“Rest!” exclaimed Rosa, with hot cheeks. “If I were you I should be half heart-broken, to lose that beautiful, glorious gift. But it is better that you should not care.”
Violante drooped her head in silence.
“When I did break my heart they blamed me,” she thought. “How can I care now?”
“You cried when I cut your hair off,” said Rosa, unable to repress her own disappointment.
Violante crimsoned to her finger tips. Had not Hugh stroked the long, soft hair? “He did not love me only for my voice,” she thought, somewhat unjustly, for Rosa’s love was true and tender, and she silenced her regrets, as she saw how they distressed her sister. Violante’s momentary flash of indignation passed; but she kept her thoughts to herself—she was learning to do so.
“There was no good in me but my voice,” she said meekly, “but I will try and help you, Rosa.”
“Oh, my darling, do not trouble, we shall do well enough,” said Rosa, repentant, when she thought how weak Violante still was, and how impossible any exertion would have been to her. “It is only of father I am thinking.”
“Father; oh, yes! Go to him! Rosa, I cannot help it.”
“Help it? No! But he will be very sorry. I will go to him. You must lie still and rest.”
Signor Mattei’s dream was over; he had lost his vision, as his daughter had lost her lover. Mademoiselle Mattei would never be a household word in any capital in Europe, never contest the palm with those who already bore it. It was a great present, a greater future, loss to him; but it was not the thought of this that made his heart sink within him. Rosa’s common-sense words jarred upon him.