“I am quite aware of what you would be likely to do, anima mia,” said Tito, in the coolest of his liquid tones; “therefore if you have a small amount of reasoning at your disposal just now, consider that if you believe me in nothing else, you may believe me when I say I will take care of myself, and not put it in your power to ruin me.”
“Then you assure me that the Frate is warned—he will not go beyond the gates?”
“He shall not go beyond the gates.”
There was a moment’s pause, but distrust was not to be expelled.
“I will go back to San Marco now and find out,” Romola said, making a movement forward.
“You shall not!” said Tito, in a bitter whisper, seizing her wrists with all his masculine force. “I am master of you. You shall not set yourself in opposition to me.”
There were passersby approaching. Tito had heard them, and that was why he spoke in a whisper. Romola was too conscious of being mastered to have struggled, even if she had remained unconscious that witnesses were at hand. But she was aware now of footsteps and voices, and her habitual sense of personal dignity made her at once yield to Tito’s movement towards leading her from the loggia.
They walked on in silence for some time, under the small drizzling rain. The first rush of indignation and alarm in Romola had begun to give way to more complicated feelings, which rendered speech and action difficult. In that simpler state of vehemence, open opposition to the husband from whom she felt her soul revolting had had the aspect of temptation for her; it seemed the easiest of all courses. But now, habits of self-questioning, memories of impulse subdued, and that proud reserve which all discipline had left unmodified, began to emerge from the flood of passion. The grasp of her wrists, which asserted her husband’s physical predominance, instead of arousing a new fierceness in her, as it might have done if her impetuosity had been of a more vulgar kind, had given her a momentary shuddering horror at this form of contest with him. It was the first time they had been in declared hostility to each other since her flight and return, and the check given to her ardent resolution then, retained the power to arrest her now. In this altered condition her mind began to dwell on the probabilities that would save her from any desperate course: Tito would not risk betrayal by her; whatever had been his original intention, he must be determined now by the fact that she knew of the plot. She was not bound now to do anything else than to hang over him that certainty, that if he deceived her, her lips would not be closed. And then, it was possible—yes, she must cling to that possibility till it was disproved—that Tito had never meant to aid in the betrayal of the Frate.
Tito, on his side, was busy with thoughts, and did not speak again till they were near home. Then he said—
“Well, Romola, have you now had time to recover calmness? If so, you can supply your want of belief in me by a little rational inference: you can see, I presume, that if I had had any intention of furthering Spini’s plot, I should now be aware that the possession of a fair Piagnone for my wife, who knows the secret of the plot, would be a serious obstacle in my way.”
Tito assumed the tone which was just then the easiest to him, conjecturing that in Romola’s present mood persuasive deprecation would be lost upon her.
“Yes, Tito,” she said, in a low voice, “I think you believe that I would guard the Republic from further treachery. You are right to believe it: if the Frate is betrayed, I will denounce you.” She paused a moment, and then said, with an effort, “But it was not so. I have perhaps spoken too hastily—you never meant it. Only, why will you seem to be that man’s comrade?”
“Such relations are inevitable to practical men, my Romola,” said Tito, gratified by discerning the struggle within her. “You fair creatures live in the clouds. Pray go to rest with an easy heart,” he added, opening the door for her.
XLVII
Check
Tito’s clever arrangements had been unpleasantly frustrated by trivial incidents which could not enter into a clever man’s calculations. It was very seldom that he walked with Romola in the evening, yet he had happened to be walking with her precisely on this evening when her presence was supremely inconvenient. Life was so complicated a game that the devices of skill were liable to be defeated at every turn by air-blown chances, incalculable as the descent of thistledown.
It was not that he minded about the failure of Spini’s plot, but he felt an awkward difficulty in so adjusting his warning to Savonarola on the one hand, and to Spini on the other, as not to incur suspicion. Suspicion roused in the popular party might be fatal to his reputation and ostensible position in Florence: suspicion roused in Dolfo Spini might be as disagreeable in its effects as the hatred of a fierce dog not to be chained.
If Tito went forthwith to the monastery to warn Savonarola before the monks went to rest, his warning would follow so closely on his delivery of the forged letters that he could not escape unfavourable surmises. He could not warn Spini at once without telling him the true reason, since he could not immediately allege the discovery that Savonarola had changed his purpose; and he knew Spini well enough to know that his understanding would discern
