“No, no, you little coward; he will be sure to ask for you—stay a minute.”
Violante leant back against the window-sill, her eyes drooping, her breast heaving, and yet her face flushing and dimpling,—the new confidence almost conquering the old fear. Rosa looked far the more frightened of the two. Signor Mattei’s step came up the great staircase quick as a boy’s; he seemed almost to skate across the polished floor, so instantaneously did he bear down on his daughters. In a moment his roll of music was cast aside in one direction, his great white umbrella in another; and, with accents rising every moment into higher indignation, he exclaimed: “Violante, what folly is this that I hear? Is this what all your idleness and obstinacy mean? I’ll not hear a word of it. A lover, indeed! Never let me hear of it again!”
Violante stood breathless, but Rosa interposed:
“Has Mr Crichton been talking to you, father?”
“Ay, and a fine story he brought me. Talking of promises, indeed! How dare she dream of making promises? And you—what have you been doing? Taking care of your sister? No! No! Encouraging her in disobedience and deceit!”
Now Signor Mattei was wont, on all occasions of domestic disturbance, to relieve his feelings by the most voluble scoldings that the Italian temperament could suggest and the Italian tongue express. Had Violante broken the china bowl she would probably have heard nearly as many reproaches; but no amount of experience ever accustomed her to these outbreaks; and, though practically she had never been ill-treated, she feared her father far more than: he guessed; while Rosa usually answered him back more promptly than respectfully, and, loving him better than Violante did, often ended by having her own way. Now she said:
“Why are you angry with Violante, father? She has done nothing wrong. Is it her fault if Mr Crichton loves her and has asked her to marry him?”
“Asked her—asked her! How dared he ask her? Now, most undutiful, most ungrateful child, how long has this conspiracy lasted?”
“He came to-day,” stammered Violante.
“To-day? You tell me this folly has begun to-day! You, who have been secretly sighing for this stranger, sighing for him instead of singing! Ah—shame on you!—tell me—tell me—tell me!” in a rapid crescendo, as he seized her wrist and pulled her towards him.