But Violante did not die. Either there was more power of resistance in her nature than they could have supposed, or Rosa’s tender nursing triumphed over fever and weakness; for after some weeks of illness she began slowly to recover. She was long in gaining strength. She seemed contented in a sort of passive fashion, was grateful and caressing to Rosa; but she never talked of anything but the matter in hand, never spoke of the opera or her singing, or of Hugh; never showed any feeling except that, when she came sufficiently to herself to know that her hair had been cut off, she had cried and seemed sorry. Rosa was ready to follow her lead; but a great anxiety, unacknowledged even, to himself, was growing up in Signor Mattei’s heart. Her voice—was it coming back?
He had not the heart or the courage to speak to her directly on the subject, but he hummed opera airs in her presence, and watched wistfully to see if she noticed them. Violante started and coloured.
“Rosa mia,” she whispered, “I do not want to hear them yet;” and her father tried to ascribe her reluctance to a share in his alarm.
“So,” he said one day, coming in from a rehearsal, “that Giulia Belloni has a fine voice, her Zerlina is effective—effective to the vulgar.”
“Oh, I am glad,” said Violante, “for now they will not miss me.”
“Violante, will you never cease to be a fool? Not miss you? I would have them miss you every night. And this woman can act, laugh, scream—has eyes that show their size ten times as far as yours. But her voice is of far commoner sort, at least.”
Violante had quivered at her father’s rough address.
“Father,” she said, “I have no voice now.”
“It will return—it will return soon. You must practise—”
“She must not think of it,” interposed Rosa. “She is not nearly strong enough yet.”