“What possesses the child,” she thought, herself almost angry. “If I had half her voice, let alone her beauty, I would have sung every soprano part on the stage by this time! Ah, if I only had! She is stupid. It must be sheer fright. Oh dear! there she is singing that coquettish bit like a dirge. What will father say to her? I wonder if I could make her see how to do it—it seems such incredible incapacity. And she is not in good voice either—how should she be, poor child?”
And Rosa’s lips moved, and her face assumed half-unconsciously the expression appropriate to the part.
“Violante! It is incredible, most incredible. Here am I a lamb of meekness and mildness. I am not going to beat you, child. Santa Madonna! I really believe I could; you are as obstinate as a mule. Laugh, child, laugh—smile; you can do that. Eleven o’clock! I must go to my pupils, and I am tired to death already. Don’t tell me you have tried—No, Rosa—no excuses. See that she knows it better when I come back;” and, flinging the score across the room in his irritation, Signor Mattei departed.
“Oh, Violante!” exclaimed Rosa, “what can possess you? I have seen you do it a thousand times better than that.”
Violante stood where her father had left her, with scared stupid eyes and listless figure. She turned slowly, and, sitting down on the floor by Rosa’s side, laid her head against her knee, as if stillness and silence were all she cared for. Rosa was afraid to probe to the bottom of her distress; what could she say about Hugh that could do any good? That must be left to time, and she must address herself to the matter in hand.
“Come now,” she said, cheerfully, “how is it that you sang so badly this morning?”
“I don’t know,” said Violante, “it is always so.”
“Is it because father frightens you?”
“That makes it worse—but I cannot understand what he wants.”
“Well, Violante, I don’t think you can. And yet it seems so easy. Oh, dear, if I had your voice—”