Giannella

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

When she crept back to bed after her talk with Rinaldo it seemed as if the little room was full of light and sweet music. Oh, God was good, life was divine. No one in the world had ever been so happy as she! Long she lay awake, going over every word her lover had spoken, remembering every glance of his eyes, every expression of his face which told her that he was all hers, forever and ever. When at last she fell asleep, the chill airs of dawn were wandering through the blind, and its first light showed her resting as peacefully as a child, heartache and fever gone together, the round cheeks smooth as rose leaves, the baby gold of the hair flung wide over the pillow and half veiling the young white hands that lay crossed on her breast.

So Mariuccia found her when she stole in before going out to the church, and an exultant pride in her Giannella's loveliness rose in her heart and brought a little moisture to her faithful old eyes. "Madonna mia," she whispered, "were you more beautiful when Monsignore Gabriele came and knelt before you and said, 'Ave gratia plena?' Oh, you must indeed have had her poor mother under your mantle when she bore this flower! Poverina, she never lived to rejoice over her, but that was just as well, since she would not have known how to bring her up. But there are heretics and heretics, eh, Madonne mia bella? And that poor little thing knew no better, did she? She kissed your picture and the crucifix when I held them to her lips, and she died for her baby—and as for Signor Brockmann, good man, he never refused a paoletto to the Cappuccino when he came to beg—and this angel has prayed for her parents' souls ever since she could speak—oh, they may say what they like, Mother of Mercy, but you will see to it that she finds her poor papa and mamma in paradise. I am quite sure of that."

Softly she went out locked the door and took away the key, for was not the unfortunate padrone, possessed of demons and no longer responsible for his actions, sleeping at the other end of the house? She crossed herself as she passed his door, and then, catching up her big umbrella, for the morning was cloudy, she hurried off to San Severino, where Fra Tommaso was ringing with a will for the first Mass.

Rinaldo descended a few minutes later and hastened to the side chapel, where he found Mariuccia already ensconced in her accustomed place. She was saying her rosary with great fervor. Once she turned to the young man with a look of tremendous meaning, and as soon as the last Gospel was ended rose from her knees and strode towards the door. Rinaldo followed and found her waiting for him in the outer court where he and Giannella had learned to know one another. The fountain was splashing rather sadly under a threatening sky; a drop or two of rain fell, blotching the flags; the beggars looked singularly depressed, and altogether the air was somewhat tragedy laden.

"Where can we speak as two alone?" the old woman asked wheeling round and facing the artist. Her black eyes were snapping under the colored handkerchief she had thrown over her head on entering the church, and her iron-gray hair was crinkling more fiercely than usual round her low, dark forehead. She was evidently in fighting mood and Rinaldo hailed the symptoms joyfully. Between them they would make an end of all this rubbish about impossible marriages and imaginary obligations. He could have fought the world single-handed this morning.

At Mariuccia's question he glanced up sideways at the distant balustrade of his terrace, the spot whence he had first caught sight of Giannella. "Well, Sora Mariuccia," he said, "if you will be so complaisant as to climb ninety-three steps, we can discourse with much tranquillity in my studio up there. We shall have the place all to ourselves, at least."

"If steps were destined to kill me I should be in San Lorenzo now," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Let us go up."

He led the way past the dairy to the side door and his companion followed him up to the top landing without once pausing to take breath. He flung the door open and stood aside to let her pass in, and she was advancing when she suddenly backed against him with a scream of terror. "Madonne mia Santissima, what is that?"

Rinaldo, supporting her in his arms, looked over her shoulder and broke into uncontrollable laughter. His trusty lay figure was stretched on the floor in horrid disarray, one stiff, discolored arm raised as if protesting against the ravages of Themistocles, who sat on its head, tearing viciously at its matted locks. Nothing so corpse-like and ghastly had ever saluted Mariuccia's vision, and she was trying hard not to faint. Suddenly Themistocles flew up with a moth-eaten ringlet in his beak. This was the last stroke. Mariuccia covered her face with her hands and rushed back, moaning, to the head of the stairs. Rinaldo was beside her in a moment, entreating, reassuring, laughing.

"Don't be alarmed," he pleaded, "it is only my mannechino, my model—what I paint from, you know. I should have warned you. Donkey without heart that I am, to give you such a fright! Come, I will show you." He drew her back into the room. "I was in a hurry to get down to the church this morning and knocked the old cripple over and never stopped to pick it up."