The Smile of the Stranger (3 page)

“Hush!” he said, turning on her so terrible a look that without further question she set about doing his bidding.

II

Two days later the father and daughter were aboard a small packet boat in the Gulf of Genoa. Tuscany being neutral, shipping still plied to and fro between Leghorn and the French Mediterranean ports. By some mysterious means Mr. Wyndham, the British Envoy at the Court of Tuscany, a good friend of Mr. Elphinstone, had procured Swiss papers for the pair, and they traveled as Herr Doktor Eck and his daughter Johanna. Switzerland at that time was still on terms of uneasy friendship with France; therefore as Swiss citizens they might hope to travel through France unmolested, though Juliana worried privately as to what might befall them when they reached a Channel port and must take ship for England. However, that lay untold weeks ahead; no use to fret about it yet. There seemed little doubt that their journey across revolution-torn France must be far slower and more hazardous than it would have been in normal times.

Up to the moment of setting sail Juliana had not dared to question her father about their abrupt and unexpected departure—so harassed, apprehensive, and distraught had been his bearing, so impaired his state of health, so infrequent and nightmare-ridden his brief spells of repose as they journeyed across Italy in a drafty and rattling carriage. Sometimes, at posting stages, he had glanced back along the road, as if expecting to see the tall pale Englishwoman in pursuit, but, so far as Juliana was aware, and greatly to her relief, no further sign had been seen of this personage.

When they were safely afloat and, favored by a calm sea and following wind, were making northwestward, Juliana, observing with unbounded relief her father
’
s happier look and
somewhat easier deportment as the roofs of Leghorn fell away below the horizon, ventured for the first time to make an inquiry.

Little as she wished to worry her distressed parent any further by questioning, she felt it really incumbent upon her to do so. Beneath her youthful vivacity there lay a vein of sound common sense which told her that, reluctant though she must be to entertain the idea, her father
’
s frail health and recklessly self-taxing disposition rendered it unlikely that he would live for many more years. Indeed, so exhausting had this hasty removal proved to his delicate frame that, she owned sorrowfully to herself, the period of life remaining to him might even have to be measured in months. If only he could be brought to follow medical advice! But he nurtured a barely concealed contempt for all Italian doctors and paid very little heed to their admonitions. Perhaps in England he might prove more biddable; this, Juliana thought, was one of the very few factors in favor of their removal.

She herself grieved at quitting Florence, in which city they had lived for nearly ten years, and where the climate appeared to agree with her father. They had acquired few friends, however; Mr. Elphinstone was of a reclusive temperament and seemed to shun his fellow countrymen; their only connections were his professional acquaintances, editors of journals for whom he sometimes wrote articles or did translation, tradespeople from whom they purchased supplies, and the officials at the Envoy
’
s residence who were also glad sometimes to avail themselves of Mr. Elphinstone
’
s services as a translator. If her father were to die, thought Juliana, she would hardly know to whom she might turn; and so far as she knew, she had no other relations. She had been vaguely aware that their way of life—solitary, peaceful, hard-working—was somewhat unusual, but she knew no other.

“Papa?” she ventured as, in the fresh autumn evening, they sat on deck wrapped in capes and watched the sea turn from turquoise to a wonderful shade of amethyst, while the sky
’
s sharp blue faded to a transparent green. “Papa, may I ask you some questions?”

She felt, rather than heard, the deep sigh with which he received her words. But after a pause he replied in a melancholy tone,

“Of course you may ask questions, my dearest child. Believe me, I am fully aware of the self-restraint which has kept you from doing so hitherto. But it is time, alas, that you were informed, at least of such among our circumstances as are fit for your ears
...
How old are you now, Juliana?”

“Papa! What a question to ask your o
w
n daughter! I shall be eighteen on John the Baptist
’
s Day.”

“Eighteen ... to be sure, that is not very old. Yet you are a sensible child. And—it is as well that you should be informed as to our plans. Ask, then, what you wish, my child.”

At this permission, questions jostled together in Juliana
’
s mind. She asked the simplest first.

“Where are we going to in England?”

“We are going to a house called Flintwood Manor, in the county of Hampshire.”

“That is in the south of England, is it not?” Juliana inquired, after consulting a mental map.

“Yes, it is in a region known as the New Forest—though the forest has not been new for some five hundred years. We shall hope to take ship across the Channel to the port of Southampton, from where it is quite a short journey to Flintwood.”

“You think that even in time of war ships will still be crossing the Channel to England?”

“Oh, I daresay there will always be privateers and freebooters,” her father replied dryly. “At a price, doubtless a passage can be found. In my young days I know there was plenty of wool going out, and brandy coming in; I imagine it will still be found to be so.”

“England!” said Juliana musingly. “I have imagined going there for so long! I have wondered so much what it was like,
and wished to see London; especially Whitehall, where poor King Charles lived. Whitehall is such a beautiful name; I picture it all built in gleaming white marble, with orange trees and fountains.”

“Do not get your hopes up too high,” replied her father in a rather quelling manner. “It is not precisely like that; however, you will see it for yourself in due course, doubtless, and will be able to form your own opinions.”

“Why are we going to this Flintwood, Papa? Who lives there?”

“Your grandfather, Juliana.”

“My grandfather,” she said wonderingly. “I did not know that I had one! He is your father, then, Papa?”

“My father, yes.” His tone was far from enthusiastic.

“What is his name?”

“He is called General Sir Horace Tullesley Paget.”

“Paget? Then why is our name Elphinstone?”

“Paget is our real name, Juliana. Elphinstone is the name under which I chose to write my books. I assumed it for—for various reasons.”

“And why have you never spoken of my grandfather before?”

“Because we quarreled, my dear. We have not seen each other in a great many years—since before you were bo
rn
.”

“What was the cause of your quarrel?”

“There were various causes. First, he disapproved of my choice of profession. He wished me to purchase a commission in his regiment—as he had done, and his father, and all my uncles but one. My father could not understand my wish to study history and write for a living—it made him excessively angry.”

“What a stupid reason!” said Juliana. “If
I
have children, I shall allow them to become writers or—or carpenters, whatever they wish.”

“Ay, but you have been brought up in Italy, my little one. In English society, matters are more carefully regulated. And besides, this was twenty, thirty years ago. Children were obliged to mind their parents.”

“Do I not mind you, Papa?”

“Sometimes!” he said, smiling. “But I am not near so strict with you as my father was with me.”

“What were the other reasons for your quarrel?”

“Well,” he replied, much more slowly, “the principal one was that your grandfather did not approve of the lady whom I wished to marry.”

“My mother?”

“Yes, child. Your mother.” His voice was hollow—heavy
—
he stared out over the darkening sea with a look of profound depression.

“Why did Sir Horace not approve of her?” Juliana wanted to know.

“First, because she came from a level of society which, he said, being lower than ours, was an unsuitable source for a partner: she was the daughter of an apothecary. He held that she was after nothing but my money.”

“Your
money?
But we have so little money, Papa. Only what you earn from your writing.”

“
Now
that is so—yes; but your grandfather was—is—quite a rich man.”

“But if you had enough money, why did it matter that you wished to marry a girl who had less?”

“My father was certain that she did not truly love me; that she was merely after money and position. He said she was a sly, scheming, designing hussy.”

Juliana thought about this for a little while. Then she said, “Was that true?”

Her father likewise waited a moment to answer. Then, sighing, he replied, “Yes, my dear. I fear your grandfather was in the right about her. At that time, though, I was but a romantic, idealistic young fool, with my head full of ancient history—notions about chivalry—gallant knights—beautiful ladies—and so on! Laura seemed my ideal of the knight
’
s lady.”

“My mother
’
s name was Laura?”

“Laura Brooke.” He paused, and then said slowly, “And she
was
extremely beautiful—tall, pale, dark-haired—like some queen from a legend of romance.”

“Oh
...”
For some reason Juliana found that these words gave her a curious pang. After a while she asked, “But, in spite of my grandfather
’
s opposition, you married her?”

“Yes, we married. I was of age, so he could not prevent me. But he could—and did—stop my allowance and cut me out of his will. He refused to support me or have anything more to do with me.”

“What happened then?”

Next moment Juliana wished that she had not asked, for her father
’
s face became so full of anguish that she could have bitten out her tongue. But his voice when he replied remained level enough.

“First, my dear,
you
were born—and have been my chief delight and comfort ever since. Then—what followed was precisely what your grandfather had foretold. Your mother, disillusioned by a life of poverty and scraping care, as I tried to earn enough with my pen to support us all, soon decided that—that she had made a mistake in thinking that she loved me. She found others—another, whom she preferred. And so she left me. And you too. You, of course, were only a baby then.”

“So why did you not make up the quarrel with my grandfather?”

“He had said things that—that I could not forgive.”

“And
you
were too proud to acknowledge that you also had been wrong,” Juliana said in a reflective tone. “I know your nature, you see, Papa.”

“Perhaps.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Did you never see my mother again? Did she never wish to see
me
?”

She asked the question wistfully. It seemed to her incredible that another man could be preferred above her father—so handsome, clever, and sweet-natured as he was. And for a mother to go off and desert her own baby—that appeared hardly possible; it was the most strange, unnatural thing she had ever heard. She had always supposed her mother dead. She added tremblingly, “Did you
divorce
her?”

But to this question her father replied, “If you do not mind, my dear, that touches upon topics which are a cause of such anguish and horror to me that I prefer not to recall them. I would rather not speak any more on this subject at this time. In England—when we are rested from the journey—I will tell you the whole history.”

“Oh,
dear
Papa! Indeed, I would not give you pain for the world! Pray do not think of—of telling me anything that you would rather not! I am only sorry to have distressed you so much as I have. I had thought that I ought to know something of our circumstances in case—in case you—”

Her voice faltered to a halt.

He said calmly, “You were very right. And I can tell you also that a year ago—when France declared war on England—I wrote to your grandfather, explaining that—that I was not in the first degree of health, and that if I were to fall ill, or die, it would greatly relieve my anxieties about you if I could be assured that he might be willing to offer you a home—since you are the only thing in the world that I cherish.”

“You wrote to my grandfather a year ago?” She was amazed. “You never told me!”

“There are many things that I do not choose to tell you, Puss.” Her father pinched her cheek.

“And did my grandfather reply?”

“He replied—somewhat stiffly, which was to be expected, but without recriminations. He said that he was now alone, as your grandmother died five years ago—which I had heard—and that we might come to F
l
intwood—either or both of us
—
whenever we wished to do so. He was not cordial—he did not say that we should be
welcome
—his phrases were formal—but he said all that was proper, and intimated that we had a right to come; that he would not bar his door to us.”

Juliana, with her chin propped on her fists, looked thoughtfully at her father.

“His letter was so unwelcoming that you did not wish to accept his offer,” she deduced. “Or at least you wished to postpone accepting it as long as possible. Am I right, Papa?”