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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
82
"Oh,
the
doctor--"
said
the
mother
with
a
shrug,
"he's
no
use."
"You
must
do
what
he
tells
you,
or
he
cannot
help
you."
"That
last
medicine
he
sent
me
all
but
killed
me,"
she
said,
washing
vigorously.
"I'll
never
take
any
more
of
his,
nor
shall
any
child
of
mine."
"What
medicine
was
it?"
She
wiped
her
hand
on
her
apron,
and
reaching
across
to
the
cupboard
took
out
a
little
bottle.
"I
was
in
bed
two
days
after
it,"
she
said,
handing
it
to
me--"as
though
I
were
dead,
not
knowing
what
was
going
on
round
me."
The
bottle
had
contained
opium,
and
there
were
explicit
directions
written
on
it
as
to
the
number
of
drops
to
be
taken
and
the
length
of
the
intervals
between
the
taking.
"Did
you
do
exactly
what
is
written
here?"
I
asked.
"I
took
it
all
at
once.
There
wasn't
much
of
it,
and
I
was
feeling
bad."
"But
then
of
course
it
nearly
killed
you.
I
wonder
it
didn't
quite.
What
good
is
it
our
taking
all
the
trouble
we
do
to
send
that
long
distance
for
the
doctor
if
you
don't
do
as
he
orders?"
"I'll
take
no
more
of
his
medicine.
If
it
had
been
any
good
and
able
to
cure
me,
the
more
I
took
the
quicker
I
ought
to
have
been
cured."
And
she
scrubbed
and
thumped
with
astounding
energy,
while
Lotte
lay
with
her
little
ashen
face
a
shade
more
set
and
suffering.
The
wash-tub,
though
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
was
quite
close
to
Lotte's
bed,
because
the
middle
of
the
room
was
quite
close
to
every
other
part
of
it,
and
each
extra
hard
maternal
thump
must
have
hit
the
child's
head
like
a
blow
from
a
hammer.
She
was,
you
see,
only
thirteen,
and
her
skin
had
not
had
time
to
turn
into
leather.
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