“Never, my dear, that I know of. I wish she had. She doesn’t like girls, and would be happier married.”
“Nor ever cared for anyone?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Miss Venning, placidly, as she folded the letter that she had been writing to an anxious mother to relate her daughter’s progress and well-being. Flossy reflected; but her own memory did not come to her aid; for, indeed, there was nothing to remember, and Clarissa subsided into her usual lazy, satirical, yet not uncheerful, demeanour; sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued; always the provider of the family jokes and the arranger of the little family comforts, the easy-chairs and cups of tea and unexpected fires, of which she always showed such a strong appreciation. Yet it occurred to Flossy for the first time to wonder what was Clarissa’s main-spring. Certainly not her work, which she hated: nor any art or occupation, for she had none of any great consequence; and not her sisters, for she did not often excite herself about their concerns. It seemed an objectless life; could Clarissa have mended it? Flossy, young and enthusiastic, was much inclined to answer that she could; and yet it was very difficult to imagine Clarissa taking up any of the lines that seemed so alien to her. She could no more acquire Flossy’s strong impulses and inborn tastes than she could alter the outlines of her lot; no more give herself a love than a lover.
Part 5, Chapter XLI
Among the Primroses
“Who on faint primrose-beds were wont to lie.”
“Rosa – Rosa, carissima mia! To see you – to have you again! I have wanted you every day!”
“My darling child, I don’t know when I have not wanted you! Tell me all – everything. Are you well – are you happy? I think you look so.”
“We have tried to make her so,” said Flossy, as Rosa withdrew from Violante’s clinging embrace to look into her face and read its story. “Now, Violante, make your sister comfortable, and all the rest of us are going to walk.”
Left thus alone, Violante put Rosa into a chair and knelt at her feet, looking up in her face. Rosa was looking remarkably well and handsome; she was nicely dressed, and had an air of prosperity.
“And so they are very kind to you?” she said.
“They are as kind as angels,” said Violante, “and there is no one like Miss Florence except you.”
Rosa laughed, and Violante went on, rather hurriedly:
“And our cousins, – how are they? And your pupils – are they stupid? How far have they got in Italian?”
“Not very far,” said Rosa; “and that’s the first question you ever asked me about a pupil in your life.”
“But I teach a great deal of the Italian. Miss Florence showed me how. And father – will he come soon?”
“Yes. I’m afraid, Violante, he has not found much to do in Florence. I shall be glad when he comes to London, because I think he is likely to get engagements.”
“Does he know anyone in London?” asked Violante.
“Well – there is a gentleman who comes a good deal to Uncle Grey’s,” said Rosa, colouring a little. “He is not exactly a professional musician; but he loves music better than anything, and he has composed some things – they’re very good, I think. He said he would ensure some engagements for father. So we shall get some nice little lodgings near the Greys. I know some that would do for us, and when you come, darling – it will be home again.”
“And father is coming?”
“The first week in May.”
“Yes, and our holidays are to be on the 7th. You know we should have gone home now, but for the Confirmation; and, besides, Miss Venning’s brother, who is a clergyman, is coming to examine the school on the 5th of May in arithmetic and those hard lessons; so the classes preparing for him have not broken up.”
“How funny it sounds to hear you talk about lessons and arithmetic! Can you do your sums, my child?”
“Not very well,” replied Violante, modestly; “they are very often wrong, Rosina. But I have learnt many things.”
She turned and slipped down by Rosa’s side, playing with her fingers; but keeping her own face averted.
“Things are very strange, Rosa mia. I never expected to see Signor Arthur here.”
“Signor Arthur. Mr Spencer? Here. Where?” exclaimed Rosa, greatly surprised.
“Yes,” said Violante, trying to control her trembling, “he – that is, they, live here at Redhurst. They are Miss Venning’s friends.”
“They– you don’t mean Mr Crichton! Oh, Violante, if I had known this – ” then, as there was a pause, “Have you seen him?”
“Oh, yes. But he never spoke, nor I to him. Do not fear, Rosa. He is a great gentleman, and he knows well here that I am only a poor little girl; and no one knows anything.”
“Oh, my darling, you should not have stayed here an hour!”
“Then you would be more foolish than I,” cried Violante; “more foolish a great deal, Rosa. You see I am well and happy. And is not a girls’ school like a convent? I never see any of them but Signor Arthur, and he is always kind. His promessa sposa was here at school, you know, Rosa. She was Miss Florence’s dear friend.”
“I could not have believed that you would have concealed such a thing from me!” said Rosa, reproachfully.
“It was because I knew you would expect me to be unhappy. I wanted you to see me and to know that I can bear it,” said Violante, with excitement. “Rosa, I would not deceive you – it is all over – all over! But I knew you would hear their names.”
“Mr Spencer Crichton, then, is an acquaintance of Miss Venning’s?” said Rosa, still in a tone of perturbation.
“Yes; and, besides, he has to do with everything – the railways and the gas – ”
“The what?”
“Why, they were going to build some ugly gas-works in the field, and he was the only person who could prevent it. That was why he came here. But it is Signor Arthur who is their friend.”
“Ah, has he got over his trouble?”
“No,” said Violante, with an air of interest and knowledge rather surprising to Rosa.
“Oh, no, he looks much more sad and ill than he did in Italy. I think he will never forget Mysie. But they will be coming in, and I was to show you your room. There,” as Rosa followed her, “that is the school-room, and I must go there presently and see that the little girls get ready for tea.”
Rosa felt utterly bewildered. It is always startling to find one’s nearest and dearest possessed with a flood of new ideas and interests, acquired apart from ourselves, and this is specially the case with a girl’s first experience of independent life. Violante’s very accent and idiom had attained a more English turn, and there was an air of life and capability about her entirely new. She had opinions and ideas, and evidently was proud of her various occupations and anxious to show them off. How much of this was owing to her more vigorous health – the English air evidently being very favourable to her – how much to the mental awakening which some congenial experience often gives to girls sooner or later, and how much to the undercurrent of excitement that Hugh Crichton’s neighbourhood caused, Rosa could not tell. Certainly she was glad to see her little sister so bright and well; but she could not get over the idea of Violante’s secrecy, and forgot, perhaps, how hardly while pitying her sister she had judged Hugh in her hearing. Moreover, Rosa’s attention was not so entirely devoted to Violante’s affairs as had been the case last year. Possibilities were arising in her own life; but they were still too vague for her to wish to make a confidante of her young sister. There seemed to be what the Miss Greys called “a chance for Rosa;” and Rosa, it was thought, was not altogether averse to avail herself of it. She was very agreeable, and her foreign experiences and shrewd cleverness gave her an originality refreshing in a London young lady. She liked society; and, besides, she liked attention, in a sensible moderate sort of way; at any rate, she liked the attentions of the musical Mr Fairfax. He was not a very young man, and not at all handsome; but he had enough enthusiasm of character to appeal to Rosa’s sympathies, and enough of unconventionality to think her history and connections attractive rather than the reverse. He held a situation in the British Museum, and had some private means; so that he had been able to indulge his musical taste without being dependent on it for support. Nothing very definite had passed, but he was gradually giving Rosa to understand that he meant something serious; and she had welcomed this short absence as an opportunity for making up her own mind and testing her own feelings.
She made a very good impression on Miss Venning, and became friendly with Flossy, though secretly she thought her rather high-flying, and considered her objects of interest inadequate to the enthusiasm expended on them. She found that Violante, allowance being made for her imperfect education, was considered to have fair capabilities; and, with the help of her music and Italian, to be likely to be able to earn her living, under favourable circumstances. (“If I had a home for her to fall back upon,” was Rosa’s mental comment;) while she was much liked by teachers and companions. Rosa was constantly amused and surprised at seeing her busy and important; but, perhaps, she liked the moments best when Violante nestled down by her side, happy once more in her caressing presence. Rosa had arrived on Easter Monday, and was to stay till Saturday. The Confirmation would take place on the Friday, and on the Wednesday afternoon the whole party went into the woods to gather primroses, to renew the Easter decoration of Oxley parish church. The best primroses grew near Fordham; but, as nothing would have tempted Miss Florence’s steps in that direction, she ordained that they should walk towards Oxley – “it was a prettier view to show Miss Mattei.”
All along the opposite banks of the canal, between Fordham, Redhurst, and Oxley – and, indeed, out beyond Blackwood, on the other side of the town – were, at intervals, great oak copses, skirting the heath behind. Ashenfold was in the midst of them; they touched at one end the famous Fordham beeches, and at the other were lost in Lord Lidford’s park at Blackwood. The London road crossed the canal by a bridge at Oxley, where the woods were interspersed with villas, and a path, rough and dirty in winter, but charming in summer, led right through them to Redhurst and Fordham. A sort of hand-bridge led back to the Redhurst Road, opposite Ashenfold; further on there were only Redhurst and Fordham locks.
A considerable tract of copse had been felled the year before; and this spring the place of the underwood was supplied by the young sprouting oak-shoots and by myriads of primroses and anemones, ivy, lichen and moss, and all the beauties of woodlands in the spring. It was a lovely day, warm and sunny, with a sky the colour of the speedwells that were still hiding in the hedges. Birds sang and twittered; butterflies, like flying primroses, hovered about in pairs.
“There is nothing like a wood in spring,” said Florence; “and out there, Miss Mattei, the furze is getting golden, and even that ploughed field has a deep, rich colour under this wonderful sky.”
“Yes, abroad we don’t believe in English spring, but a day like this – ”
“Vindicates the spring of the poets – and makes up for rain and east winds, doesn’t it?” The girls scattered over the wood in search of their primroses, Violante among them; while Rosa sat down on a log and talked to Miss Venning. The chatter and laughter of the girls sounded through the wood; and Flossy, in her great straw hat, with her hands full of primroses, came back towards them over the rough broken ground, tall, lithe, and blooming, like an incarnation of this fresh woody spring. Suddenly she paused, and exclaimed, as Hugh and Arthur, in rather unwonted companionship, came up the narrow path towards her.
“What? A great primrose-picking?” said Arthur.
“Yes, did you come to enjoy the woods?” she said.
“I wanted to go to Ashenfold,” said Hugh, “so we came back this way. We are rather idle this week.”
As he spoke, Hugh became aware of Rosa’s presence, by hearing Arthur greet her; and, after a momentary hesitation on both sides, they bowed, and he asked after Signor Mattei.
“My father is very well, thank you,” said Rosa, without an unnecessary word. Hugh stood like a shy boy in his first quadrille, trying to think of something that would do to say. Arthur had strolled away towards the primrose-pickers, and he decided that it would look too marked to walk on without him. At last he said: “Oh! Miss Venning, about that gas. I believe I shall get it arranged as you wish.”
“I always knew, Hugh, that no sensible person could see it in any other light,” said Miss Venning.
“I don’t think gas is injurious to human life,” said Hugh, looking round the wood. Rosa almost pitied him, he seemed so ill at ease. “The component parts – ”
“Now, I am said to be fond of discussions,” said Flossy; “but, really, to talk chemically in this lovely wood is a shame.”
“Let us come, then, and look at the view and find Arthur,” said Hugh, relieved; “I ought to be going.”
Rosa would fain have followed, but Miss Venning, with a “You see, my dear,” entered on the subject of the gas-works, and the other two walked farther into the wood.
There were days when Hugh was sure that he ought not to marry Violante, there were many days when he thought that he did not wish to marry her; but now and then came a day when he dreamed of a future that might come when time should have softened the present troubles, and this day was one of them. He would not throw away this chance – at least, he would see her and hear her speak again. Suddenly the sound of her sweet unmistakable voice fell on his ear. They were coming over a piece of rising ground, and down below them sat Arthur and Violante on a fallen tree. She was tying the primroses into little bunches. The occupation and her light spring dress brought another sunny afternoon and other brighter-tinted flowers to Hugh’s mind. He could only see the top of Arthur’s hat; but her face was visible, raised in profile, tender and smiling, in the radiant sun. She was evidently answering a remark.
“Ah, then, do you ‘say die,’ so often?”
“Very often, I am afraid.”
“But I keep the olive-leaves, signor, and I look at them sometimes.”
“Ah, yes, I remember, I believe I have mine here still,” and Arthur took out his pocket-book, and after a moment’s search showed the little spray of leaves.
Neither Hugh nor Florence were so conventionally-minded as exactly to misinterpret the facts of what they had seen; and, besides, Arthur’s voice and manner were essentially unloverlike; but it seemed to Hugh as if those sweet looks and smiles were for all alike, awakened by his cousin as well as by himself. Something there was between them, and what might there not come of it by and by? while to Flossy the first sharp pang of uncontrollable jealousy was not unnaturally aggravated by Violante’s look of utter confusion and perplexity, as a turn of her head revealed their presence and they stepped down the bank beside her. She had not known that Hugh was with Arthur.
“You are still fond of flowers, Mademoiselle Mattei?” said Hugh, dryly.
She looked at him.
“These flowers are different,” she said. Perhaps she hardly knew what she meant.
“Fresher and newer,” said Hugh. Hugh was the worst of hypocrites, and Arthur had never seen him look quite as he looked now. Impossible, incredible!
“Flossy,” he began, “let us come – ” when a sudden outbreak of voices and laughter near them made them all turn. Two of the Dysart girls had been of the party and had previously coaxed their mother to surprise Miss Venning with a supply of cake and new milk to be eaten in the wood, as an impromptu picnic, and Mrs Dysart had now made her appearance, followed by two of her little boys carrying the provisions.
Miss Venning did not emulate the schoolmistress who desired her charges to turn their faces to the hedge when a man passed by; still, she was conscious that Mrs Dysart might think the situation unusual; while, as for Hugh, he looked so indignant, so ashamed, and so uncomfortable that Rosa could hardly help laughing, and Arthur’s face of amusement was a study. But Mrs Dysart was a lady who took things easily, even the presence of two of her elder sons, who declared that they had followed as the milk was too heavy for their little brothers.
“What quantities of primroses you have got!” she said.
“You see, Hugh picked so many!” said Arthur. He could not resist the little joke, any more than he could help the bright courtesy that made him enter into the spirit of the thing, and pour out the milk and hand the cake.
“Drink, signorina!” he said, gaily, as he gave a cup to Violante.
And yet, when the thought came over him of what such a merry-making would have been to him last year, perhaps Hugh, angry and full of miserable misunderstanding as he was, need hardly have envied his cousin’s smile. For Violante stood, living and beautiful, before him; and though he shut his eyes to the sun-rays of possibility, he felt their warmth.
It was all over in ten minutes. Miss Venning summoned her flock; Hugh asked if Colonel Dysart was at home, and, with Arthur, followed the milk-jugs back to Ashenfold. Flossy, feeling miserable, cross, ready to cry, and utterly unheroic, thought she should hate the sight of primroses for ever; and Violante – flushed, excited, knowing that, whatever Hugh’s tone indicated, it was not indifference – thought the fair, tender blossoms had just a little of the sweetness that had clung to the white bouquet, one precious trophy of her stage-life.
Part 6, Chapter XLII
At the Year’s End
“This, only this; through sorrow cometh learning.
Through suffering, greater growth.
In patience, therefore, wait the golden morning
That draweth near us both.”
Part 6, Chapter XLIII
Another Chance
“Only the sound of a voice,
Tender and sweet and low —
That made my heart rejoice
A year ago!”
James Crichton was spending a few days at home, with a view to the proposed oratorio at H – , which was to take place the week after Easter. He was, however, obliged to go up to town on most days, and was rather fond of calling in at the Bank on his way from the station and walking or driving back with his brother and Arthur. Perhaps, this practice had partly induced Hugh’s visit to Ashenfold on the day of the primrose picnic. For Hugh was not fond of walking down Oxley High-street with Jem. It was all very well, he thought, to know every man, woman, and child in Redhurst, and even to be on civil terms with the inhabitants of Oxley; but Jem carried things too far.
When they passed the greengrocer’s – “Well, Mr Coleman, how d’ye do? How’s your little girl? Gone to boarding-school? – hope she’ll get on with her French. Why, Hugh, there’s Kitty Morris – how dark her hair’s grown! She’s not as pretty as she used to be.”
“I never saw her before, to my knowledge,” Hugh would probably reply.
“Never saw Kitty – oh, she belongs to that little print-shop. She’s always standing at the door. I declare, there’s old Tomkins! I must just cross over and speak to him.”
A delay of two or three minutes listening to old Tomkins; and then, still worse, an elaborate bow to two Miss Harrisons – and, though Hugh knew that neither the popularity nor the familiarity of the “Oh, Mr Crichton, ’ow pleased ma will be to see you!” could be intended for him, he would grow desperate, and march on, while Jem would finish up by saying:
“Ah, when you want to represent the borough send me to canvass – that’s all!” Jem had not been at home long before he proposed that Arthur should come back to London with him for the sake of a little change and variety. It was evident, he said, that a change was wanted, and the proposal was eagerly taken up by his mother, who pressed it upon Arthur in a way that hardly left him a choice.
“You see, my dear boy, you don’t look well, and are sadly out of spirits,” she said, in her outspoken way; “and this will be the very thing to do you good.”
“Jem is very kind; but it would not do me any good,” said Arthur.
“Oh, yes, my dear, it will. Change is always good for people, and you haven’t been much in London. You know we must all make efforts.”
“There is nothing the matter with me,” said Arthur, escaping from the room; while his aunt went on: “Poor boy, it’s time he should be a little cheerful, and he is not half so bright as he was at first.”
“No; that’s just what I say,” returned Jem; “everything here reminds him of her, and London will be all fresh.”
Even Flossy Venning was moved to give the same counsel, which she did with rather suspicious eagerness, half-afraid to seem unwilling to part with him. Arthur had no counter-arguments to urge but his own unwillingness, and this seemed only to prove the necessity of the measure; but he did not yield readily, though he half-believed they were right, and had not the energy to put an end to the discussion by a more emphatic refusal. Hugh would not interfere, save by the brief remark:
“Yes, things are wrong; but it will take more than that to set them right;” but at last he said:
“You do not wish to go, Arthur?”
“Oh, no,” said Arthur, in a sort of matter-of-course tone.
“Is there anything you would like better to do?” said Hugh, with the elaborate gentleness with which he often addressed his cousin.
“Oh, no,” said Arthur again. “I am sorry to make such a bad business of it. Perhaps, I ought to get away somewhere, and not make you all miserable.”
“It is not that,” said Hugh; “but Jem is always cheerful; you and he have tastes in common, and sometimes you do seem brighter for a little amusement.”
“That’s only because I’m such a fool, Hugh, you are so wonderfully good to me. Don’t you think I know how I put you out? I take up with things – sometimes I forget how I’ve changed – then I get deadly sick of it all and tired out. Or else a word – a look! Oh, I know well enough what I ought to do; but it’s making bricks without straw – I’ve no pluck left.”
Perhaps because he had, with whatever shortcomings, tried very hard to be “good” to Arthur, perhaps because the confidence was made to himself, Hugh was able to conceal the personal pain which these passionate words caused him; and it was with real tenderness that he answered:
“I think you have shown no want of pluck; but when you first talked of coming back I was afraid you would not be able to bear it; this place is full of sword-pricks for you. Aren’t you straining your nerves too far by staying here?”
Arthur did not answer, and Hugh, watching him as he stood leaning against the shutter and staring fixedly out into the sunshine, said, with more hesitation:
“Or is it that the want of an aim, of an object is worse than anything else, and that you feel less at sea when you are obliged to do something?”
“Yes,” said Arthur, quickly. “Yes. Ah, you understand! I want something to hold by.”
“But then,” said Hugh, “you mustn’t be too hard on yourself. You look ill, and sometimes you feel so; you don’t sleep, and then you are not fit for these efforts.”
“You seem to know all about me,” said Arthur; but not as if the comprehension hurt him.
“Yes, I believe I do,” said Hugh, looking away from him; but with a curious sense of a fresh spring in his heart. Was all that bitter involuntary watching, that keen, morbid analysis of Arthur’s feelings, which had cost him so much pain, to bear fruit at last? Had the sympathetic suffering which he had looked on as expiation been no fruitless penance, but a training that might enable him to make some poor amends? Was it possible that he, who had caused and shared the sorrow, could be the one to comfort and help?
“I think I do understand,” he said. “It will be best for you to stay here quietly, and join when you can in what goes on, or pass it by without any comment being made. Only, you must promise to tell me if you feel that it is getting too much for you – that is, if you will,” he added, with a little return to his self-distrust.
“Oh, yes, I’ll tell you, if you don’t find out,” said Arthur, with some of his natural liveliness; then added, earnestly and affectionately: “You have done me a great deal of good.”
Hugh had never felt so nearly happy since he had come back to England as at those words. If Arthur could feel so he should never want for comfort again. The first effort at really helping him for his own sake had broken through his self-conscious shrinking; and Hugh felt that, with so ready a response, he could comfort Arthur and find his own consolation in doing it.
There was no doubt of the response. Arthur never theorised about what he could or could not do and feel, and he turned instantly to Hugh’s offered comprehension and sympathy. Indeed, he was so easily cheered for the moment, and almost always so bright in manner, that it was difficult to believe how completely he had been thrown off his balance, and how much the strain was telling upon him. It was by his irresolution and changeableness and excitable vehemence, ending in utter indifference, rather than by absolute low spirits that his grief told. Sometimes he could not decide on the merest trifle, such as a walk versus a ride; and, again, he would involve himself in some undertaking, just because he was asked to do so, and then a voice, a look, the name of a place or a person – anything that jarred his nerves with a sudden recollection – would make the act impossible to him. In the same way, though he rarely had even a headache to complain of, he was often utterly unequal to an exertion which another day would be easy to him.
It was just the state for which change of scene seemed most desirable; but to which by itself it would do little good; and it was well, indeed, for Arthur that fate, or his own judgment, had placed him where all this irresolution and want of ballast was likely to result in nothing worse than idleness and uselessness. Had he been thrown in the way of temptation at this critical period neither his own principles nor the memory of Mysie might have supplied an adequate resisting force, while he would probably have broken down under solitude altogether.
That conversation was like the lifting of a veil. Hugh had always known where Arthur’s shoe pinched him; he only needed to act on his knowledge to be the very help that was wanted, and he had not won Arthur’s glance of thanks and relief twice before he began to look for it as his own greatest pleasure. Like many severe people when once softened, he was almost over-tender, and could not bear to see his cousin struggle with himself. He would not, therefore, allow the expedition to H – to be urged upon him; so Jem, Mrs Crichton, Frederica, and Flossy set off on the day appointed.
Hugh found time, in spite of this new interest, to display what the Vicar of Oxley called “a very proper feeling on the part of one of the chief laymen of the parish,” by attending the Confirmation. He had meditated much on the scene of the olive-leaves; but, in the new light thrown on Arthur’s mind, it had lost much of its sting. Not so with Flossy. She had never dreamt that her unselfish love could be marred by such foolish, miserable jealousy. Did silent devotion mean that she was to be wretched whenever he spoke to another woman? Her thoughts wandered, her mind was disturbed, she wondered as to Violante’s past history, it was an effort to think of the scene before her.
Hugh watched Violante from a distance, and perceived that she was not aware of his presence. The impressionable Italian nature was lifted into enthusiasm by the first religious ceremony in which she had ever taken part. Her eyes were bright and tearful, her cheeks flushed. This epoch in her life did not present itself to her as a moral crisis, as a new resolve to fulfil difficult duties, a strain after a recollectedness and gravity respected but hardly attained to. It came to her as a new happiness, a new love and a new sense of protection. She was not conscious that she felt differently from her companions; and Flossy watched this beautiful fervour with a sort of awe, even while she half-distrusted it as a lasting motive of action.
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!”