The Smile of the Stranger (18 page)

“Yes, that is an excellent suggestion,” said Juliana, feeling that matters were being made almost too easy for her. She put on her worn old pelisse, over the brown worsted dress that she had worn all through France, which was by now quite shabby enough to belong to a milkmaid. In her pocket she tucked an
apron and mobcap, she hung a small basket over her arm and, so equipped, left her grandfather
’
s house.

It wanted still nearly two hours to ten o
’
clock, but she was far too restless to remain within doors.

The forest calmed her, as she walked quickly and lightly northward along the Winchester road. Tiny vivid leaves were uncurling on the oaks and beeches; the pale yellow of primroses gleamed among mosses and last year
’
s leaves at the side of the track. Birds were shrilling and chattering overhead, and she sometimes caught a glimpse of distant deer and fawns slipping silently between the bushes.

Half an hour
’
s walking brought her to the stone cross where four ways met. Consulting her father
’
s watch, which she wore pinned to her belt, she discovered that she had nearly an hour and a half to wait, so, in order to avoid notice, she retired some distance from the road, and sat herself on a grassy bank, where she could inhale the sharp cool fragrance of the primroses. For half an hour she was very happy in the dappled sunshine. Then, unfortunately, the sun retired behind a bank of cloud, and Juliana began to feel rather chilly. Presently rain set in; a gentle spring rain at first, which increased by degrees to a drenching downpour. By the time Captain Davenport
’
s carriage came into view, Juliana was decidedly damp, for at that time of year the trees afforded but little shelter. However, her lover
’
s face was so radiant at the sight of her standing by the roadside that she had not the heart to point out that he was quite half an hour behind the time specified. He was driving the chaise himself, and jumped down from the box to greet her.

“My dear, dearest creature
!
” He wrapped his arms round her and swung her off her feet. “I had such a fear that you would not have come, after all! I cannot describe how rejoiced I was to see you here!” He set her down, not appearing to notice how wet she was. “At last we are truly alone together!” he murmured, gazing deep into her eyes, and he set his lips on hers. Juliana could not help being startled, and a little disturbed, at the violence of his kiss. It seemed so unlike him! She had experienced nothing like this! Would Charles the First, she fleetingly wondered, have thus saluted his soaking
-
wet ladylove in a storm of spring rain, on the high road, at a time when it was critically necessary that they should leave the vicinity without delay? As Captain Davenport
’
s lips explored hers with greater and greater urgency, Juliana, out of breath and swayed almost off her feet, could not avoid the feeling that Charles the First would have comported himself far otherwise. Captain Davenport, she was obliged to admit to herself, seemed today in some way different from her previous imaginings.

At this moment—perhaps fortunately—the passionate embrace was interrupted by a shrill, indignant voice from the inside of the chaise, which called out, “Do not do so! How dare you do so!”

“Oh, devil take it!” exclaimed Captain Davenport, relinquishing his hold of Juliana.

She, greatly shaken, turned to see a small dirty face, framed in pale flaxen curls, gazing disapprovingly out of the carriage window. It appeared to be that of a child of three or four years old.

“Who in the world is
that
?”
demanded Juliana, in a tone of the liveliest astonishment.

“Deuce take the brat!” he growled. “I had almost forgot her. I thought she was sleeping. Quiet, you!” he called to the child.

“But who is she?” inquired Juliana. “And why have you brought her along?”

“Why,” he said, “do you not think it a clever notion? Persons along the way who see a couple with a child will never think that we are eloping!”

“No—that is true,” Juliana was obliged to acknowledge. However, it seemed to her that the complications of traveling with such a small child
might well outweigh the advantages. “Whose is she? How did you come by her?”

“Well—in point of fact,” he admitted in a lower tone, “I did not bring her expressly for the purpose of deceiving onlookers; she is the offspring of—of a servant of my friends in Southampton who suffered an accident and was unable to look after the brat; so, as I was coming in this direction, I agreed to convey the child as far as Petworth, where some uncle or cousin is supposed to take her off me and carry her to the farm of her grandfather, which lies thereabouts.”

“I see,” said Juliana. “That was very good-natured of you. But should we not be on our way? The rain is rather heavy; also it grows late, and I am a little afraid of being observed by some of my grandfather
’
s people along this portion of the road.”

“Oh, very well,” he said rather shortly. “It is not my fault! I was delayed—the roads are so miry that the horses made wretchedly slow work of it. I suppose you had best travel inside the carriage—why in the world did you not provide yourself with a thicker pelisse? Did you remember to bring a cap and apron?”

“Yes—I will put them on,” she said, somewhat chilled by his tone.

“Do it in the carriage—if you are so anxious to be off!”

He opened the door for her, slammed it when she had got in, sprang to the box, and lashed up his pair of horses into a quick canter. Juliana, feeling a little low-spirited, sat herself down inside and, with some difficulty, due to the swaying motion of the carriage, discarded her soaked pelisse, and drew from her pocket the cap and apron she had purloined. She tucked all her hair inside the cap, pulled the strings tight, and tied them in a bow on top of her head. The ample cotton apron covered her gown and reached to her ankles.

All of her actions were studied with what seemed acute hostility by the child, who sat curled up in one
corner
, with her arm tucked through the seat strap. She was a skinny little creature, thin-faced and freckled, neatly enough clad in a gingham dress, white cotton stockings, buckled shoes, and a sunbonnet, but she looked somewhat puny and underfed, and was evidently suffering pain from a spot on her sharp little nose, a large inflamed red carbuncle which looked excessively sore.

“What you doin
’
that for?” she presently demanded with scorn as Juliana put on the apron. “You can
’
t sweep in here. There bain
’
t a broom.” Her accent was somewhat rough, though she spoke clearly enough.

“I am putting these things on in exchange for my pelisse, which was wet,” Juliana replied, hanging the latter garment from a hook. “What is your name, my little girl?”

“Shan
’
t say” was the reply, accompanied by a very disagreeable grimace.

“Don
’
t be saucy to the lady,” called back Captain Davenport sharply—he could hear their conversation, for the slide window was open. “The child
’
s name is Prue,” he told Juliana.

“How old are you, Prue?” Juliana persevered, hoping to overcome the little girl
’
s unfriendliness, but all she had in reply was an outstretched tongue and the words “Shan
’
t tell
you
!”

Captain Davenport, evidently irritated, lashed up his horses to a yet faster pace. The carriage swayed about so much that the child was presently dislodged from her perch and thrown to the floor, where she banged her nose and wept exceedingly. Nonetheless, she furiously repulsed Juliana, with small dusty fists, when the latter would have attempted to comfort her.

“Go
‘
way! I don
’
t like you! Go
‘
way!”

“I believe it may be better if you do not drive quite so fast,” Juliana suggested to Captain Davenport.

“What now?” he demanded angrily. “First you complain because I am late; and now you say do not go so fast. There seems to be no pleasing you!”

Juliana, though far from welcoming the presence of a rude, unfriendly little girl on what ought to have been her romantic elopement, nonetheless felt sorry for the child, and somewhat concerned about her. Plainly some of these repulsive manners might be due to anxiety about what was to happen to her, missing her mother, or pain from her injured nose.

“I daresay you will enjoy visiting your grandfather
’
s farm,” Juliana told her hopefully. “Have you been there before?”

“Shan
’
t say.”

“There may be ducks and geese; perhaps lambs and pigs
—
shall you like to play with them?”

No reply—unless a very vulgar noise could be counted as
one.

“I am sorry that your mama is ill,” Juliana persevered. “What is the matter with her?”

“Tillie? She fell downstairs and broke her leg,” called back Captain Davenport, who appeared to be following the conversation with a close ear. “She will be laid up until it mends.” He sounded as irritated as if the wretched Tillie had done it on purpose, or as if he himself had undergone the mishap. Juliana supposed that he was now greatly regretting the good-natured impulse that had prompted him to bring the child. He continued to whip along his horses at a punishing pace. The carriage, an old, hired one, was exceedingly drafty; rain and wind blew in through various cracks, as well as through the sliding panel that gave onto the box. Juliana, in her worsted dress, felt decidedly chilly, and was of the opinion that the child, clad only in gingham, must be half frozen.

“Have you no cloak, my dear? I do not believe you should be out driving in just that thin dress and pinafore.”

Prue made no reply to this until asked twice over, but at last she answered sulkily,
“
Have
got a cloak.”

“Where is it, then? It is best that you put it on.”

Prue unwillingly pulled it from under her; she had been sitting on it in order to give herself height to see out of the window. Searching about, Juliana discovered an old horsehair-stuffed cushion under the seat, which she substituted for the cloak, earning a scowl, perhaps of surprise, from the child, who muttered, “I ain
’
t a-going to put on that cloak, not whatever you says. That be all to
rn
—and it don
’
t fit me neether.”

It was, in fact, not a cloak but a pelisse. Since it was nowhere near Prue
’
s size, and was, moreover, in a sad state of disrepair, Juliana inferred that it had been hastily acquired and thrust in at the last minute.

“Well, it certainly is torn, and much too large for you as well, I can see,” she agreed, critically holding it up. “But I believe these faults can be remedied. How very lucky it is that I always carry a needle and thread in my reticule. If I take large tucks down the seams—like this—and shorten the sleeves by turning them up at the cuffs—so—and move these buttons across the front—and turn up the hem—which, by good fortune, does away with the worst of the rents—I think it may be made to fit you quite tolerably.”

She was accompanying her words by taking the appropriate measures. At first the child deliberately ignored her, turning a hostile shoulder and staring out of the window at a line of grass-covered hills which they were now passing on their left. But presently she wriggled round, and began to watch what Juliana did with a kind of amazed attention.

“Those hills are the South Downs,” Captain Davenport called back after a while. He sounded more cheerful. “Now we are in Sussex! Soon we shall come to Chichester, and then it is only fifteen miles or so to Petworth.”

“What happens at Petworth?” asked Juliana.

“That is where we leave Prue.”

Juliana was relieved that he seemed in better spirits. She had been much afraid that his curt manner meant he was now bitterly regretting the whole adventure but could see no honorable way of going back from it.

However, beyond Chichester—a pleasant old town with red-roofed houses, a tall-spired cathedral, and a market cross like a little round chapel where the four main streets met—his spirits unfortunately received another check. They had been obliged to slow to a walking pace in order to negotiate the cobbled streets of the town, and when Captain Davenport attempted to whip up his horses to their previous brisk speed, one of them made no effort to obey the lash, but continued at a plodding pace, forcing its companion to a similar dawdling progress. A man by the roadside called out, “No use larruping that un, measter
!
‘
E be dead lame, surelye!”

Cursing, Captain Davenport descended from the box, and discovered the truth of this statement.

“God rot the swindling scoundrel that hired me this wretched turnout!” he exclaimed in a passion. “Now what
’
s to be done?”

Juliana, who had just hastily finished cobbling together little Prue
’
s pelisse by turning up the hem with very long basting stitches, now laid the coat on the seat, opened the stiff door with some difficulty, and, joining Captain Davenport, agreed with him that the horse was not fit to go any farther.

“But look,” she said, “is that not an inn, a little farther along the road? Yes—I can see a sign, the Coach and Horses. Surely they might be able to furnish us with another horse? How fortunate we are that the mishap occurred so close to a source of help.”

“True—I suppose they may have a horse,” agreed Captain Davenport, slowly and doubtfully. He turned to look at Juliana. For the first time in several hours, his engaging smile lightened the harassed, irritable expression that had overhung his countenance. “But—the difficulty is—you will think me a
wretchedly unhandy conspirator, my dear, by the fact is that it is pockets to let with me—I used up my last five guineas hiring this accursed rattletrap and spavined pair, and shall not be able to lay my hands on any more blunt until we reach Pet
—
until we come to my sister
’
s.
”

“Oh, if
that
is all your worry,” Juliana said, relieved, “you may set your mind at rest, for I have some money on me, enough to hire another horse, I am sure.”

“You have?” His face cleared wonderfully. “My dearest angel, I might have known that I could depend upon you!”

The matter was soon arranged. Captain Davenport led the equipage, at a walking pace, as far as the inn, where the landlord engaged to supply them with another horse in five minutes; there was one out at pasture, he said, that would take the gentleman fifty miles without turning a hair. The new horse having been brought and put to between the shafts, they were soon on their way again.

Hitherto they had traveled in an easterly direction, along the coast, but beyond the Coach and Horses they tinned north, inland, and soon began to ascend the grassy gentle slopes of the South Downs. After climbing several moderate hills, they reached one that was decidedly steep; Captain Davenport requested that, in order to spare the horses, his passengers should get out and walk up. This Juliana was very ready to do, for the rain had now ceased, and she welcomed the prospect of a walk to warm her up. Little Prue, however, was very reluctant to get out. She did, indeed, agree to put on her mended pelisse, and even surveyed herself with some approval, but at the order to walk she cried and whimpered and screamed that she did not wish to walk, hated walking, detested walking!

“What difference can her small weight make? Let her stay in,” suggested Juliana, but the exasperated Captain Davenport, muttering something about spoiled brats, forcibly dumped her in the road, whereupon she sat down, flatly refused to stir a step, and had to be dragged to her feet with a box on the ear by the furious captain. He then stamped away to lead the horses, leaving the disciplining of Prue to Juliana, who, by alternate cajoling and sternness, by telling stories, lavish promises of sugarplums when they should reach Petworth, and an occasional sharp reprimand, finally managed to persuade the child as far as the top of the hill.

There, jigging about uncomfortably on one leg, she complained that she wished to go to the closet.

“Well, there
’
s no closet here,” said Captain Davenport impatiently. “You will just have to go behind a bush. Rim behind one of those bramble clumps over there. Hurry up!” He pointed to a green slope set about with may trees in blossom. “Heaven deliver me from ever again traveling with a child,” he growled as Prue went off in a dawdling, reluctant manner, with many suspicious glances back over her shoulder.

“Poor child, she probably fears that we may go off and abandon her,” said Juliana.

“I would like nothing better
!
Hey, but I
’
m weary,” he added, throwing the reins over a signpost that stood where four white chalky tracks met on the hilltop. “Let us sit in the carriage until that ill-conditioned imp reappears.”

Juliana would have preferred to look about her at the grassy, bushy slopes that curved away in every direction around them, but Captain Davenport, taking her hand, assisted her into the carriage. He jumped up beside her and enveloped her in a passionate embrace, pulling her down beside him on the seat.

“Stop—stop—oh, pray, stop!” gasped Juliana, hardly able to catch her breath between his kisses.

“How
can
I stop? It is driving me mad—being so close to you and yet prevented from showing what I feel,” he muttered, clasping her so tightly that she feared her ribs might crack.

“Sir—Captain Davenport—”

“Francis, my angel—call my Francis!”

“I do not think we should be doing this until—until
we—
”

“Hush! How can I help it?” He covered her mouth with
his.

In vain did Juliana try to thrust him away. And she was becoming seriously alarmed at what seemed a total inattention to their situation on his part, when help arrived, in the form of a small human whirlwind. Crying, “Do not do that, do not do so!” little Prue scrambled back into the carriage and forced herself jealously between the pair, pushing and hammering at Captain Davenport with her fists.

“Oh, confound you, you hell-begotten little pestilence! Get out of the carriage and stay out!” he growled.

“No, I will not! You are not to kiss that lady!”

“She is in the right—and we should in any case be on our way,” hastily agreed Juliana, who had had time to withdraw into a
corner
of the carriage, retie the strings of her mobcap, and shake her dress into order. “Did you not say that Prue
’
s relations were to receive her at midday? And it is already long past that hour. It is nearly three!”

“Damn them, they will just have to wait!” But receiving a somewhat quelling look from Juliana, he at last jumped sulkily out of the carriage, gathered up the reins, and returned to his box. Juliana had barely time to close the door before he cracked his whip and the carriage started with a jolt.

Now their way lay downhill, down a slope which soon became much steeper than the one they had slowly and with such difficulty ascended. Captain Davenport was soon obliged to put on the drag, to prevent the carriage rolling down on top of the horses, who snorted nervously and slipped on the smooth chalk track. Captain Davenport was too preoccupied with reining back his team to address any remarks to Juliana, who, in any case, was not in a mood for conversation. In fact, she found herself momently more distressed and concerned at her situation. She began to ask herself whether she had not committed a terrible blunder in agreeing to this elopement.