A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

But now he appeared again, and as a personage of considerable importance, who came to her husband’s study almost every day on matters connected with the estate. She met him the first time when she was alone in the great avenue that led from the park gate to the castle. He lived in a small house just outside the village at the foot of the hill, and he usually walked up by the avenue.

He bowed ceremoniously to the Countess from a considerable distance, and carried his hat in his hand as he came nearer. He blushed a little when she bent her head at last and said good-morning in passing; and as she did not stop to say more, he went on. He turned after he had gone on a few steps and looked after her, being quite sure that she would not do the same. Why should the Countess of Montalto condescend to look round at such a humble person as Orlando Schmidt? So he walked slowly and turned again and again to watch the graceful figure that was slowly gliding into the distance under the shade of the ancient elms. When he could no longer see her distinctly he glanced at his watch and went on his way quickly.

Two days later Maria met him almost in the same place, and at almost the same hour in the morning; which was natural enough, for she had dropped into the dull punctuality in doing unimportant things at regular times which is the foundation of a woman’s life in a country house where there are no visitors; and as it was Schmidt’s business to be exact about his duties, there was really no reason why she should not pass him in the same place and nearly at the same moment, on every fine day.

This time Schmidt stood still at a short distance, as if he wished to say something, and when Maria stopped, he inquired if he could be of service to her in any way. She was a little surprised at the question.

He meant to ask, he said, whether she had any wishes with regard to the grounds or the garden. The Count, he explained, took no interest in those matters, but would be much pleased if her Excellency would give them some attention. He, Schmidt, had done his best to keep up the place since he had been in charge of it, but he was only too conscious that he knew nothing of landscape gardening and very little about flowers. Maria said quietly that she understood neither, though she knew what she liked.

Thereupon Schmidt observed that a quantity of handsome stone-work of the fifteenth century was lying piled up in the kitchen court, and he thought it must have been put there about a hundred and twenty or thirty years ago, when a Countess of Montalto had thought it would be an improvement to destroy the beautiful mediæval close garden in the course of constructing a miniature Versailles which had never been finished. He, Schmidt, would take pleasure in showing the stone-work to her Excellency if she would take the trouble to look at it. He had also found an old plan of the former garden amongst the papers of his own great-grandfather, who had been steward of Montalto from 1760 to 1800. At a small cost the really beautiful mediæval well and cloistered walk could be reconstructed, and he ventured to suggest that they would be more in keeping with the whole place than a wretched little imitation of Lenôtre’s vast work.

Maria thought so, too, and after saying that she would ask her husband about it, she nodded kindly to the thoughtful young man and continued her walk.

In the evening, when Montalto had told her the political news he had read before dinner, and had opened a third Havana cigarette to roll it over again in French paper, Maria told him what Schmidt had said. Montalto was naturally as punctual in all his little ways as his wife was rapidly becoming by acquired habit. The post came late in the afternoon, and he always spent half an hour in reading the newspapers before he dressed for dinner. Just as invariably, too, he told his wife what he had read, and he almost always reached the end of his budget of intelligence just as he began to make his third cigarette. Maria did not always listen to what he was telling her, but the third cigarette was a landmark in the long dull evening, and when it was reached she knew that Montalto expected her to make a little conversation in return for his carefully repeated news. On this particular occasion she was glad to have something to say, and at once asked him about the old garden.

To her surprise Montalto did not give her any answer at once, and she waited for his reply, watching the motion of his well-made fingers, of which the first two were stained a deep yellowish brown from smoking cigarettes. They rolled the cigarette slowly, but very neatly.

‘Yes,’ Montalto said after a long time, when he had got a light and was leaning back in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, in a tone of profound meditation. ‘Yes, by all means, if it amuses you, my dear.’