“It is a grievous pity, father, but it cannot be helped.”
“She might as well have married the English signor—”
“Indeed she might!”
“When she was a little girl, and used to sing about the house, I looked to her success. She had the power, but never the will—never the will! My sun has set, figlia mia. I may hide my head in obscurity, and she may be as idle and as happy as she can!”
Extravagant as was the language, there was real distress in his faltering voice and tearful eyes.
“My beloved art has lost an interpreter,” he sighed; “and I have lost a hope.”
“Father!” said an unexpected voice, and Violante, with her slow, feeble step, stood beside him. “Father, I am so sorry!” she said, timidly. “I shall be very little good; but I will help Rosa all I can. And when I am well I will teach.”
“Teach? As if that would repay me!” cried Signor Mattei, starting to his feet. “Oh, you unfortunate, foolish girl, you were born to be my grief and disappointment! You who might have been a queen of song, you pined and fretted for your lover till this has come on you. If you had obeyed me, and consented to Vasari’s offer, and been happy, this would not have been. But you care nothing, the loss is mine—all mine! And I? See how I love you, you ungrateful child; see the tears you cause to flow.”
Against such reproaches Violante had no defence, and she was so well used to them that she was more frightened than grieved.
“Father,” cried Rosa, “you have been mistaken, you cannot change her nature, nor make her what you wish. She is herself, take her for that. Violante mia! my child, my darling, as if it was not enough to have you safe. What matters your voice, or your success, or anything?” she continued, in high indignation. “Come away; this will make you ill again!”