The Smile of the Stranger (2 page)

The girl
’
s pen scratched busily, and her father, who had been gazing with absent eyes at the painted ceiling, lowered his gaze to inquire, “Do you have all that down, my dear?”

“Yes, Papa. Oh, how could they have so misunderstood his character? What a thick-skinned, bacon-brained numbskull that Cromwell must have been! Charles was
not
hard-hearted—only single-minded. Only bent upon doing his duty! Consider how he loved his wife and children! Consider how truly religious he was! Consider—”

“Hush, child!” said her father, laughing. “Who is writing this book, pray? Do not put yourself in a passion—due justice shall be done!”

“I am sorry, Papa! Only, when I hear him traduced, it makes me so wild! But I will not interrupt again—I beg your pardon!”

“Now, where was I?”

“Cromwell named Charles
‘
the hardest-hearted man on earth
.’
”

“Ah, yes. The Court, having refused Charles
’
s plea, then reassembled, and Bradshaw made a speech in which he declared that the King, like all citizens, was subject to law, such law having been framed by the Parliament, which was the voice of the people
...
Have you that down, my dear?”

“Just a moment, Papa.” The pen scratched. “Voice of the people—yes, I have it.”

“Mind you write clearly, my love! It is but wasted labor if, after all, my words cannot be read.”

“I am writing my
very
best,” Juliana assured him stoutly.

“I did not mean to offend you, my dear—I know that I can rely on you. Oh,” he sighed impatiently, “if there were but a machine into which a man might speak and his words be impressed upon wax!”

“Now who is being fanciful, Papa? That would be magic. And who needs such a machine, when he has a devoted daughter at beck and call?”

“Very true, my dear!
...
Charles made an attempt to speak in his own defense, but he was at all times an indifferent orator. The impediment in his speech which had troubled him so sorely as a
c
hild came back to plague him at
such times of stress, and while he was stammering and choosing his words, Bradshaw shouted out, interrupting him:
‘
You have not owned us as a court!
...
You look on us as a sort of people met together
.’
”

The girl wrote diligently, and, while he was waiting for her to reach the end of the sentence, her father observed her with absentminded affection.

She made a delightful picture as she sat with her feet curled sideways under her and one elbow resting on the table. Her gold-brown hair rippled about her face in natural ringlets, falling to the nape of her neck in front and caught up at the back in a Grecian knot. Her eyes, wide-set and almond
-
shaped, were dark brown, unlike those of her parent. A smudge of ink on the small chin only added to the charm of her face, which dimpled enchantingly as she looked up and smiled.

“
‘
A sort of people met together
.’
I infer, Papa, that Bradshaw was employing the word
‘
sort
’
in the old-fashioned sense of a group, or number?”

“Yes, child
...
Bradshaw
’
s speech continued, and terminated in a sentence of death.”

Juliana sighed deeply as she wrote, but this time she ventured no comment.

“Charles again attempted to make a declaration in his own defense, but he was dragged out by the soldiers. He cried out bitterly,
‘
I am not suffered for to speak!
’
”

“It was
too
bad! Oh, if I had been there!”

“If you had been there, you, single-handed, would have vanquished Cromwell, Bradshaw, Cawley, and the rest of the impeachers!”

“I would have made
such
a speech!” Her fists clenched at the thought. Then she recollected herself, and said, “I beg your pardon, Papa! I will not interrupt again.”

Nor did she. More than two hours passed by, during which her father dictated uninterruptedly and she, with tireless hand, wrote down his words. Occasionally, during the
affecting description of Charles
’
s final words and execution, she surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye, with the hand that was not writing, but she made no complaint of fatigue, as the measured periods continued to flow from the author
’
s mouth.

After the execution had been described in all its grim detail, Juliana did glance up hopefully, but, her father immediately proceeding to a discussion of the Martyr-Kings character and difficulties, she obediently continued setting down his words. Only when he said, “Warwick informs us that Charles seldom ate of more than three dishes at most, nor drank above thrice, a glass of small beer, another of claret wine, and the last of water,” did she remark, taking the opportunity to rub her right wrist, as her father s flow of speech was cut short by a coughing spell, “Papa, dear, let me pour
you
a glass of wine. Your throat must be dry with so much work. And I believe I had better light the lamp; I can hardly see what I have written.”

“Very well, my dear. But no wine for me; a cup of water will be sufficient.”

When the lamp was lit he proposed going on again, but his throat was now in reality so weary that the frequency of his cough finally obliged him to desist. Juliana carefully collated all her pages together, and put a book on top of them, choosing the heaviest from the large number of volumes that lay strewn about within reach of her father
’
s chaise longue. His eye followed her actions wistfully, and he said, “I will read through those pages after I have rested for a moment or two. By the time I have perused them, I daresay I shall be fit to recommence.”

“First you
must
take a little nourishment, Papa. No!”—as he protested. “You must, love, you must indeed! Otherwise I—I shall rebel! I shall refuse to take down your dictation. Look, here is a supporting broth which kind old Annunciata has left for you—let me but heat a little of it over the brazier.” He was very unwilling, but, presently recollecting that
Juliana herself had taken no nourishment since breakfast, he at last permitted her to prepare a simple repast for both of them. While he was sipping the broth, he kindly inquired, “Did you have a pleasant outing, my dear? Were there many people abroad on the Ponte Vecchio?”

“Oh, a great many! Now try a grape or two, Papa”—as he pushed away the half-finished broth. “The day has been so warm and pleasant,” she went on, without betraying any hint of the fact that she might have wished to be out in it rather more than for one hasty trip to buy her father some handkerchiefs, “that multitudes of people were strolling by the river. Oh, that reminds me, Papa, of the amusing episode that I had intended relating to you.” And she recounted, with considerable natural vivacity and many lively turns of phrase, the confrontation between the haughty but shabby lady traveler and the shrewd and redoubtable Signora Neroni. She omitted her only half-founded suspicion regarding the lady
’
s theft of a pair of gloves, feeling that it would be wrong to blacken the character of someone who was not there to defend herself, and ended, “Now, Papa, was that not a diverting occurrence? Was it not singular that she should have applied to
me
for your direction? You see, your fame is being bruited abroad, and all Florence will soon know that it has a distinguished Englishman of letters living in its midst, despite kind Mr. Wyndham
’
s being so obliging as to keep your address a secret
!
”

“You did not give the lady our direction?” her father interrupted. His tone was sharp. He had gone very pale—even paler than before.

“Now, Papa, you know me better than that, I should hope! I know your dislike of tuft hunters and sycophants. I am fully aware of your desire for privacy and seclusion—I know you do not wish to be hunted out and toad-eaten by any sensation seeker who has read your books and wishes to sit at the feet of the author. I did no such thing, but, with the most
poker-faced discretion in the world, replied,
“I
am afraid, ma
’
am, that I cannot help you
.
Did I not do right?”

He breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief. “Yes, my dear
!
Of course. I might have known that I could rely upon you.”

After which he sat silent for many minutes, a half-eaten bunch of grapes dangling from his fingers, while he gazed ahead of him.

Juliana, too, had been pensive, chin on hand.

“It is a queer thing, Papa,” she said at length. “I did not observe it at the time, but, recollecting that lady—something about her, I do not know what—perhaps the tone of her voice—has brought back to me an episode of my very early childhood—at least I am not fully certain that it happened at all—did I perhaps dream it? When we were living in Geneva—when I was very small—I seem to recall something that took place in a boat
—was
it in a boat? I can remember your shouting—you were very angry—and some person holding me up—you taking me from them—”

She had been saying these things in a musing tone, staring into the red heart of the brazier as she tried to piece together her early recollections, but now she looked up and, aghast, discovered her father white as a corpse, staring at her with dilated eyes.

“
Dio mio,
what is it, Papa?” she cried out, breaking into Italian in her agitation. “You look as if you had seen a ghost! What is the matter, for God
’
s sake, tell me?”

“The Englishwoman!” he said harshly. “Describe her! What age was she? What was her dress? What did she look like?”

“Tall,” faltered Juliana. “Decidedly shabby—I noticed a great da
rn
in her glove, and a patch on the toe of her boot
-
long face like a horse—dark eyes, I think—her voice rather deep and loud—and I observed that she wore on her right hand, over her glove, a ring of white stone, shaped into the form of a unicorn
’
s head. I observed that most particularly because it was so
—
Papa
!”

A bitter groan had burst from him.

“It is she! God damn her, the fiend! I thought I had shaken her off at last. How has she managed to find out my whereabouts? I thought I was safe to end my days here!”

“Papa?” Juliana was trembling. “Who is it? Who is she? Oh, what is the matter?”

For he had sprung agitatedly to his feet and, with trembling hands, was attempting to assemble together some of the piles of books and papers that lay strewn about the room.

“We must leave instantly!” he ejaculated. “There is no time to be lost if that archdevil is in Florence. At any moment some unthinking person may betray my direction.”

“Leave? Leave
Florence
?
” Juliana stared at him in consternation. “But we have lived here for so long—ever since I was eight! You mean—go away altogether? Leave Tuscany? For good?”

“Yes, yes! Quick! Find the basket trunk! And the hamper and bandbox. And my portmanteau! I will go down to bespeak a chaise. Or, no”—recollecting. “Perhaps it is best if you go. But wear a cloak—a hood. Do you have a loo mask?”

“A loo mask, Papa?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “What ever should I want with such an article?”

“Then muffle the cloak around your face. Bid the chaise be here as soon as the horses can be set to!”

“But, Papa,” said Juliana, wondering if her father had suddenly run mad, “pray consider! I doubt if any chaise may be had so late in the evening! Remember the hour! Will it not do if I go in the morning? Directly the sun has risen, if you wish.”

“Very true—you are right,” he sighed.

“And where are we to go?”

“To England.”

“To
England
?”
She could scarcely believe him. “But how are we to get there? A chaise will not take us to England.”

“We will travel by stagecoach across France. Or, no”
—
recollecting. “I am so shocked I forget that France has declared war on England. As English subjects, that way is barred to us. We must go by sea, from Leghorn.”

“All the way around Spain?” Juliana was horrified. “Papa, you
must
not
!
Do you not remember that Dr. Penzarro said a sea voyage was not to be thought of—that the pitching of a ship would be the worst thing possible—that time when you were wishing to go to Constantinople? Oh, I am sure you should not—I beg you not to think of it.”

“Child, I
must
think of it. But it is true,” he said, after a pause, frowning, “they say all the English are beginning to leave—embarking from Leghorn.
She
might, also. I must reflect. I will write a note to Mr. Wyndham—perhaps he may be able to help us. He has been a good friend. I shall be obliged, my dear, if you can summon young Luigi Fontini, and tell him that I shall require him to carry a note to the Envoy
’
s residence—and, if Mr. Wyndham is not there, to seek him out.”

“Very well, Papa,” she said obediently.

“And, when you have done that, help me pack our possessions.
I
will attend to my papers—do you concern yourself with our clothes, and other belongings. Fortunately we have not much! We must, in any case, have left within a few months,” he murmured to himself, and, to Juliana
’
s inquiring glance, added rather hastily, “It is said that the French are certain to invade Tuscany.”

With trembling hands he began inserting books into a canvas bag, breaking off to admonish Juliana, “If anybody knocks at the door—do not answer!”

“Oh, dearest Papa—truly I am not sure that you are well enough—”