A Maker of History, E. Phillips Oppenheim [early reader books .TXT] 📗

yet the likeness was wonderful.

"To-day at least is charming," she said. "But then I am quite used to your climate, you know. I have lived in Europe almost as much as in America."

She certainly had no trace of any accent. She spoke a little more slowly, perhaps, than most young Englishwomen, but there was nothing whatever in her words or in her pronunciation of them to suggest a transatlantic origin. She stood by his side looking about her with an air of interest, and Duncombe began to wonder whether after all she was not more beautiful than the photograph which he had treasured so jealously. He became conscious of a desire to keep her by his side.

"Is your father shooting, Miss Fielding?"

She laughed softly.

"You don't know my father, Sir George," she answered. "He hates exercise, detests being out of doors, and his idea of Paradise when he is away from business is to be in a large hotel where every one speaks English, where there are tapes and special editions and an American bar."

Duncombe laughed.

"Then I am afraid Mr. Fielding will find it rather hard to amuse himself down here."

"Well, he's discovered the telephone," she said. "He's spending the morning ringing up people all over the country. He was talking to his bankers when we came out. Oh, here come the rest of them. How tired they look, poor things—especially the Baron! Nature never meant him to tramp over ploughed fields, I am sure. Baron, I was just saying how warm you look."

The Baron took off his cap, gave up his gun to a keeper, and turned a glowing face towards them.

"My dear young lady," he declared, "I am warm. I admit it, but it is good for me. Very good indeed. I tried to make your father walk with us. He will be sure to suffer some day if he takes no exercise."

"Oh, father's never ill," the girl answered. "But then he eats nothing, Sir George, I hope you're going to devote yourself to me at luncheon. I'm terribly hungry."

"So we all are," Lady Runton declared. "Come along, every one."

Luncheon was served in a large open barn, pleasantly fragrant of dried hay, and with a delightful view of the sea far away in the distance. Miss Fielding chattered to every one, was amusing and amused. The Baron gave her as much of his attention as he was ever disposed to bestow upon any one at meal-times, and Duncombe almost forgot that he had breakfasted at eight o'clock.

"Charming young person, that!" said Lady Runton's neighbor to her. "One of our future Duchesses, I suppose?"

Lady Runton smiled.

"Lots of money, Teddy," she answered. "What a pity you haven't a title!"

The young man—he was in the Foreign Office—sighed, and shook his head.

"Such things are not for me," he declared sententiously. "My affections are engaged."

"That isn't the least reason why you shouldn't marry money," her ladyship declared, lighting a cigarette. "Go and talk to her!"

"Can't spoil sport!" he answered, shaking his head. "By Jove! Duncombe is making the running, though, isn't he?"

Her ladyship raised her glasses. Duncombe and Miss Fielding had strolled outside the barn. He was showing her his house—a very picturesque old place it looked, down in the valley.

"It's nothing but a farmhouse, of course," he said. "No pretensions to architecture or anything of that sort, of course, but it's rather a comfortable old place."

"I think it is perfectly charming," the girl said. "Do you live there all alone? You have sisters perhaps?"

He shook his head.

"No such luck!" he answered. "Mine is entirely a bachelor establishment. A great part of the time I am alone. Just now I have a pal staying with me—awfully decent chap, from Devonshire."

She was certainly silent for a moment. He fancied too that there was a change in her face.

"From Devonshire!" she repeated, with a carelessness which, if it was not natural, was exceedingly well assumed. "I believe I knew some people once who came from there. What is your friend's name, Sir George?"

He turned slowly towards her.

"Andrew Pelham!" he said quietly. "He comes from a place called Raynesworth."

"He is staying here now—with you?"

"Yes," he answered gravely.

It was not his fancy this time. Of that he felt sure. Her face for the moment had been the color of chalk—a little exclamation had been strangled upon her lips. She shot a quick glance at him. He met it steadily.

"You know the name?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"The name—yes," she answered, "but not the person. A very old friend of mine was called Andrew Pelham, but he was an American, and he has never been in England. It startled me, though, to hear the exact name from you."

She was herself again. Her explanation was carelessly given. It sounded even convincing, but Duncombe himself was not convinced. He knew that she wanted him to be. He felt her eyes seeking his, studying his face. Perhaps she was only anxious that he should not misunderstand.

"George, are you ready?" his host called out. "We're going to take Smith's pastures."

"Quite!" Duncombe answered. "Until this evening, Miss Fielding."

"You are dining at Runton Place?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," he answered. "Will you tell me all about your Andrew Pelham?"

She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

"Do you think that you would be interested?" she asked.

"You know that I should," he answered quietly.

For a time he shot badly. Then he felt that his host's eye was upon him, and pulled himself together. But he was never at his best. He felt that the whole world of his sensations had been suddenly disturbed. It was impossible that there could be any connection between this girl and the photograph which had first fired him with the impulse to undertake that most extraordinary and quixotic mission. Yet the fact remained that the girl herself had had very much the same effect upon him as his first sight of the photograph. It was a coincidence, of course. Miss Fielding was charming. There was no reason why he should not indulge to the full his admiration of her. She had affected him in a most curious manner. Another man would have declared himself in love with her. It was not possible that she could be any one but Miss Fielding. That start which he had fancied that he had noticed, the sudden aging of her face, the look almost of fear! Absurd! He was losing his nerves. It was not possible, he told himself steadfastly. And yet——

Some of the women were following them in a leisurely sort of way behind. Miss Fielding was there, walking a little apart. She carried her hat in her hand. The wind, which was blowing the skirts of her white cloth dress about her, was making havoc in her glorious hair. She walked with her head thrown back, with all the effortless grace of youth—a light heart, an easy conscience. He deliberately left his place and walked back to meet her. She waved her hand gayly. There was color in her cheeks now, and her eyes laughed into his. The shadows were gone. He felt that this was madness, and yet he said what he had come back to say.

"I thought that you might be interested to know, Miss Fielding, that you will meet the gentleman—with the same name as your friend—this evening. Lord Runton has been good enough to ask him to come up and dine."

She nodded gayly.

"What a crowd of sentimental memories his coming will evoke!" she declared. "Be nice to me, won't you, and help me dispel them?"

"Perhaps," he said, smiling with a great relief; "I might prefer to try to construct a few on my own account."

"Go and do your duty," she commanded, laughing.

Duncombe hastened to his place. His eyes were bright. He felt that he was walking upon air.

"What a double distilled ass I nearly made of myself!" he muttered.

CHAPTER XVI MISS FIELDING ASKS A QUESTION

She came into the room a little late, and her entrance created almost a sensation. Duncombe only knew that she wore a black gown and looked divine. Lady Runton murmured "Paquin" with a sigh and frown.

"These girls might at least leave us black," she murmured to her neighbor. "What pearls!"

Duncombe stepped forward to meet her. He could not keep the admiration from his eyes. Her shoulders and slim graceful neck were as white as alabaster, her hair was a gorgeous brown kissed into fine gold glimmering as though with a touch of some hidden fire. She moved with the delightful freedom of absolute naturalness. He murmured something which sounded ridiculously commonplace, and she laughed at him.

"Do you know that you are going to take me in?" she said. "I hope that you are prepared to be very amusing. Do tell me which is your friend."

Then Duncombe remembered Andrew, who was standing by his side. He turned towards him, and the words suddenly died away upon his lips. Andrew's tall frame was shaking as though with some powerful emotion. He was standing with his head thrust forward as though listening intently. Duncombe set his teeth.

"Will you allow me to present my friend Miss Fielding?" he said. "Andrew, this is Miss Fielding. Mr. Pelham, Miss Fielding."

She held out her hand and took his passive fingers.

"I am so glad to know you, Mr. Pelham," she said pleasantly. "Sir George gave me quite a shock to-day when he spoke of you. I was once very nearly engaged to an Andrew Pelham in Baltimore, and I had most distressing visions of all my old sweethearts turning up to spoil my good time here."

Andrew's voice sounded odd and restrained.

"I have never been in America," he said.

She laughed.

"You need not be afraid that I am going to claim you," she declared. "You are at least a foot taller than my Andrew. You don't even inspire me with any tender recollections of him. Baron, I do hope that you have not taken too much exercise."

"My dear young lady," he answered, bowing, "I never felt better in my life! Be thankful that it is not your hard fate to be my dinner companion. I am so hungry I should have no time for conversation."

"On the contrary," she declared, "I—almost regret it! I much prefer to do some of the talking myself, but I seldom get a chance. Will you promise to give me a show to-night, Sir George?"

"As long as you permit me to say two or three things which are in my mind," he answered, lowering his voice a little, "you may do all the rest of the talking."

"Dear me, I am curious already," she exclaimed. "What are the two or three things, Sir George? Why! Do you see—nearly every one has gone," she added suddenly. "Come along!"

She laid her hand upon his arm and led him away. Soon he was by her side at the table. Their companions were uninteresting. Andrew was out of sight. Duncombe forgot everything else in the world except that he was with her.

Their conversation was of trifles, yet intimate trifles. The general talk buzzed all round them. Neither made any effort to arrest it. To Duncombe she seemed simply the image he had created and worshipped suddenly come to life. That it was not in fact her picture went for nothing. There was no infidelity. The girl who had existed in his dreams was here. It was for her that he had departed from the even tenor of his ways, for her he had searched in Paris, for her he had braved the horrors of that unhappy week. Already he felt that she belonged to him, and in a vague sort of way she, too, seemed to be letting herself drift, to be giving color to his unconscious assumption by her lowered tone, by the light in her eyes which answered his, by all those little nameless trifles