Our Elizabeth Part 7

'I have thrown nothing--I mean, Miss Warrington and I are only slightly acquainted with each other. I have, indeed, barely noticed her. And now you tell me this horrible thing.'

She bridled. 'Wot's 'orrible about it? You ought to be glad. Most men would be proud to marry a young lady 'oo's got such a light 'and for pastry, and can mend up an old pair o' pants to make 'em look like new. She's just the sort of wife----'

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'Wot's 'orrible about it?']

'"Wife,"' I interrupted, '"marry"? What do you mean by those words, girl? Do you think for one instant if all the females in Christendom were to fall in love with me I would _marry_ any one of them! No, a thousand times, no. I repeat I will never, _never_ marry.'

'I 'eard yer,' said Elizabeth, 'and do you sit there and mean to tell me that you're going to break a gentle woman's 'eart deliberate?'

The imputation caused me to shudder from head to foot. 'No, no, Elizabeth. If I have unwittingly caused the lady pain I am deeply remorseful. But she must, as soon as possible, be disillusioned.'

'Dish-who?' said Elizabeth. In this peculiar and baffling way does she express herself. It makes a sustained conversation extremely difficult and, at times, almost impossible.

'She must be brought to dislike me, I mean. In this matter I must ask you to help me.' I took a ten-shilling note from my pocket. 'If, from time to time, you will talk to Miss Warrington of my many faults--you can invent what you like----'

'Shan't need to invent much in the way o' faults,' put in the monstrous girl. 'But it's my belief she likes you for 'em. Some women are made like that. Anyway,' she handed me back the note which I had endeavoured to press into her warm, moist palm. 'I'm not wantin' this.

I'm not goin' to take blood money to 'elp to break any woman's 'eart.'

It sounded really terrible viewed in that light. 'There is no need for you to put it in that coa.r.s.e way,' I said, my temper rising. 'I only ask you to help me to regain my peace of mind and secure Miss Warrington's happiness.'

'Well, if you put it like that o' course,' she said, her fingers closing over the note, 'I'm not the one to refuse good money. I'm willin' to do all I can to make you an' Miss Marryun happy.' With a broad grin she sidled out of the room.

As for me, I gathered up the fragments of my pipe and departed. I no longer wished to talk to Henry just then. I wanted to be alone to think, to consider my strategic position. I must go away to some remote place, perhaps not Tibet, but at any rate a quiet spot in the country fully twenty miles out of London. Before going, however, I must in some way show Miss Warrington the utter folly of her illusions regarding my unfortunate self. Nothing must be left undone to achieve that object.

Alas, what troubles, what unending anxiety a woman can cause a man!

After getting over this difficulty, I swear I will not even converse with any one of them again. In the meantime I must invoke the aid of this wretched girl Elizabeth. _Necessitas non habet legem_. Elizabeth is that most irritating necessity.

CHAPTER VIII

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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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?'

[Ill.u.s.tration: '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.