Volume Two—Chapter One.
“A Pretty Kettle of Fish!”
Imagine the unexpected arrival of the murdered Duncan’s wraith at Macbeth’s correct little dinner party, just after the soup had been removed—a break-down of the Prima Donna at the Opera, while executing some grand scena—or, in these High Church days of fashionable banns-publishing, the sudden uprising of some stern parent or Nemisitical Mawworm, to interrupt the glib utterance of the hair-parted-down-the-middle and lavender-kid-gloved curate of the period with the solemn veto, in basso profundo voice, “I forbid the banns!”—and you will have some idea of the alteration and effect which the young imp’s mischief created in the programme of Lady Inskip’s pic-nic.
The whole company soon hurried after the doctor in real alarm; even Captain Curry Cucumber, forgetting his liver, and the not-fit-for-much-exertion officers, their lisp and laziness, were in a few moments on the scene of the accident: whither too, Laura presently appeared, leaning on Pringle’s arm; for she honestly was nervous, and had been really frightened.
It was a very dramatic pose.
Tom was lying on the ground, half-supported in Lizzie’s arms, a red stream of blood trickling down from his right side, while Doctor Jolly was bending over him, dashing water in his face.
It is wonderful how much more composed in scenes of suffering and danger women are than men, that is when their services are required. Tell a girl that a man is shot or someone drowned, and she will immediately, perhaps, burst into tears, and wail and ring her hands; but tell her to hold his head up, or fetch water—only to do something, and she will be as composed as you please, and will set about doing the work far more steadily and usefully—in a workmanlike manner, so to speak—than you could get any man to do it.
Women are all nurses and sick-attendants at heart: there are more Florence Nightingale’s among us than we know of, until time and occasion draws them out of seclusion, and displays them in their true colours.
Here was Lizzie, who a moment before had been crying, wringing her hands and inclined to faint, now as composed as possible, although very pale and tearful, just because the doctor had employed her services, and showed her how to be useful.
“Bless my soul! little girl; don’t stop crying there. Hold his head up, while I get some water.” And Lizzie had raised Tom’s head as tenderly as if it had been a piece of Sèvres china, and moved it on to her lap, while her arm passed round him. She did not mind his weight a bit, and could have thus supported him all day without feeling tired, although Tom was pretty heavy. Love lightens loads wonderfully!