Before they left the church a hymn was sung and as Violante’s heart swelled with the words and the music, unconsciously she raised her voice too, and its long silent notes smote on her ear, clear and full, as when she had sung last in the opera-house of Civita Bella. She dropped down on her knees and hid her face. Had it come back to her—this invaluable gift, this terrible, beautiful possession? Was her new ease of living to slip away from her, and must she return to the “pains austere” of the talent which belonged to her and to no other? She had heard a great deal lately about her duty, and for her “her duty” had always meant singing in public. And her father was coming; and he had not been successful. But no one had heard her—no one would know! Hitherto she had but helplessly yielded to the will of others—this was the first moral struggle she had ever known. She saw and heard no more of what was passing till they reached home, when she escaped from the others and ran away by herself down to the farther end of the garden. She stood still in the shrubbery under its budding green, and listened. All was silent, but the twitter of the birds; and softly, timidly, she began again to sing the hymn that she had just heard:
“Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire!” and as she went on the notes rose fuller and clearer, and she could not but rejoice in their sweetness. Then she paused, and, with a sense of desperation, began to sing the melody so fraught with memories of every sort, the never-to-be-forgotten “Batti, batti.” And, as she sang, Rosa came down the garden path, and beheld her standing under the trees, in her white confirmation dress, and singing the passionate operatic love-song with a curious look of resolution on her face. She broke off suddenly, and threw herself into her sister’s arms: “Rosa, Rosa! I will be good. I meant to tell you. My voice, my voice! Oh, father, father!”
The voice was choked in an agony of sobs and tears, and Rosa, hardly less agitated, held her in her arms and tried to soothe her.
As soon as she could speak she sobbed out: “It has come back, and—and I will sing for father—but, oh! I thought I should stay hero always and teach the little ones.”
“Indeed, my darling, you shall not come away from here yet.”
“No, and I could not act.”
“No, that you never shall; but, darling, to hear your voice again!”
There was a little pause; then Violante said:
“I may stay here and learn things a little longer—and afterwards I will sing at concerts—if—if—”
She faced her probable future; but there was still an “if” in her life.