth has made for my supper. Wasn't it kind of her?'
I snatched the custard away from her grasp. 'Don't eat another mouthful,' I panted, 'you're going to have an emetic. You must be sick at once.'
Mutely questioning inexorable Fate, she raised large, contemplative eyes to mine. 'Must I, Mama? Can't I finish my custard first?'
There is about The Kid's character a stoic philosophy, blended, since she has known Elizabeth, with a certain fatalism. Her habit of saying 'Must I?' when faced with a disagreeable duty, indicates her outlook on life. If those in authority declare she must, then there is no more to be said about it. They represent Fate in action. She now yielded up the custard with a sigh, but obediently drank the mixture I handed her. There was a pause.
'How are you feeling, dear?' I inquired.
'Quite well, thank you, Mama, dear. May I have my custard now?'
'You ought not to be feeling well,' I said, puzzled. 'You'd better have some more drops.'
'Oh, must I, Mama?'
'Yes, dear. Drink this.' I now gave her a slightly larger dose. There was a still longer pause, and Henry, Elizabeth and I waited for her to speak, or express emotion of some sort. At last she opened her lips and said, 'May I have--'
'A basin?' inquired Elizabeth, darting forward.
'--my custard, now, if you please, Elizabeth?'
'No,' I said sternly. 'It's very strange that the ipecac, has had no effect.'
'Try salt and water. There's more about it, like,' remarked Elizabeth. 'I'll fetch some.'
'And hurry,' Henry commanded, 'every moment's delay is making the thing more serious.'
'Now drink this salt and water, darling,' I urged The Kid when Elizabeth reappeared.
'Oh, must I, Mama?'
'Yes. Your life depends upon it.'
She drank rather hastily at that. There was a long, long pause while Elizabeth, Henry and I gazed into each other's eyes and-waited.
'How do you feel now?' I asked at last with strained anxiety.
'I'm feeling rather sick now, thank you, Mama, dear. But perhaps I could manage a little of my cus--'
'No,' I interrupted. 'Can't you be sick, child?'
'I'm afraid I can't, Mama.'
'Then why can't you?' Henry burst out. 'It's dreadful-most unnatural.'
'She's got a stummick like an 'orse,' commented Elizabeth.
'Prompt action is vital,' put in Henry firmly. 'There are other emetics. Mustard and--'
'I've always 'eard that soap and water's good for turnin' any one over,' began Elizabeth.
'Soap and water!' I echoed, 'yes, that sounds the worst-the best, I mean. Get it at once, Elizabeth.'
'Enough to make a good lather, should you think, 'm?'
'Oh, must I?' wailed the Kid, still questioning inexorable Fate.
We all united in preparing the soap and water to avoid delay. Elizabeth boiled the water. Henry cut the soap into small flakes, and I beat it up into a lather. Then, now in a condition of feverish anxiety, I handed The Kid the foaming mixture.
'Drink,' I panted.
'Oh, mus--' she began.
'Don't say that again!' I exclaimed, overwrought by the intensity of my emotions. 'Can't you see how serious it is, child? You might die any minute.'
She drank off the contents of the glass without further question.
'Well, that ought to do it,' commented Henry, looking at a few iridescent bubbles at the bottom of the glass. 'I made it strong.'
There was a strained silence when I almost seemed to hear my own heart beats. 'How-how-do you feel, now, darling?' I asked at last.
'Dreadful, thank you, Mama, dear.'
'That isn't enough,' I cried in anguish. 'Can't you--?'
'No, I can't, Mama.'
'This is terrible,' I broke out, fast becoming hysterical. 'What is to be done! Can nothing save her?'
'I suppose the doctor will bring along a stomach pump,' said Henry, trying to soothe me.
'Oh, must he?' moaned The Kid (ignored).
'Get 'er to put 'er finger down 'er throat,' suggested Elizabeth brightly; 'that'll work it.'
It was the last straw. The Kid, though still dutiful, was utterly outraged. 'No, no, I won't,' she cried in open rebellion.
She looked unhappy. The soap and water had evidently met the allied forces of ipecac. and salt, and a fierce battle was, no doubt, in progress in her interior at the moment. 'I won't,' she repeated desperately.
'Do try, darling,' implored Henry, 'and I'll give you a whole shilling.'
'No, no, no. I don't want any shillings.' Judging by her expression the soap must have commenced an encircling movement, and the salt and ipecac. were hurrying up reserves. 'I won't put my finger down my throat.'
'What are we to do?' I said, wringing my hands. 'I never knew her to be so obstinate. Why, oh, why doesn't the doctor come? The child is beginning to look so strange already.'
'Well, wot I'd do if I was you,' suggested Elizabeth, 'is to begin the doses all over again--'
'Good,' said Henry. 'Firstly the ipecac.--'
'Oh, must I?' interrupted The Kid.
To my intense relief Marion dashed in at that moment. 'Have you given her an emetic?' she demanded breathlessly.
Elizabeth, Henry and I gathered round her with the necessary information.
'She has had several. Ipecac.--'
'Twice.'
'Salt and water--'
'A cupful.'
'Warm soap and water--'
'One glass.'
'And,' I concluded, now in tears, 'she won't be sick-simply won't!'
'I do want to, auntie,' explained The Kid, her child's sense of justice receiving mortal blows, 'but I can't be--'
Marion stood and gazed at her in awe. 'It's wonderful,' she murmured, 'amazing! I think, perhaps, The Lancet would be interested in a letter on the subject.'
'But what did the doctor say?' broke in Henry. 'Is he coming?'
'No,' said Marion, 'he--'
'Why not?' I asked feverishly.
'Because he said it was all right directly he tasted the contents of the bottle. But to make quite sure he 'phoned to your chemist, who, it appears, put your name on the bottle instead of The Kid's. He was awfully sorry and apologetic.'
'Sorry!' I echoed, 'apologetic! Why, the man's a monster. To think of all I've suffered through his carelessness.' I sank down on a chair. 'I'm quite overwrought.'
'There's no harm done, thank goodness,' said Marion.
'"All's well that ends well,"' quoted Henry.
'I'm fair relieved to get that load orf my mind,' supplemented Elizabeth.
'Mama, dear,' put in The Kid, glad, no doubt, that at last she was able to please, 'I think that now I really can be--'
'It doesn't matter now, darling,' I explained. 'You'd better lie perfectly still and let it pass off.'
'Must I, Mama?'
We all moved towards the door. The relief from the strain was apparent in our joyous faces and lightened mien. We sang out 'Good-night' to The Kid, and went out laughing and chatting. Half-way down the stairs we heard her calling.
'Mama, dear.'
'What is it?' we all asked in chorus.
'Please may I have my custard now?'