He pulled her towards the piano, which had been esteemed by Rosa a necessary part of the furniture of their lodgings, and, controlling her heart-beating, with a great effort she sang up and down the scale. Signor Mattei fairly wept for joy. He kissed her over and over again, he made her repeat the notes, he crossed himself, and thanked the Saints in devouter language than his daughters had often heard from him; but finally exclaimed, with an air of chagrin:
“And Vasari has married a woman with a voice like a screech-owl!”
“That is surely of no consequence,” said Rosa. “Violante can never try opera-singing again. She will never be an actress, and her health would fail again directly if she attempted it. But she is willing, after her year at school is over, to try what she can do in the way of concert-singing. And you know that, here in England, no career could be better or more profitable.”
“If you wish it, padre mio,” said Violante, “I will try now to do what you wish.”
“My sacrifices are repaid!” said Signor Mattei, though he could hardly have defined what the sacrifices were.
The interview with Mr Fairfax, who shortly arrived, was beyond Rosa’s hopes. Violante, though secretly wondering at her sister’s taste, could not but be pleased at his kindness, and was forced to acknowledge to herself that, under the most favourable circumstances, she could not have imagined Signor Hugo either condescending to so many explanations, managing to praise exactly the music Signor Mattei liked, or giving quite such a comprehending and encouraging smile and nod as the one received by Rosa, when her father was a little argumentative.
Signor Mattei obtained one or two evening engagements, and a good many pupils, so that Violante did not feel bound to begin her new life in a hurry; and Rosa began with a good heart her modest preparations for the wedding, which was to take place in the middle of August. The Greys gave a musical party, at which Signor Mattei played, and once Mr Fairfax took them all to the opera. Rather to Rosa’s surprise, Violante showed no reluctance to make one of the party. How did she feel when she sat and looked on at “Il Don Giovanni,” and saw another, and how superior, performer playing her old part of Zerlina? Her voice, at its sweetest and clearest, had never been quite such as this, and she seemed for the first time to know what was meant by acting, as she looked on at the world-famous prima donna.
This power, this popularity, this applause was what the father had looked for; the loss of this was what he had mourned. Could she ever have had it, or anything like it? Did she regret now that she could not? Did the woman see the value of what the girl had turned from with tears and distaste? For in this past year, what with trouble, change, and experience, Violante had grown into a woman.
She sat quite still, with her delicate face, pale and passive, and her eyes fixed on the stage. She had pushed all this away from her, all this light and sparkle, this splendour and excitement that had seemed so hard and glaring, so utterly untempting to her shy, tender spirit. What had she gained from that other vision that had worn such a lovely hue? It seemed just then to Violante as if both love and fame had played her false. Since she had lost the first, would it not be better to try and regain the second? It was but a passing thought, but it touched her to the quick. She put put her hand, and held Rosa’s tight, as Zerlina curtseyed, and picked up her bouquets.
“Oh,” she thought, “I would be Zerlina. I would do it all, all, if he would throw one. It was better to have all the trouble when he loved me—when he gave me my flowers—my flowers—”