MISS FIELDING FROM AMERICA
Duncombe leaned his gun up against a gate. A few yards away his host was
talking to the servants who had brought down luncheon. The rest of the
party were only just in sight a field or two off.
"Have a glass of sherry before lunch, George?" his host asked, strolling
towards him.
"Nothing to drink, thanks! I'd like a cigarette, if you have one."
Lord Runton produced his case, and a servant brought them matches. They
both leaned over the gate, and watched the scattered little party slowly
coming towards them.
"Who is your friend Fielding?" Duncombe asked, a little bluntly.
"Fellow from New York," Lord Runton answered. "He's been very decent to
my brother out there, and Archibald wrote and asked me to do all we
could for them. The girl is very handsome. You'll see her at dinner
to-night."
"Here for long?"
"No, unfortunately," Lord Runton answered. "I had very hard work to get
them to come at all. Cicely has written them three or four times, I
think, but they've always had engagements. They're only staying till
Monday, I think. Very quiet, inoffensive sort of chap, Fielding, but the
girl's a ripper! Hullo! Here they are. I'll introduce you."
A groom had thrown open the gate of the field across which they were
looking, and Lady Runton from the box seat of a small mail phaeton waved
her whip. She drove straight across the furrows towards them a little
recklessly, the groom running behind. By her side was a girl with coils
of deep brown hair, and a thick black veil worn after the fashion of the
travelling American.
"Just in time, aren't we?" Lady Runton remarked, as she brought the
horses to a standstill. "Help me down, Jack, and look after Miss
Fielding, Sir George. By the bye, have you two met yet?"
Duncombe bowed--he was bareheaded--and held out his hands.
"I saw Miss Fielding for a moment last night," he said, "or rather I
didn't see her. We were introduced, however. What do you think of our
maligned English weather, Miss Fielding?" he asked.
She raised her veil and looked at him deliberately. He had been prepared
for this meeting, and yet it was with difficulty that he refrained from
a start. The likeness of the photograph (it was even at that moment in
his pocket) was wonderful. She looked a little older, perhaps. There
were shadows in her face of which there were no traces in the picture.
And 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.