The Smile of the Stranger (4 page)

“You will think me selfish, my love, I fear, but I did greatly wish to complete my
Vindication of King Charles I
before removing to Flintwood. Your grandfather was always so wholly unsympathetic to my writing. And we have been happy in Florence, have we not? I know I should have been considering
your
interests—”

“
My
interests? What have they to say to anything?”

“Why, as a young lady of respectable birth, you should be learning to move in Polite Circles, instead of keeping house in a tenement and cooking on a brazier in Florence. Your aunt would be scandalized, without a doubt—”

“Oh, have I an aunt?” she said, all curiosity.

“My elder sister Caroline. She married a baronet and has two daughters; I daresay she will be prepared to bring you out in society, for she was used to go to all the
ton
parties; her husband, at one time, was on the fringe of the Carlton House set.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, the Prince of Wales and his friends. My sister Caroline was always the most empty-headed fool possible; I doubt if time will have improved her. I believe her husband turned from fashionable circles to political ones—but with as little distinction, I imagine. He was always a dull stick.”

Her father
’
s tone was so impatient that Juliana did not pursue the question of her aunt
’
s family.

“Does my grandfather know that you have written several historical works under the name of Charles Elphinstone? That your life of George Villiers received wide acclaim?”

“I fear, my love, that your grandfather is not to be impressed by the writing of books! He has rarely opened one in his life, unless it might be a history of some military campaign, or a treatise on strategy. He is a soldier first and last
.
Whether my books received acclaim or not would be of no account to
him.
But no, I have not told him. And I do not plan to do so. That is one reason why they have all been written under a nom de plume. I knew that your grandfather would detest the thought of the family name being used in such a context
.”

“I do
not
think that I shall like my grandfather,” was Juliana
’
s comment.

“I devoutly hope that you will endeavor to do so, my child
!
He is a man of just and upright principle, strict attention to duty, and impeccable religious beliefs. His military career was not marked by—by any outstanding success in the field—he commanded a brigade in the American war—but I understand that his careful regard to detail and his consideration for his men have earned him the respect of his peers.”

Juliana did not voice her opinion that her grandfather sounded to her like a dead bore; instead she remarked, “I believe, Papa, that we should go below. The evening air is too cool for you. You are coughing a great deal, and that is bad.”

“Yes, I fear that you are right, my dear. What should I do without my ministering sprite?” he asked playfully, as he rose with difficulty to his feet, supporting himself by leaning on her slight shoulder. Another violent fit of coughing shook him, and he had to clutch at the deck rail while the seizure lasted. His daughter watched, biting her lip with distress, unable to help or relieve him in any way, as he coughed and coughed, pressing a kerchief to his lips. A sailor passing nearby said in alarm,
“
II povero signore!
He should not be on deck—he should be in his bed!”

“Nothing—it is nothing!” Impatiently the sick man shook off the kindly hand laid on his arm, and began haltingly to make his way toward the companion ladder. But Juliana noticed with terror that the kerchief he had been pressing to his lips and now returned to his pocket was patched and stained with blotches of vivid scarlet.

Six weeks later the travelers were approaching the port of St.-Malo in Brittany. Their journey across France had been slow and difficult enough to justify Juliana
’
s worst forebodings. Sometimes she felt that it might even have been better to risk the effects of a long sea passage on her father
’
s constitution; that way at least they might have been certain of a landfall. But now, although so close to the Channel coast, they still were not sure of being able to cross the narrow strip of water that lay so tantalizingly between them and England. And the weather had been bad, the roads had been vile, the transport had been uncertain; besides which, there were all the hazards of revolutionary officialdom. In these days of the people
’
s government, every town gate and village tax office offered an obstacle, sometimes dangerous; the smaller the place, the more ignorant the natives, the likelier they were, in their new-found arrogance, armed with muskets and knots of red ribbon, to stop all strangers, cross-question them, inspect their papers, lengthily consult lists of proscribed persons in case the travelers
’
names might be found thereon, keep them waiting, and generally harass them in every way possible.

The journey had been a nightmare. On several occasions, furthermore, they had been obliged to stop at tiny places and stay in small country hostelries deficient in almost every convenience or amenity, because the sick man had been too weak to continue on the journey. Even then—lying abed in the dark chamber of some miserable little
auberge
—he
could not bear to be idle, and demanded that Juliana find her pen, procure whatever ink and paper might be at hand, and continue to transcribe from his dictation. Obedient to his wishes, she therefore crouched by ill-placed windows to catch the last of the light, or knelt on the floor because there was no chair, by the light of guttering candles, setting down his final estimate of Charles
’
s character, which was often dictated in a voice so faint with fatigue that she must strain her ears to catch its note. She herself would often be trembling with exhaustion after a day
’
s travel, or shivering from the damp and chill of the inn bedroom; it was fortunate, she frequently reflected, that she was so strong, that her own health remained unimpaired and she was able to help her father with his book as well as ministering to his other needs, without succumbing to the strain of his unremitting requirements. Although the gentlest man in the world, he seemed unaware of how hard he was driving her.

Even in the diligence or stagecoach, as they rumbled on and on, over the monotonous and mud-covered French countryside, he would be thinking of new and important sidelights to the main thread of his book, and might require Juliana to take down notes, often greatly to the surprise, and sometimes suspicion, of their fellow travelers. Once a
douanier
in a small town demanded why, if Monsieur was a Swiss, as it said in his passport, did he dictate and require his young lady to write down in English, as one of their companions in the coach said he had been doing?

Juliana with great presence of mind explained that her father was a professor of English history, which necessitated his writing in English. The
douanier
scratched his head doubtfully at this, and she added with a stroke of inspiration, “My father, Citizen, is making a study of Cromwell
’
s Glorious Revolution, and the execution of the renegade ci-devant Royalist usurper Charles Stuart—see, it is all written down here!” And she held out to him some of the pages that she had been writing.

“I do not read English, Citizeness.”

“No, but you can read the names!” And she pointed out Cromwell, Downes, Cawley, Bradshaw, Charles. The
douanier
slowly peered his way from one to another, and at last said, “Good. The citizen-professor writes a history of the English
revolution—very good. Too bad that revolution did not succeed! Ours is better. You may pass on your way, Citizens.”

“Oh, Papa!” Juliana exclaimed that night in their damp, unsavory bedroom.
“Poor
King Charles I
.
I felt the most wicked traitor to him—saying such things! I am sure he would never have forgiven me
—he
would never have told such a lie! But I was so afraid that if the man knew what your book really said, he might confiscate it, or tear it up.”

“You did very well, Puss,” her father said, smiling. “I should not have had such presence of mind. And I daresay King Charles would condone your act—if he wanted my book published, that is!”

“Of course—that is true. It will establish his good name forever
!
”

The arrival within sight of St.-Malo was an occasion for joy. They stopped for the night in the small fishing village of St.-Servan, where, for a wonder, the inn they chose proved clean and comfortable. And on that evening her father dictated his last paragraph to Juliana, concluded his final peroration, and announced with a sigh, “There! It is finished. And I fear a weary work it has been for you, my pet! You have been an angel—a rock—a monument of forbearance and industry. How many pages of manuscript?”

“Six hundred and two, Papa,” she said faintly.

“Hand me a sheet of paper, my love, and I will make it six hundred and three by adding the title page.”

With a weak and shaky hand he dipped his pen into the standish, and wrote in staggering letters:
A Vindication of King Charles I,
by Charles Elphinstone. Then, underneath, he added, “This work is dedicated to my Dear and Dutiful Daughter Juliana, without whose untiring and faithful help its completion w
oul
d never have been achieved.”

“Oh, Papa!” Reading over his shoulder, Juliana could hardly see the words; her eyes were blinded by tears.

But then he somewhat impaired her pleasure by depositing the unwieldy bundle of manuscript in her arms, and observing, “Now, as soon as you have made a fair copy, Juliana
—
a task that should prove easy and speedy once we are at your grandfathers, for there will be no household duties to distract you from the labor—the book may be sent off to my publisher, Mr. John Murray. How long do you suppose the copying may take you, my love? Could you write as many as ten pages an hour?”

“I—I should rather doubt that, Papa,” faltered Juliana
—
even her stout spirit was a little daunted at the prospect ahead, for the book was more than twice the length of any of his previous works. “For the first hour it is very well, but—but presently one
’
s hand begins to tire! However, you may be sure that I shall do it as speedily as may be. You cannot be any more eager than I am to see it on its way to the publisher
’
s. Only think! Instead of having to ask the British Envoy to undertake its dispatch, you may be able to travel up to London and leave it with Mr. Murray yourself.”

“So I may,” agreed her father, coughing.

At this moment they were startled by a tremendous noise of shouting, the clashing of sabers, and musket shots in the street outside their bedroom window.

“Mercy
!
What is it? What can be happening?” exclaimed Juliana in dismay, running to the window to look out.

“Have a care, my child. Do not let yourself be the target for a bullet. If there is a disturbance, it is best to stay out of sight.”

But Juliana, reckless of his warning, struggled with the stiff casement, pushed it open, and hung over the sill.

“It is a mob,” she soon reported.

“As usual,” commented her father, who was lying on his bed. “Pray, dearest—”

“Men in red caps shouting,
‘
Down with the foreign spy!
’
”

“You do not think it is us they are after?” he said uneasily. “Are they coming this way?”

“No—no—they have got hold of somebody, but I cannot see who it is. Yes, they are bringing him this way. They are all
dancing and yelling—it is like savages, indeed!” Juliana said, shivering. “They are shouting,
‘
To be the Tree, to the Liberty Tree! Hang him up!
’
”

“Poor devil!” said her father with a shudder. “But there is nothing
we
can do.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Juliana in a tone of horror next minute. “It is the man who was so kind to you in the diligence, when you were sick! Oh, poor fellow, how terrible! How can they be such monsters?”

“Which man?”

“Why, our fellow traveler in the coach from Rennes—the Dane or German, or whatever he was, who gave you the cordial and was so kind and helpful when I was in despair because you seemed so ill I feared you were dying. Oh, how
can
they? I believe they do mean to hang him!”

“Well, that is very terrible,” said her father, “but I fear there is nothing in the world we can do to hinder them.”

Juliana thought otherwise.

“Well, I am going to try,” she asserted, and without wasting a moment she ran from the room, despite her father
’
s anguished shout of “
Juliana!
For God
’
s sake! Come back! You can do no good, and will only place yourself in terrible danger!”

Running into the street, Juliana saw that the mob had dragged the unfortunate victim of their disapproval some distance along, to a small
place
, where grew a plane tree which, for the time being, had been garlanded with knots of dirty red ribbon and christened the Liberty Tree. Toward this the wretched man was being dragged by his red-capped assailants.

“Spy
!
Agent of foreign tyrants! Hang him up!”

The man, who had struggled until he was exhausted, was looking half stunned, and as much dazed as alarmed by the sudden fate that had overtaken him. He was a tall, thickset individual, plainly but handsomely dressed in a suit of very fine gray cloth, with large square cuffs and large flaps to his pockets, and a very high white stock which had come untied in the struggle. His hat had been knocked off—so had his wig
—
revealing untidy brown hair, kept short in a Corinthian cut. A noose had been slung round his neck, and the manifest intention of the crowd was to haul him up and hang him from a branch of the tree, when Juliana ran across the cobbled
place
. “Citizens!” she panted. “You should not be doing this!” Luckily her French, due to a childhood in Geneva, was perfect, but it seemed to have little effect on the crowd.

“Mind your own business!” grunted one of the three men principally in charge of the operation, but another explained, “Yes, we should, Citizeness! The man is a spy.”

“He is not a spy—he is a doctor! And a very good doctor! He gave some medicine to my father that cured him of a terribly severe spasm. And my father is an important professor of Revolutionary History. Think if he had died, what the world would have lost. But this man saved him! Think what you are doing, Citizens! France cannot afford to lose a good doctor! Think of all the poor sick, suffering people!”

Juliana had raised her voice to its fullest extent in this impassioned appeal, and her words penetrated to the outer fringe of the crowd, which had come along mainly out of curiosity. She heard some encouraging cries of agreement.

“Ah, that is true! We can
’
t afford to waste a doctor. There are plenty of sick people in this town!” “Let him cure my Henri, who has had the suppuration on his leg for so long.” “My daughters quinsy!” “My father
’
s backache!” “Do not hang the doctor!” they all began to roar.

“Are you a doctor?” demanded a man who carried an enormous smith
’
s hammer.

The victim
’
s eyes met those of Juliana for a moment, and a curious spasm passed across his countenance; then he said firmly, “Certainly I am a doctor! If you have any sick people who need healing, I shall be happy to look after them. Just find me a room that will do as a surgery, and provide me with the materials I shall ask for.”

This suggestion proved so popular with the crowd that in five minutes the man was accommodated with a small parlor of the same inn where Juliana and her father were lodged. A large queue of persons instantly lined up, demanding attention, but before he would even listen to their symptoms, the gray-suited man demanded supplies of various medicaments, such as rhubarb, borage, wine, brandy, oil, egg white, orris root, antimony, cats urine, wood ash, and oak leaves. Some of these were not available, but others were supplied as circumstances permitted. He also asked for the services of “the young lady in brown” as a nurse and helper.

“You have gone halfway to saving my life, mademoiselle,” he muttered as the crowd chattered and jostled in the passageway outside the door. “Now do me the kindness to finish your task and help save the other half.”

“
How do you mean, monsieur?”

“Help me devise some remedies for these ignorant peasants!”

“But—are you not, then—?”

“Hush! I am no more a doctor than that piebald horse across the street. But with your intelligent assistance and a little credulity from our friends outside, I hope that we may brush through.”

The next hour was one of the most terrifying and yet exhilarating that Juliana had ever lived through.

“What are your symptoms, Citizen?” she would inquire as each grimy, limping, hopeful figure came through the door. “Sore throat—difficulty in swallowing—pains in the knee—bad memory—trouble in passing water—”

Then she would hold a solemn discussion with the gray-coated man—he told her in a low voice and what she had now identified as a Dutch accent that his name was Frederick Welcker.

“Sore throat—hmm, hmm—white of egg with rosemary beaten into it—take that now, and suck the juice of three lemons at four-hourly intervals. Pound up a kilo of horseradish with olive oil, and apply half internally, half externally. A little cognac will not come amiss. Next?
”

“Toothache? Chew a dozen cloves, madame, and drink a liter of cognac.
”

“A bad toe? Wash it with vinegar, mademoiselle, and wrap a hank of cobwebs round it.”

Combining scraps of such treatments as she could remember having received herself in her rare illnesses with some of old Signora Fontims nostrums, remedies she had culled from
The Vindication of King Charles I
, and various ingenious but not always practicable suggestions provided by Herr Welcker, Juliana was able to supply each patient with something that at least, for the time being, sent him away hopeful and satisfied.

“Now what happens?” she asked breathlessly as the last sufferer (a boy with severely broken chilblains) hobbled away smelling of the goose grease that had been applied to his afflicted members.

“Now, mademoiselle, I have a moment’s breathing space. And, with the French mob, that is often sufficient. They are fickle and changeable; in a couple of hours they will have forgotten me and discovered some other victim,” replied Herr Welcker, washing off the goose grease in a finger bowl and fastidiously settling his white wristbands and stock.

“But what if the sick people are not all cured by tomorrow? They will come back and accuse us of being impostors,” pointed out Juliana, who was beginning to suffer from reaction, and to feel that her actions had been overimpulsive and probably very foolish indeed. What had she got herself into? Her despondency was increased when her father burst hastily into the room, exclaiming, “Juliana! There you are! I have been half over the village, searching for you—I was at my wits’ end with terror! Never
—
never do such a thing again! Rash—hasty—shatterbrained—”

“I am sorry, Papa! I am truly sorry!” Juliana was very near to tears, but Herr Welcker intervened promptly.

“I regret, sir, but I must beg to disagree with you! Your daughters cool and well-thought intercession indubitably saved my life—for which I cannot help but be heartily grateful—and was, furthermore, the most consummate piece of quick thinking and shrewd acting that it has been my good fortune to witness! Thanks to her, I am now in a fair way to get back to England, instead of hanging from a withered bough on that dismal scrawny growth they are pleased to call the Liberty Tree.”

“England?” said Juliana in surprise. “I thought you were a Hollander, sir?”

“
So I am, but England is my country of residence.”

Charles Elphinstone brightened a little at these words.

“If you are bound for England, sir—as we are, likewise—perhaps you can give me information as to what ships are sailing from St.-Malo?”

Herr Welcker looked at him with a wry grin.