“That would suit exactly,” said Rosa.
“If by that time I had found employment in London, and Violante—Violante! ah, she is no good at all,” said Signor Mattei, mournfully—“she can do nothing.”
“I will go to school and learn,” said Violante, her voice choking.
“Ah, foolish child! there is but one moment in life when success is possible: pass that—pass all! You threw your chance away—it is over.”
The words fell on Violante’s ears with a double sense: she hid her face in her hands, and ran out of the room, down through the olive trees, towards the lake. “Over for ever!”—and she but seventeen. Was she never to have another chance,—another love?
“Ah, never! never!” she cried, half aloud, as the sleeping passion, lulled by the passiveness of her recovery and by her easy life, woke suddenly in all its force. “I had better die, for it is all over for me! Ah, Hugo,—Hugo mio! ah!”
The last cry dropped into startled commonplace as the branch of a tree caught her long muslin dress, and tore it right across, while she almost lost her footing with the shock.
“All, signorina, take care; you’ll hurt yourself,” said an unexpected voice; and “Signor Arthur” caught her by the hand and began to disentangle the unlucky dress.
“Dear me, I’m afraid it’s a good deal damaged,” he said, good-naturedly; “you should not run so fast.”
“I was—unhappy: so I did not see,” said Violante, simply.