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?'
[Illustration: '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_?'