The Smile of the Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page B

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