Free The Smile of the Stranger by Joan Aiken Page A

despair at the first impression her grandfather was likely to receive of her, and lively interest at the scenes through which they were passing.
    “Oh, Papa, it is all so pretty, is it not? A thousand times prettier than the countryside in France! I wonder that last night I thought it all so flat and gray. The meadows are so green! And the little gardens are so trim—oh, Papa, look, there are still roses, though it is so late in the year. And the little thatched houses are so delightful! Do but look at that pair! Oh, see the wild horses, Papa! And the deer! Do the horses belong to nobody? May they roam where they please? I knew of the wild horses in the Camargue, but I never heard there were wild horses in England also.”
    Her father smiled faintly at her enthusiasm as he reclined in his corner of the carriage, but he was too ill to sit up and appreciate any of the objects that attracted her interest; he said that he must be content with her descriptions. Indeed, after giving detailed directions to the driver concerning their route, he lay back, for the most part, with his eyes closed, and, since he had passed a very bad night, Juliana, hoping that he might sleep a little on the way, wrapped round him a traveling rug which the landlady had thoughtfully supplied, and endeavored to suppress her exclamations of wonder.
    She reflected that it was as well he had been able to instruct the driver as to their direction, for the way seemed very tortuous. The road, often no more than a sandy track, wound through long stretches of woodland, where the trees grew huge and massive, most of them leafless now, though here and there a great oak still kept its bronze foliage. Now the road climbed over heathery moorland, becoming even narrower and more stony; sometimes they must splash through a ford, or scrape along a narrow, deep-banked lane. The forest hamlets through which they passed grew more and more infrequent; their pace was necessarily slow, and, as the hour of noon came and went, Juliana began to feel quite hollow with hunger, for she had been too tired to eat much on the previous evening, and had taken very little breakfast.
    She would have liked to ask the driver if he thought they were nearly at their destination, but she did not wish to risk disturbing her father, who had fallen into a kind of restless sleep, twitching and moaning in his corner .
    At last, when they reached a woodland crossroads, she was delighted to observe a signpost which said on one of its arms: “Flintwood 2 miles.” A mile, she recalled, was somewhat less than a league, so they must be fairly close to the end of their journey. Presently the road began to improve. The banks were trim, the surface was well kept, and soon they drove between a handsome pair of gates and, coming out through a grove of large beech trees, found themselves within sight of a house—a chateau, Juliana thought it might have been called in France; not a castle, nor exactly a mansion, but a largish, rambling, comfortable-looking gentleman ’ s residence built in rosy, ancient brick, with tall twisted chimneys.
    “That ’ ll be Flintwood Manor,” called back the driver, evidently quite as relieved as Juliana to come within sight of his goal. “Reckon ‘ ee ’ ll be glad enough to jump down and stretch your legs then, missie ! Massy me, I niver did goo to such an out-o ’ -the-road spot—I reckon myself a New Forester born an d bred, but I niver set foot here in my life afore. Time an ’ agen I made sartain we was lost.”
    He cracked his whip to encourage the horses to trot forward in style. The approach to the house lay over a stretch of rough, grassy parkland, sparsely set with clumps of large trees, over which the road ran straight and unfenced, so that they must be observed from the windows of the house, if there were anyone at home. While they traversed this stretch of road, Juliana had ample opportunity for many conflicting anxieties: suppose her grandfather should