Violante burst into tears.
“Father! how can you speak to her so?” cried Rosa. “Let her go—and I will tell you. Mr Crichton never said a word to her till to-day. Why will you not consent to their encasement?”
“Because I know my duty as a father better. But it is all over. Do you hear, Violante? I have ended it for ever!”
“Oh, father,” cried Violante, holding out her hands imploringly, “I will not neglect my singing, I will practise all day long; but you would break my heart—oh, dear father, I love him;” and the poor child, with unwonted courage, went up to her father and put her arms round his neck with a look and gesture that, could she have called them up at will, would have settled her stage difficulties for ever.
“No, Violante!” Signor Mattei said. “You know what my wish has been. You were not free to promise yourself; and to-day I have made my arrangements with Signor Vasari and have promised you to him.”
“Father, father, I would kill myself first!” cried Violante, dropping on her knees and hiding her face. “Oh, Rosa—Rosa—help me!”
“Hugh, hush, my child. Stand up and control yourself,” said Rosa, with English dislike to a scene—a kind of self-consciousness shared by neither father nor sister. “Go away—go into our room. I will talk to father first.”
Violante rushed away with her hands over her face, and then the other two prepared for war.
Signor Mattei divested himself of his neck-tie, rubbed his hands through his hair, marched up and down the room, and said:
“Now, Rosa, be reasonable, be dutiful, and hear what I have to say.”