Karen Harbaugh Read Free

long moment reassured me, and putting my candle on the floor, I began oiling the hinges.
    The cupboard door opened without a squeak. By the light of the candle on the floor, I could make out the simple block letters naming the object of my search. Casting another look toward the connecting door, I quickly opened the bottle of ipecac and shook a fifth of its contents into my tooth cup. Carefully, I replaced the bottle and closed the cupboard.
    Clutching the cup, I crept out of the infirmary and ran as quietly and quickly as I could without spilling the ipecac. When I had gained my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, feeling as if I had held my breath during the entire operation. My heart was beating rapidly; I took a deep breath to calm it. I let it out with a whoosh and allowed my shaking legs to take me to my bed.
    I stared at my booty for a while. My campaign would begin tomorrow, but I was curious. I sniffed the powder. No real scent to it; was it tasteless as well? I wet my finger with a bit of it and put it to my tongue. Gahh! Immediately I went to the pitcher by my bed and drank some water to wash out the bitterness. It was going to be difficult to down the stuff, but I felt equal to it. There is nothing more determined than a Canning bent on action, Mama always said of Father, and I knew this was true for me, too.
    I set my tooth cup under my bed. The maid never swept under there anyway, so it would be safe. As I got into bed, I reflected that I had an old perfume vial into which I could pour the stuff. But then I yawned hugely and consigned this task to the morning.
    I awoke with a feeling that all was not right. I had not much time to ponder over this, for suddenly all sleepiness left: my stomach turned over. My mind immediately went to the ipecac. Is this all it took to make one ill? I did not want to be sick now! I waited anxiously for more violent signs, but nothing else appeared; I remained nauseated until exhaustion overtook me, and I slept.
    I staged the first display of my illness for Sunday. In most girls this would have been suspicious, but I was fond of going to church, and this fact was well known. I did not have a reputation for piety, however; it was also well known that I went because I loved the music springing from the pipe organ like winds from the sea. The schoolmistresses knew only the most extreme circumstance could tear me from this treat. So it was with concern that the Headmistress, Miss Angstead, listened to me when I complained of feeling a little faint.
    She pushed back her unruly grey-white hair and looked at me with her sharp but kindly brown eyes. My lack of sleep supported me: shadows darkened my eyes, and I looked pale. I blushed a little at the lie, and she laid a bony hand on my forehead, apparently thinking I had the flush of fever.
    She gazed at me thoughtfully. “You do not feel warm,” she said. “Perhaps the walk to the church will revive you.” She patted my cheek. “You have a good constitution; I am sure you will feel better shortly.”
    I felt ashamed at deceiving her, but neither this nor her insistence that I attend church kept me from my plan. I had secreted a stoppered vial, which contained the ipecac and water, in a pocket of my dress. My experience the night before warned me of its potency, and I did not want to be as violently ill as Emily’s brother. I hoped I had diluted it enough to make me an interesting color, but not enough to send me to bed.
    The sermon as usual was dull, but I kept awake for the music. I decided to sip the vial during the last hymn; that way, some people would be busy singing and the rest would be busy watching our new curate-from-London’s way of conducting the choir. Last week he crouched down when the choir was to sing piano measures and suddenly leaped like a tiger upon its prey (the choir) at forte, arms outstretched. Today he looked as if he were pantomiming a windmill. I waited.
    The curate’s thin arm sprung in an