“Ah, soon; but in good time—There comes il signor dottore.”
The doctor, whose visits to Violante had not yet ceased, would have given much to evade the question as to how soon Mdlle. Mattei would recover her voice; but it was sharply pressed on him by Signor Mattei. Violante lay still, her hands pressed together, her large eyes full of suspense and anxiety. The doctor thought most pitifully of her, the young, delicate girl, whose career had received so severe a check; but yet her feelings to those of her eager father were “but as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.”
“She will sing again,” said the father. “Mademoiselle Mattei must not attempt to sing in public for a long time to come. She is far too delicate for the exertion. Nothing but rest will give her a chance of recovering her voice.”
“But she will recover it?”
“That is impossible to say. To some degree, should her health return, it is possible that she may; but she must give it rest; she has overstrained it when too weak for the effort.”
“But the time—how long?” cried Signor Mattei, breathlessly.
“I cannot tell,” said the doctor, with a shrug; “but if she attempts to act now it will kill her.”
He spoke forcibly, somewhat irritated by the father’s persistence, and then glanced at his patient, anxious to see the effect of his words. Violante had turned very pale, her mouth trembled, she drew a long breath; but there was a light in her eyes as of one that lays a burden down. Her father turned pale also and was quite silent, not one passionate word rising to his lips. He looked at her; then, as the doctor left the room, he followed him. Rosa sat down in the window, trying to govern her tears sufficiently to speak to her sister. And Violante? She had just been told of the loss of her one gift, of the one thing that marked her out from other women, without which she was only a poor, ignorant, helpless girl, with nothing left but a sort of indefinite beauty; from which her illness had taken much of the charm. She leant back on her pillows, feeling very small and mean and foolish, like Cinderella when the clock struck twelve. She felt very good-for-nothing, and yet—and yet—no more of the weary rehearsals, the hateful companionship, the terror and fatigue, the glare of the gas, the jealousy or scorn of her rivals, the anger of her father. She was free! It was like being let out of a stifling prison into the chilly air. She shivered and was cold, but she drew long, deep breaths. It was over. She was not ambitious—perhaps she was not conscientious enough to grieve that her task in life was taken from her, though she belonged to too hard-working a family not to think at once that she had lost the power of earning her own living. She felt that she had failed; but it was failure versus freedom, and freedom won.
“Violante—oh, my poor child!” cried Rosa, as she came up and kissed her tenderly.
“Rosa mia, do not be sorry for me. I am sorry, but I am so tired of it all, and now I can rest,” said Violante, pleadingly.