OVER THE FENCE.
It had all happened so suddenly that Doris sat for a moment staring at
the motionless figure. Then the color forsook her face, and she sprang
up with a cry, and looked round for help. There was not a moving thing
in sight excepting the horse, who had picked himself up and was calmly,
not to say contemptuously, grazing a few yards off.
Doris, trembling a little, knelt down and bent over the young man. His
eyes were closed, and his face was white, and there was a thin streak
of red trickling down his forehead.
A spasm ran through her heart as she looked, for the sudden dread had
flashed across her mind that--he was dead.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried, and she sprang to her feet, aroused
by the impulse to run for assistance; but the white, still face seemed
to utter a voiceless appeal to her not to leave him, and she hesitated.
No!--she would not leave him.
She whipped out her handkerchief, and, running to the brook, dashed it
into the water; then, kneeling down beside him, bathed his forehead,
shuddering a little as she saw that the thin streak of red came again
as fast as she washed it away.
Presently she fancied that she saw a faint tremor upon the pale lips,
and in her eagerness and anxiety she sank down upon the grass and
drew his head upon her knee, and with faltering hands unfastened his
collar. She did it in pure ignorance, but it happened to be exactly
the right thing to do, and after a moment or two the young fellow
shivered slightly, and, to Doris’ unspeakable relief, opened his eyes.
There was no sense in them for a spell, during which Doris noticed, in
the way one notices trivial things in moments of deep anxiety, that
they were handsome eyes, of a dark brown; and that the rest of the
face was worthy of the eyes; and there flashed through her mind the
half-formed thought that it would have been a pity for one so young
and so good-looking to have died. Then a faint intelligence came into
his upturned gaze, and he looked up into her great pitying eyes with
a strange look of bewilderment which gradually grew into a wondering
admiration that brought a dash of color to Doris’ face.
“Where am I?” he said at last, and the voice that had sung “The Maids
of Merry England” sounded strangely thin and feeble; “am I--dead?”
It was a queer question. Did he think that it was an angel bending over
him? A faint smile broke over Doris’ anxious face, and one sprang up to
his to meet it.
“I remember,” he said, without taking his eyes from her face; “Poll
pitched me over the hedge.”
He tried to laugh and raise his head, but the laugh died away with
suspicious abruptness and his head sunk back.
“I--I beg your pardon!” he said. “I must have come an awful cropper;
I--I feel as if I couldn’t move!” and he made another effort.
“Oh, no, no,” said Doris anxiously; “do not try--yet. Oh, I am afraid
you are very much hurt! Let me----” she wiped his forehead again. “If
there were only some one else to help,” she exclaimed in a piteous
voice.
“Don’t--don’t--please don’t you trouble about it,” he said, pleadingly.
“I shall be all right directly. It’s ridiculous--” he added faintly,
but endeavoring to laugh again. “I feel as if I’d got rusty hinges at
the back of my neck.”
His eyes closed for a moment, for, notwithstanding the laugh and his
would-be light tone, he was in considerable pain; then he opened them
again and let them rest upon her face.
“You’re awfully good to me!” he said, slowly. “I feel ashamed--” he
stopped, and a deep blush rose through the tan of his face, for he had
suddenly realized that his head was in her lap, a fact of which Doris
was perfectly unconscious. “Awfully good!” he repeated.
“Oh, don’t talk!” she said, earnestly. “You--you are not able! Oh! if
there was something I could do! Water! I will get you some to drink,”
and she put his head gently from her and rose.
He smothered a sigh.
“There’s--there’s a flask in my saddle-pocket, if I could only get at
it,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” she said, swiftly.
“No, no,” he said, quickly. “The--the horse, I mean might--”
But she was off like the wind, and quite regardless of danger. The
horse raised his head and looked at her, and apparently seemed to take
in the gravity of the situation, for it stood quite still while she
searched the saddle.
“It is not here!” she said, in a voice of distress.
“No, by Jove, I recollect! I left it at home,” he faltered. “I’m so
sorry! Don’t--please--don’t trouble!” and he raised himself on his
elbow.
She flew from the horse to the brook, then stopped short for a moment
as she remembered that she had nothing to hold water. He watched her
and understood.
“Never mind,” he said.
“But there must be some way!” she cried, distressfully.
“If--if you’ll bring some in your hands,” he suggested, the color
coming into his face.
She stopped and made a cup of her two palms, and turned to him
carefully, fearful of spilling a drop.
The young fellow hesitated, and first glanced up at her face, unseen by
her, then bent his head.
When he raised it there was a strange look in his eyes, and he drew a
long breath. Doris dropped her hands with a sudden swiftness.
Reverently, gratefully as his lips had touched her hands, their touch
had sent a strange thrill through her.
“I--I am afraid you did not get much,” she said, and her voice
faltered, though she strove to keep it firm and steady.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Thank you very much. I am better--all right now!”
and to prove it he sat up and looked round him.
But his eyes returned to her face almost instantly, as if loth to leave
it.
“I never was so sorry in all my life,” he said. “To think that I should
have given you all this trouble! And--and frightened you, too!” he
added, for she had sunk down upon the bank and was trembling a little
as she wiped her hands.
“No, no, I am not frightened,” she said. “But it--it was so sudden.”
He looked round and bit his lip.
“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, remorsefully, “I--I might have fallen on
to you!”
A faint smile played upon her lips for an instant.
“You nearly did so as it was,” she said.
He drew a long breath, and his eyes sought her face penitently.
“It was abominably careless of me,” he said in a low voice. “But I had
no idea that there was any one here; I didn’t think of looking over the
hedge.”
“It is a very high one,” she said, and her lips quivered with a little
shudder, as she recalled the moment in which she saw him fall.
He glanced at it carelessly.
“Polly would have done it if it hadn’t been for the brook! I’d
forgotten that there might be a drop this side, and----” He stopped
short, his eyes fixed upon her dress, upon which were two or three
red spots staining its whiteness. He put his hand to his head. “Your
dress!” he said. “Look there! I’ve spoiled it!”
She looked down at the stains--they were still wet--and felt for her
handkerchief. It was lying on the grass.
“Will you let me?” he said pleadingly, and he took out his own
handkerchief and tried to wipe out the spots.
“Never mind,” she said. “It does not matter.”
“And your hat and book!” He picked them up and glanced at the latter.
“‘Romeo and Juliet!’ You were reading! What a nuisance I have made of
myself. I shall never forgive myself nor forget your kindness! If you
hadn’t been here----” he stopped.
She seemed to be scarcely listening to him.
He sat down, almost at her feet, and fastened his collar, his eyes
resting on her face. He had seen many beautiful women, this young man,
but he thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen any one so
perfectly lovely.
With a vague feeling of wonder he noticed that her hair was dark,
almost black, and yet her eyes were blue. They were hidden now
between the long, dark lashes, and yet he knew they were blue, for he
remembered noticing it in the first moments of wandering consciousness.
Was it this strange contrast, the blue eyes and black hair, that made
her so lovely? Or was it the shape of the thin, delicate red lips? He
tried to answer the mental question, but his brain seemed in a whirl.
It was not the effects of his fall, but the witchery of her presence.
She was so perfectly still, her face set in quiet gravity, that he
feared to speak or move, lest he should disturb her. Then, suddenly,
she looked up with a little start.
“I must go,” she said, almost to herself.
“Oh, no!” he pleaded. “Wait and rest for a little while!”
She turned her face toward him with a smile, but her eyes were half
veiled by the long lashes.
“It is you that should rest,” she said.
“Oh! I’m all right,” he said. “But you have had a fright, and are--are
upset, and no wonder. I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me,” he added,
remorsefully.
“Forgive?” she repeated, as if she had not understood.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid, if ever we meet again, that you will think
of me as--as the clumsy fellow who nearly rode over you, and--and gave
you all this trouble!”
“No,” she said, simply, “there is nothing to forgive.”
She raised her eyes to his face for a moment as she spoke. He was
still bareheaded, and his hat lay a shapeless mass in the brook, and
the water had formed the yellow hair into short, crisp curls on his
white forehead, and in his dark eyes lingered the look which they had
worn when he had first returned to consciousness--a look of hungering,
reverent admiration.
She took up her hat and put it on slowly. A spell seemed to have fallen
on her. She thought it was the reaction after the excitement.
“I must go,” she said. “But you? Shall I send some one to help you?”
He rose, reluctantly, and laughed softly.
“To help me!” he said. “But I am all right; I never felt better. It’s
not my first tumble by many; and, besides, I’ve not far to go. But you
will let me see you home? I”--he faltered--“I should like to tell your
people, and thank them----”
“No, no,” she said, her eyes following the direction which he had taken
when he said that he had not far to go.
“I am staying at the Towers,” he said, responding to her look. “You
know the Towers?”
She shook her head.
“I am staying with my uncle. My name is Neville--Cecil Neville----” he
stopped as if he expected or wished that she would tell him hers, but
Doris remained silent.
“That’s my uncle’s horse, and I hope I haven’t lamed her!” he laughed.
“Oh, no! Poor thing!” said Doris, pityingly. “It wasn’t her fault!”
“No, it was all mine,” he said. “And I may not go home with you? Will
you let me call and thank you--properly--to-morrow?”
She raised her eyes with a fleeting glance.
“It is not necessary,” she said.
His face fell. She lingered a moment, then she turned away.
“Good-afternoon.”
He glanced up at the sky.
“Good-night!” he said, slowly. “Good-night!” in so low a voice that it
seemed almost a whisper.
She walked through the clump of trees for a hundred yards perhaps, then
stopped with a start.
In the spell that had fallen upon her, she had forgotten her book. She
looked round and saw that he was standing where she had left him. She
waited, and presently he moved, and going to the brook, knelt down and
bathed his face and head. Then he went toward the horse, and calling it
to him, got into the saddle. Not till he had got some distance did she
venture to return.
Her book was there, and beside it the handkerchief with which he had
tried to remove the stains from her dress; they were there still!
She took it up and looked at it dreamily; the whole incident seemed
almost a dream! and saw in a corner, worked in red silk, the initials
C. N., and above them a coronet.
She was about to drop the handkerchief where she had found it, but
instead she thrust it out of sight in the bosom of her dress.
Then with a smile she opened the book.
By a strange coincidence it opened at the page upon which appeared
the words that had proved such a stumbling-block to her, and half
unconsciously she murmured:
“Good-night, good-night!”
What was it that made her start and brought the warm blood to her face?
Only this, that now for the first time the words seemed to possess
their real meaning. She had learned how to speak them!
“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say
good-night till it be morrow!”
She ought to have been glad; why then did she utter a little cry almost
of dismay, and cover her face with her hands?