“I think he seems very cheerful,” said Rosa, rather dryly.
“Still, I am sure,” persisted Violante; but news came to them at this time which put Signor Arthur entirely into the background. Rosa received a letter from her uncle, Mr Grey, which suggested a complete change in all the conditions of their existence. It bore date from his house in Kensington, and ran as follows:
“My dear Rosa,—
“Your aunt and I have been very sorry to hear of Violante’s illness and of the change it has made in her future prospects. Under the circumstances we have always felt that it was best that she should pursue the career that your father marked out for her, and have never entertained any prejudice against it. But as she has lost the exceptional power that made it expedient, and is still, I believe, under eighteen, it seems desirable that she should turn her mind in another direction. I do not know what openings your father could find for her in Italy; but as you write that things are somewhat at a stand-still with all of you, I wish very much that you and she should come and pay us a long visit, after which you might form such plans as seem desirable. If you were likely to remain in London I think I know where you could find pupils, and as for Violante, as she is so young, it is possible that she might make up her mind to finish her education at an excellent school, where her music and her Italian would be helpful, and where your aunt’s recommendation would be quite sufficient. However, this is for the future; and in the meantime your cousins will be delighted to see you both, as will also your aunt and myself. With love to Violante,—
“I am, your affectionate uncle,—
“Richard Grey.”
Rosa was sitting under the verandah of the cottage where they lodged as she read this letter. Great flowering creepers and large-leaved vines shaded her from the sun; before her stretched the fair Italian landscape, and at a little distance Violante was feeding and playing with a little white kid, the pet of the household; while two little brown-skinned girls, the children of their landlady, were chattering away to her at the top of their Italian voices. Violante had scarcely ever known a child in her limited life at Civita Bella, but she had taken to these little ones from the first of her coming to Caletto, and delighted in their society. With her short, curly hair and slender shape, she looked scarcely more than a child herself, and resembled nothing less than a disappointed prima donna.
Yet, after all her history, there seemed something ridiculous in the idea of sending her to school, something utterly incongruous in the thought of that Kensington house in a London atmosphere, with the blue southern skies and the marble palaces of her native town. It was strange; but Rosa—who had practically been very happy in an ordinary English life and was by far the best fitted of the party to resume it—could not help regarding the loss of Violante’s future, and of their somewhat rambling artistic career, with a half-sentimental regret. She felt, like her father, that it was a come-down, that something had been lost that could never be regained. She called to Violante and put the letter into her hand.
Violante sat down on the step, and read it carefully through in silence.
“Well, Violante, what do you think?” said Rosa.
“I have been thinking—much,” said Violante softly.
“Indeed? What about?”
“Myself,” replied the girl. “Rosa, father would be happier without me now I cannot sing. When he sees me he thinks: ‘Ah, what she might have been!’ It breaks his heart, I know it.”