Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/270

“I hate the taste of whiskey,” moaned Ilse. “Father never uses it—he doesn’t believe in it.”

“Aunt Tom does,” said Perry, as if that settled the matter. “It’s a sure cure. Try it and see.”

“But there isn’t any water,” said Ilse.

“You'll have to take it straight, then. There’s only about two tablespoons in the bottle. Try it. It won't kill you if it doesn’t cure you.”

Poor Ilse was really feeling so abjectly wretched that she would have taken anything, short of poison, if she thought there was any chance of its helping her. She crawled off the sofa, sat down on a chair before the fire and swallowed the dose. It was good, strong whiskey—Malcolm Shaw could have told you that. And I think there was really more than two tablespoonfuls in the bottle, though Perry always, insisted that there wasn’t. Ilse sat huddled in her chair for a few minutes longer, then she got up and put her hand uncertainly on Emily's shoulder.

“Do you feel worse?” asked Emily, anxiously.

“I’m—I’m drunk,” said Ilse. “Help me back to the sofa, for mercy’s sake. My legs are going to double up under me. Who was the Scotchman up at Malvern who said he never got drunk but the whiskey always settled in his knees? But mine’s in the head, too. It’s spinning round.”

Perry and Teddy both sprang to help her and between them a very wobbly Ilse made safe port on the sofa again.

“Is there anything we can do?” implored Emily.

“Too much has already been done,” said Ilse with preternatural solemnity. She shut her eyes and not another word would she say in response to any entreaty. Finally it was deemed best to let her alone.

“She’ll sleep it off, and, anyway, I guess it’ll settle her stomach,” said Perry.

Emily could not take it so philosophically. Not until Ilse’s quiet breathing half an hour later proved that she was really asleep could Emily begin to taste the flavour