The Smile of the Stranger (7 page)

Herr Welcker let out a most appalling oath, fortunately in Dutch.

“Oh, what is it?” cried Juliana, terrified. “Is something broken?”

“No,” he growled. “You have stuck your
verdommte
bodkin into the side of the basket, and it has run very nearly right through my thumb!”

“Oh, I am
sorry
!”
she exclaimed repentantly. “It is a dreadful fault I have, I know! I am always sticking my needle into the arms of chairs. Papa has scolded me for it, times out of mind. Are you very severely hurt, dear Herr Welcker?”

“No, it is nothing,” he said with a fair degree of calm, pulling out the needle, which he threw onto the grass, and wrapping a handkerchief round his bleeding thumb. “And, look, here we are in England without a bone broken—or even a crystal from the candelabrum—”

“And there are some English coming to meet us,” said Juliana, looking eagerly toward the end of the field, where running figures with lanterns and pitchforks could now dimly be discerned.

I
V

Early next morning, Juliana and her father set off once more.

Herr Welcker had not lingered a moment; as soon as his letters of authorization had satisfied the English villagers that the balloon party were not French spies, he had bespoken the only carriage available in the place—it turned out to be a small hamlet of half a dozen houses named Burley Heath
—
loaded up his consignment of goods, and, after a hasty farewell, had departed at speed for Southampton, recommending that Juliana and her father should rack up for the night at the village inn.

“I am obliged to be in Brighton by tomorrow if I can arrange it, but the old gentleman would do well not to travel further at this hour.”

Juliana could only agree, and as they were assured that the chaise would be back by the following morning, and they might have the use of it next day, she was relieved to see her father comfortably established in a warm bed, with a basin of soup, at the Fox and Grapes. She herself was so tired, cold, and stiff that she was soon happy to follow his example and retire to bed, although it was some time before she was able to sleep. Despite the fact that she lay on a soft feather mattress, under a sloping cottage roof, she still seemed to feel the lurch and sway of the balloon
’
s basket as it bore them across the sky, and, looking up, she expected to discover the innumerable stars still above her.

On the following day Mr. Elphinstone was feverish and weak; his features seemed to have sharpened in the course of the journey, and his eyes had sunk back in their sockets. He was frighteningly pale, and his hands shook badly; Juliana
was divided between a certainty that he should not be allowed to leave his couch, and the
knowledge that nothing would satisfy him but to be once more within the confines of his own home.

“Come—make haste—let us be on our way!” he urged as soon as Juliana had eaten a morsel of bread and butter and drunk a little coffee—he himself would touch nothing but cold water. “My bones ache to be at home—I shall not be comfortable until we are at Flintwood. Old Mrs. Hurdle will look after me there; I daresay she will soon put me to rights with one of her possets.”

Juliana devoutly hoped that old Mrs. Hurdle—whom she took to be the housekeeper
—was
still presiding in her grandfather
’
s house.

Fortunately for the pair, Herr Welcker, although he had been in such haste to be off on the previous evening, had taken time to consider their welfare.

“Reckon you won
’
t have any English money about you, miss, hey?” he had inquired as he stood superintending the transfer of his cargo from the balloon into the chaise. “And in a little hamlet like this they won
’
t thank you for French louis or Italian lire; different if you
’
d landed at a port where there
’
d be a changing house. Best let me loan you a few guineas—a
—
a—now don
’
t come missish over me again, I beg!” as Juliana began to protest. “Don
’
t forget, you pulled me out of a scrape, for which I
’
m vastly obliged, as I value my skin highly. Pish, what
’
s a handful of coins? Bless you, where I
’
m going, Prinney would fill one of these to the brim with gold guineas, if I asked him”—and he flourished one of the Sevres pots.

Realizing that her scruples were indeed absurd, Juliana had accepted the loan, promising to repay it as soon as she was established at her grandfather
’
s.

“No need, my dear—but still—if you insist—very well, then! Adieu! And thanks for the pleasure of your company
—
convey my best respects to your papa—” he bowed and sprang into the chaise, with surprising agility, considering the long, hard twenty-four hours he had just undergone.

Thanks to him, therefore, they were provided with funds to pay their shot at the inn and hire the chaise in which, immediately after breakfast, they set off once more. They were a bedraggled-looking pair. Without nightwear or toilet articles, Juliana had been obliged to sleep in her shift and borrow a comb from the landlady to bring some order into her tangled curls. Her old brown worsted dress and pelisse were damp and travel-stained from the journey. She was divided between anxiety for her father, despair at the first impression her grandfather was likely to receive of her, and lively interest at the scenes through which they were passing.

“Oh, Papa, it is all so pretty, is it not? A thousand times prettier than the countryside in France! I wonder that last night I thought it all so flat and gray. The meadows are so green! And the little gardens are so trim—oh, Papa, look, there are still roses, though it is so late in the year. And the little thatched houses are so delightful! Do but look at that pair! Oh, see the wild horses, Papa! And the deer! Do the horses belong to nobody? May they roam where they please? I knew of the wild horses in the Camargue, but I never heard there were wild horses in England also.”

Her father smiled faintly at her enthusiasm as he reclined in his corner of the carriage, but he was too ill to sit up and appreciate any of the objects that attracted her interest; he said that he must be content with her descriptions. Indeed, after giving detailed directions to the driver concerning their route, he lay back, for the most part, with his eyes closed, and, since he had passed a very bad night, Juliana, hoping that he might sleep a little on the way, wrapped round him a traveling rug which the landlady had thoughtfully supplied, and endeavored to suppress her exclamations of wonder.

She reflected that it was as well he had been able to instruct the driver as to their direction, for the way seemed
very tortuous. The road, often no more than a sandy track, wound through long stretches of woodland, where the trees grew huge and massive, most of them leafless now, though here and there a great oak still kept its bronze foliage. Now the road climbed over heathery moorland, becoming even narrower and more stony; sometimes they must splash through a ford, or scrape along a narrow, deep-banked lane. The forest hamlets through which they passed grew more and more infrequent; their pace was necessarily slow, and, as the hour of noon came and went, Juliana began to feel quite hollow with hunger, for she had been too tired to eat much on the previous evening, and had taken very little breakfast.

She would have liked to ask the driver if he thought they were nearly at their destination, but she did not wish to risk disturbing her father, who had fallen into a kind of restless sleep, twitching and moaning in his
corner
.

At last, when they reached a woodland crossroads, she was delighted to observe a signpost which said on one of its arms: “Flintwood 2 miles.” A mile, she recalled, was somewhat less than a league, so they must be fairly close to the end of their journey. Presently the road began to improve. The banks were trim, the surface was well kept, and soon they drove between a handsome pair of gates and, coming out through a grove of large beech trees, found themselves within sight of a house—a chateau, Juliana thought it might have been called in France; not a castle, nor exactly a mansion, but a largish, rambling, comfortable-looking gentleman
’
s residence built in rosy, ancient brick, with tall twisted chimneys.

“That
’
ll be Flintwood Manor,” called back the driver, evidently quite as relieved as Juliana to come within sight of his goal. “Reckon
‘
ee
’
ll be glad enough to jump down and stretch your legs then, missie
!
Massy me, I niver did goo to such an out-o
’
-the-road spot—I reckon myself a New Forester born an
d
bred, but I niver set foot here in my life afore. Time an
’
agen I made sartain we was lost.”

He cracked his whip to encourage the horses to trot forward in style. The approach to the house lay over a stretch of rough, grassy parkland, sparsely set with clumps of large trees, over which the road ran straight and unfenced, so that they must be observed from the windows of the house, if there were anyone at home. While they traversed this stretch of road, Juliana had ample opportunity for many conflicting anxieties: suppose her grandfather should be ill, dead, away from home, the house empty? General Paget might have died during the year since his son had written to him. Or, on the other hand, he might be at home—indeed, a blue thread of smoke ascending from one of the chimneys certainly suggested that
somebody
was there—but he might be entertaining fashionable company—dozens of elegant strangers
—
not at all disposed to welcome the sudden arrival of his ill, weary son and dirty, travel-worn granddaughter. Or perhaps he had sold his ancestral home to strangers, on whom the travelers would not have the slightest claim
...

The chaise pulled up beside a wide flight of shallow brick steps which led up to the main entrance—a massive oaken door set in under a round archway. To Juliana
’
s mingled relief and apprehension, a black-clad manservant appeared in the doorway, descended the steps as the carriage rolled to a stop, and came to open its door.

“Good day. I am Sir Horace Paget
’
s granddaughter,” Juliana informed the man, in her pretty, accented English, thinking to herself how strange the words sounded. “I am come with my father—Mr. Charles Paget—we have just arrived from France. I believe my grandfather is expecting us?”

“Yes, miss,” said the man, whose expressionless face gave no intimation as to whether he meant that Juliana and her father were indeed expected, or merely that he had heard and understood what she said.

“My father is—is not quite well,” Juliana went on hurriedly. “The journey has fatigued him dreadfully—he is sleeping at present. I think it—it might be best if you could summon assistance—perhaps he could be carried in a chair—and taken straight to a bed?”

“I will apprise Sir Horace of your arrival, miss, and instruct some of the footmen to assist Mr. Charles and see to the disposal of your baggage,” said the expressionless major-domo. “Would you care to step this way, miss?”

Juliana, however, did not like to leave her father, or rouse him until more practical help was forthcoming, and so she waited beside the carriage, feeling very uncomfortable, and very conspicuous, as if all the diamond-paned windows of the house were holding her under observation. She was wretchedly conscious of her hair, which hung in rat
’
s-tails, for any order achieved with the aid of the landlady
’
s comb had long since been deranged by the jolting of the carriage. The inn mirror had told her that she was pale and hollow-eyed. As for our baggage, she thought, no doubt the revolutionary mayor of St.-Servan has long since confiscated it. I only hope that one of my grandfather
’
s housemaids is somewhere near my size, so that I can borrow a nightgown from her.

“Papa,” she said tentatively through the open carriage door. “I—I believe this must be Grandfather coming to greet you.”

A tall old man was slowly descending the shallow steps, with the aid of a cane. She had time to observe that his likeness to her father was very pronounced. He had the same classic regularity of feature, the same clear blue eyes. But his face lacked the gentleness and kindliness of her father
’
s: it seemed
stern
, set in austere and humorless lines. He wore a somewhat old-fashioned costume of black frock coat, knee breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He wore a wig, but his eyebrows were frosty white.

Juliana walked forward to meet him and curtsied.

“How do you do, sir?” she said. “I—I believe I cannot mistake? Are you not my grandfather?”

He quickly withdrew his hands behind his back, looking at her without visible pleasure, and ejaculated a loud “Humph!” After a moments frowning survey of her, with his lips pressed together and jaw thrust forward, he remarked, “At all events, you don
’
t appear to favor that designing hussy. Don
’
t know who you
do
favor! Not anybody in
my
family. Well, don
’
t stand there mum, girl! Where
’
s your father?”

“He—he has been sadly indisposed, sir,” Juliana said, greatly taken aback by this brusque greeting. Her heart sank; as on several occasions during the course of the journey, she passionately wished herself back in Florence. “He has been sleeping on the way hither, and I waited to rouse him until I was sure that—”

A flash of some unrecognizable emotion lightened momentarily her grandfather
’
s bleak countenance. Juliana was not sure what it expressed. Pleasure at his son
’
s safe arrival? Concern? Regret? Next moment it had passed and, scowling as before, muttering, “Damned young fool to have left it so late,” he pulled back the carriage door, saying gruffly, “Well, Charles! Home at last—and not before it was time, eh?”

“Why—Father—is that you?” Charles Elphinstone murmured faintly, and he endeavored to rise from the coach seat, pushing himself up with his thin hands.

“Take care, Papa—let me help you!” exclaimed Juliana, moving swiftly forward. “He is grievously weak, sir,” she added in an undertone to Sir Horace.

“Very well—very well,” replied the latter testily, extending his left arm. “I can help him, girl—I am not in my grave yet! Come along, my boy—lean on my shoulder—that
’
s it!”

Swaying with weakness, Juliana
’
s father was assisted from the vehicle, the driver coming round to take his other arm. A little group of liveried footmen now appeared at the head of the steps and stood awaiting instructions.

Charles Elphinstone took a deep breath and looked all around him, at the mellow brick house, the green grass, the leafless trees.

“Very—very beautiful!” he said unsteadily. “Just the way
—
I remembered it—many and many a time—my dear father!” and he swayed forward out of his father
’
s grasp, and pitched onto his face on the steps, and lay still.

Juliana gave one short cry—“Papa!”—and then stood, with her hands pressed to her breast, as they carried him carefully into the house, two footmen on each side.

Sir Horace limped alongside the little cortege, furiously shouting instructions.

“Put him in the morning room—lay him on the sofa! Fetch brandy—cordials—a hot brick—tell Mrs. Hurdle—send Will on Firefly for the surgeon—no, for Dr. Garrett. Damme, has no one any sense round here?”

Numbly, Juliana followed the procession into a stiff, old
-
fashioned room, with furniture primly aligned against the walls, where her father was laid down upon a narrow couch, and his head was supported by a stiff bolster. Juliana went and stood by him, looking down into his face.

Then she looked up at her grandfather.

“He is dead,” she said quietly.

The old man stared at her angrily, his face working.

“Nonsense, gal! Stuff and nonsense! How can he be dead? I never heard such tomfoolery! A drop of cordial, and he
’
ll be as fit as fivepence.”

Juliana shook her head. But the effort to convince him seemed too hard for her to undertake. Her throat was clogged; she could find no more words. Dimly, beyond her grandfather, she noticed a group of females: a plump lady, pink-faced, fashionably dressed, with a profusion of golden ringlets; and beyond her, staring eagerly past her shoulders, a pair of girls in striped dresses who, to Juliana
’
s clouded, bewildered vision, appeared indistinguishable; they swam together, they separated, they were the same person, but divided into different places
...

The lady let out a slight scream. “Charles! Oh, my poor dear brother—”

“He is dead,” Juliana repeated hoarsely, and slid to the floor in a deep faint
.

She came to in a dusk-filled room, hours or even days later, it seemed. A sense of terrible anxiety possessed her.

“Papa?” she cried out confusedly. “Are you there? Do you wish to dictate? I am sure I could write—the balloon does not sway too badly—”

“Ah, poor little dear,” a voice remarked. “She does not remember. And who
’
s to tell her? Eh, mercy me, what a journey she must have had of it, with him. Best she remain abed until after the funeral.”

Funeral? Juliana
’
s mind came together, and she remembered.

“Papa is dead—is he not?” she whispered.

“Yes, my poor dearie—but try not to think about it,” answered the voice.
“Just
you drink this and lay down easy now. You
’
re a-going to be took care of, and there
’
s naught to worrit ye.”

She looked up into a round pink face, set in a huge white frill of cap. A firm, plump arm lifted her into a reclining position, and a cup was held to her lips.

“That
’
s the dandy,” said the voice encouragingly. “Just you drink old Hurdle
’
s posset—white wine whey wi
’
a drop o
’
summat extry in it—and that
’
ll settle ye comfor
’
ble fo
’
a twelve hours
’
sleep.”

Drinking down the potion, Juliana remembered in a vague way that Mrs. Hurdle was her grandfather
’
s housekeeper. Her father had said, “Old Mrs. Hurdle will look after me
...
”

Two tears forced their way out of her eyes and down her cheeks.