It was on a day six weeks later that Doris Elliot next found herself upon the scene of her discomfiture. She had ridden from her home three miles distant very early on a morning of September to join a meeting of the foxhounds and go cub-hunting. There had been a heavy fall of rain, and the ground was wet and slippery.
The field that had been all yellow with the shocks of corn was now in process of being ploughed, and her horse Hector sank up to the fetlocks at every stride, a fact which he resented with obvious impatience. She guided him down to the edge of the river where the ground looked a little harder.
The run was over and she had enjoyed it; but she wanted now to take as short a cut home as possible, and it was through this particular field that the most direct route undoubtedly lay. She was alone, but she knew every inch of the countryside, and but for this mischance of the plough she would have been well on her way. Being a sportswoman, she made the best of things, and did her utmost to soothe her mount's somewhat fiery temper.
"You shall have a clean jump at the end, Hector, old boy," she promised him. "We shall soon be out of it."
But in this matter also she was to receive a check; for when they came to the clean jump, it was to find a formidable fence of wooden paling confronting them, intervening directly in their line of march. It seemed that the energetic owner had been attending to his boundaries with a zeal that no huntsman would appreciate.
Doris bit her lip with a murmured "Too bad!"
There was nothing for it but to skirt the hedge in search of a gate. Hector was naturally even more indignant than she, and stamped and squealed as she turned him from the obstacle. He also wanted to get home, and he was tired of fighting his way through ploughed land that held him like a bog. To add to their discomfort it had begun to rain again, and there seemed every prospect of being speedily soaked to the skin.
Altogether the outlook was depressing; but someone was whistling cheerily on the farther side of the field, and Doris took heart. It was a long way to the gate, however, and when she reached it at length it was to find another disappointment in store. The gate was padlocked.
She looked round in desperation. Her only chance of escape was apparently to return by the way she had come by means of a gap which had not yet been repaired, and which would lead her in directly the opposite direction to that which she desired to take.
The rain was coming down in a sharp shower, and Hector was becoming more and more restive. She halted him by the gate and looked over. Beyond lay a field from which she knew the road to be easily accessible. She hated to turn her back upon it.
Behind her over a rise came the plough, drawn by two stout horses, driven by a sturdy figure that loomed gigantic against the sky. Glancing back, Doris saw this figure, and an odd little spirit of dare-devilry entered into her. She did not want to come face to face with the ploughman, neither did she want to beat a retreat before the five-barred gate that opposed her progress.
She spoke to Hector reassuringly and backed him several paces. He was quick to grasp her desire and eager to fall in with it. She felt him bracing himself under her, and she laughed in sheer delight as she set him at the gate.
He went at it with a will over the broken ground, rose as she lifted him, and made a gallant effort to clear the obstacle. But he was too heavily handicapped. He slipped as he rose to the leap. He blundered badly against the top bar of the gate, finally stumbled over and fell on the other side, pitching his rider headlong into a slough of trampled mud.
He was up in a moment and careering across the field, but Doris was not so nimble. It was by no means her first tumble, nor had it been wholly unexpected; but she had fallen with considerable violence, and it took her a second or two to collect her wits. Then, like Hector, she sprang up--only to reel back through the slippery mud and catch at the splintered gate for support, there to cling sick and dizzy, with eyes fast shut, while the whole world rocked around her in chaos indescribable.
A full minute must have passed thus, then very suddenly out of the confusion came a voice. Vaguely she recognized it, but she was too occupied in the struggle to keep her senses to pay much attention to what it said.
"I mustn't faint!" she gasped desperately through her set teeth. "I mustn't faint!"
A steady arm encircled her, holding her up.
"You'll be all right in half a minute," said the voice, close to her now. "You came down rather hard."
She fought with herself and opened her eyes. Her head was swimming still, but she compelled herself to look.
Jeff Ironside was beside her, one foot lodged upon the lowest bar of the gate while he propped her against his bent knee.
He looked down at her with a certain sternness of demeanour that was characteristic of him. "Take your time," he said. "It was a nasty knock-out."
"I--I'm all right," she told him breathlessly. "Where--where is Hector?"
"If you mean your animal," he said in the slow, grim way which she began to remember as his, "he is probably well on his way home by now. He'll be all right," he added. "The gate from this field into the road is open."
"Oh!" The faintness was overcoming her again as she tried to stand. She clutched and held his arm. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I--never felt so stupid before."
"Don't be in a hurry!" he said. "You can't help it."
She sank back against his support again and so remained for a few seconds. He stood like a rock till she opened her eyes once more.
She found his own upon her, but he dropped them instantly. "You are not hurt anywhere, are you?" he said.
She shook her head. "No, it's nothing. I've wrenched my shoulder a little, but it isn't much."
"Which shoulder?"
"The right. No, really it isn't serious." She winced as he touched it with his hand nevertheless.
"Sure?" he said.
He began to feel it very carefully, and she winced again with indrawn breath.
"It's only bruised," she said.
"It's painful, anyhow," he remarked bluntly. "Well, you must be wet to the skin. You had better come with me to the mill and get dry."
Doris flushed a little. "Oh, thank you, but really--I don't want to--to trespass on your kindness. I can quite well walk home--from here."
"You can't," he said flatly. "Anyhow, you are not going to try. You had better let me carry you."
But Doris drew back at that with swift decision. "Oh no! I am quite well now--I can walk."
She stood up and he took his foot from the gate. She glanced at the top bar thereof that hung in splinters.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured apologetically.
He also looked at his damaged property. "Yes, it was a pity you attempted it," he said.
"I shall know better next time," she said with a wry smile. "Will it cost much?"
"Well, it can't be mended for nothing," said Jeff Ironside. "Things never are."
Doris considered him for a moment. He was certainly a fine animal, as Hugh Chesyl had said, well made and well put together. She liked the freedom of his pose, the strength of the great bull neck. At close quarters he certainly did not look like an ordinary labourer. He had an air of command that his rough clothes could not hide. There was nothing of the clod-hopper about him albeit he followed the plough. He was obviously a son of the soil, and he would wrest his living therefrom, but he would do it with brain as well as hands. He had a wide forehead above his somewhat sombre eyes.
"I am very sorry," she said again.
"I am sorry for you," he said. "Wouldn't it be as well to get out of this rain? It's only a step to the mill."
She turned with docility and looked towards the two horses standing patiently where he had left them on the brown slope of the hill.
"Not that way," he said. "Come across this field to the road. It is no distance from there."
Doris began to gather up her skirt. It was wet through and caked with mud. She caught her breath again as she did it. The pain in her shoulder was becoming intense.
And then, to her amazement, Jeff Ironside suddenly stooped and put his arms about her. Almost before she realized his intention, and while she was still gasping her astonishment, he had lifted her and begun to move with long, easy strides over the sodden turf.
"Oh," she said, "you--you--really you shouldn't!"
"It's the only thing to do," he returned.
And somehow--perhaps because he spoke with such finality--she did not feel inclined to dispute the point. She submitted with a confused murmur of thanks.