Now, the plateau
was narrow, and the chair wanted guiding. It was easy to guide it, but
Mrs. Bazalgette did not know how; so it sidled in a pertinacious and
horrid way toward a long and steepish slope on the left side. She
began to scream, Arthur to laugh--the young are cruel, and, I am
afraid, though he stood perfectly neutral to all appearance, his heart
within nourished black designs. But David came flying up at her
screams--just in time. He caught the lady's shoulders as she glided
over the brow of the slope, and lifted her by his great strength up
out of the chair, which went the next moment bounding and jumping
athwart the hill, and soon rolled over and groveled in rather an ugly
way.
Mrs. Bazalgette sobbed and cried so prettily on David's shoulder, and
had to be petted and soothed by all hands. Inward composure soon
returned, though not outward, and in due course histrionics commenced.
First the sprain business. None of you do it better, ladies, whatever
you may think. David had to carry her a bit. But she was too wise to
be a bore. Next, the heroic business: _would_ be put down,
_would_ walk, possible or not; _would_ not be a trouble to
her kind friends. Then the martyr smiling through pain. David was very
attentive to her; for while he was carrying her in his arms she had
won his affection, all he could spare from Lucy. Which of you can tell
all the consequences if you go and carry a pretty woman, with her
little insinuating mouth close to your ears?
Lucy and Arthur walked behind.
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