The Romance of Giovanni Calvotti | Page 4

go without the coffee and the tobacco and the loaf. Above all, I do not lose my self-respect or touch my pride when I go without the coffee and the tobacco and the loaf. And now, mademoiselle, since it is our scheme to rout my lady enemy in the morning, we will despoil her of her triumph now by not caring for her or it, and by snapping our fingers at her--So.'
Whilst we had talked I had closed the door, and now I crossed over to my picture and began to work again. She still lingered, watching me whilst I painted.
'Are you fond of pictures?' I asked her, to divert her thoughts.
'I have not seen many, but I am very fond of some of them.'
'Would you like to look at those?' I said, pointing with my brush to a portfolio on the piano.
She opened the portfolio and looked through my sketches. I saw with pleasure that she did not race over them, but that she stopped and looked long at some. I could see from where I stood that they were the best, and I said, 'The young lady has taste and discernment.'
Suddenly she clapped her two hands together, and said--
'Oh!'
Then she came to me with a sketch in her hands, and her face was beautiful.
'Did you paint this, signor?'
'Yes, mademoiselle, I painted that. Why do you ask?'
'Poor old place!' she said very softly, without knowing that she said it at all.
It was a picturesque old house in Surrey. The house stood in a hollow, and the road wound up past it on to a long rolling wold. (That is the beautiful word your poet Tennyson uses. The country-people, the peasantry, use it also.) She had cried so much that her eyes were ready for tears again at almost anything. When she looked at me they were brim-full, but they did not run over.
'We lived here with papa,' she said, 'till he died.'
Then two big tears brimmed over and ran down. I committed an indiscretion: I was sorry for her, and I kissed her. She drew away with much dignity and said--
'I have stayed too long. Good morning, signor.'
I blushed. She was so much a child, and I feel myself so old, that I had not thought it any indiscretion. And now I remember that I have been writing of her as a child. She is quite a grown girl--a young lady. She is perhaps more than seventeen years of age. I was a brute beast--an insensate--to frighten her. Before I could say anything she was gone.
I abused myself in my vehement Continental way, and then I began to work. The picture was but little hurt, and before daylight was over it was almost repaired. But I had heard the clock strike seven, and my estimable uncle round the corner retires at that hour into the country, and will have no business again until nine o'clock in the morning. So, to prevent myself from thinking too much of the coffee and the tobacco and the loaf, I sat down to my piano and played. One would have thought that my sitting down to play was a signal, for I had scarcely begun when my landlady tapped at my door and brought a note. She looked shyly at the picture, and hoped it had not suffered much. I told her gaily that it was all the better for the accident, as in reality it was. Then I read my note.
'Miss Grammont presents her compliments to Signor Calvotti, and requests that he will oblige her by his company at tea this evening. Miss Grammont begs that Signor Calvotti will forgive this intrusion, and will forget that no formal introduction has taken place between them.'
I read this over twice, and then asked the landlady--
'Who is Miss Grammont?'
'She's the sister of the young lady who had the accident with your picture, sir,' said the landlady. 'She's a middle-aged lady, sir, and very badly lame. But she's got an angel temper, and ways that sweet as I never saw anybody like her. I do hope you'll go, sir. She's on the floor below.'
'Present my most distinguished compliments, madame, and say that I will do myself the honour to be there. At what hour?'
'Tea's getting ready now, sir,' said the landlady.
When she had gone, I washed myself and put on a clean shirt, and went downstairs. At a door at the foot of the stains stood the young lady who had by misfortune brought about this adventure. She led me into the room and to a lady who sat upon a sofa. The room was absolutely bare of ornament, and I knew that they were very poor. But it was not possible to think for a moment that Miss Grammont was anything but a lady. She