The unhappiness was obvious, for Violante’s eyes were wet and her voice trembling. Yet Arthur could hardly help smiling at the utterly un-English confession. He thought she could only so have acknowledged some very childish sorrow.
“What makes you so unhappy?” he said, with equal directness.
“Because,” she answered, telling half a truth, “because my father is here, and I have lost my voice, signor; and he says I shall never have another chance in my life. All is gone in that one.”
Mistaken as Arthur was as to the facts of her story, he had heard enough to supplement her words; and the kindly impulse of consolation prompted him to say:
“Oh, no, you must not think that. There must be a great deal left in your life yet, and in England you can begin fresh. Perhaps your voice will get strong again there.”
“Ah, that may be,” said Violante, without any answering smile.
“Anyway, one must do the best one can and not vex other people,” he said, with a glance at a letter he held in his hand. Violante’s eyes followed his, but she only saw the bit of folded paper, little knowing that the mere sight of the writer’s name would have burst into her depression like a storm into mountain mist, and would have brought the past and the present together again; while Arthur went on, ignorant of how much vivid, unreasonable happiness he could with a few words have given to the creature he was trying so kindly to console. For even to hear of all Hugh’s recent troubles would have been better than not to hear of him at all; and the few reserved, incommunicative lines which had just disappointed Arthur would have seemed like a message from. Paradise.
“All sorts of pleasant things may come to you in England; so keep up a good heart, signorina.”
“Keep up a good heart,” repeated Violante, as if the expression was not quite familiar to her.
“Yes; don’t be frightened, you know, and never say die.”