Signor Mattei assumed a less anxious air; he was sufficiently in awe of Rosa not to wish her to find him reverting to the forbidden subject; and he came in and drank chocolate, which was now provided, and allowed himself to be made comfortable after his journey. Violante fell into the background, leaving Rosa to make the communication of their uncle’s letter. Madame Cellini, willing to give them an opportunity for their discussion, strolled away to look at the sunset, and Rosa handed the letter to her father, leaving it to tell its own story. The little tawny children peeped at Violante from a distance, and showed her the kid with vine-leaves round its horns; but she shook her head at them, and sat down demurely in the window, with a sort of good-child air herself, to listen to her father’s decision.
Signor Mattei had never shown any jealousy of his daughter’s English relations. He loved his wife’s memory; and, though his brother-in-law’s mode of life would have been totally uncongenial to him and it was well that they never met, he rather liked to talk of “the uncle—of the highest respectability—who could command the London musical world,” a power which would much have astonished Mr Grey himself; and the fact that Rosa, coming from this uncle, had been prepared to like her home life had greatly tended to obviate any uncomfortable feelings. Besides, to put it plainly, he wanted just now to get rid of his daughters, and their uncle’s proposal was exceedingly convenient to him.
“It has come,” he said, rather sentimentally, “to help our fallen fortunes. Now, with you in the lap of luxury, I can bend to the storm and suffer hardships willingly.”
Violante looked distressed, but Rosa answered:
“We do not wish to be idle wherever we are, and should always come to you when you wanted us. But as my pupils seem to be dispersed, and they have behaved so ill to you at the opera, some change seems desirable.”
“Assuredly, Rosina,—assuredly. Make yourself easy; anything will do for me.”
“But, father, what shall you do?” said Rosa—not very uneasily, for she knew from her father’s manner that he had schemes in view.
“I?—I shall take my staff in my hand and make my way to Florence. Old Naldi, my friend there, is a true musician.”
“And you will get an engagement at the opera there?” said Rosa.
“Yes, yes, it may be so; and next spring, perhaps, an opening in London: I am not unknown there.”