THE PLOUGHMAN
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.