by George Eliot
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.
CHECK.
Tito's clever arrangements had been unpleasantly frustrated by trivialincidents which could not enter into a clever man's calculations. Itwas very seldom that he walked with Romola in the evening, yet he hadhappened to be walking with her precisely on this evening when herpresence was supremely inconvenient. Life was so complicated a gamethat the devices of skill were liable to be defeated at every turn byair-blown chances, incalculable as the descent of thistle-down.
It was not that he minded about the failure of Spini's plot, but he feltan awkward difficulty in so adjusting his warning to Savonarola on theone hand, and to Spini on the other, as not to incur suspicion.Suspicion roused in the popular party might be fatal to his reputationand ostensible position in Florence: suspicion roused in Dolfo Spinimight be as disagreeable in its effects as the hatred of a fierce dognot to be chained.
If Tito went forthwith to the monastery to warn Savonarola before themonks went to rest, his warning would follow so closely on his deliveryof 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 hadchanged his purpose; and he knew Spini well enough to know that hisunderstanding would discern nothing but that Tito had "turned round" andfrustrated the plot. On the other hand, by deferring his warning toSavonarola until the morning, he would be almost sure to lose theopportunity of warning Spini that the Frate had changed his mind; andthe band of Compagnacci would come back in all the rage ofdisappointment. This last, however, was the risk he chose, trusting tohis power of soothing Spini by assuring him that the failure was dueonly to the Frate's caution.
Tito was annoyed. If he had had to smile it would have been an unusualeffort to him. He was determined not to encounter Romola again, and hedid not go home that night.
She watched through the night, and never took off her clothes. Sheheard the rain become heavier and heavier. She liked to hear the rain:the stormy heavens seemed a safeguard against men's devices, compellingthem to inaction. And Romola's mind was again assailed, not only by theutmost doubt of her husband, but by doubt as to her own conduct. Whatlie might he not have told her? What project might he not have, ofwhich she was still ignorant? Every one who trusted Tito was in danger;it was useless to try and persuade herself of the contrary. And was notshe selfishly listening to the promptings of her own pride, when sheshrank from warning men against him? "If her husband was a malefactor,her place was in the prison by his side"--that might be; she wascontented to fulfil that claim. But was she, a wife, to allow a husbandto inflict the injuries that would make him a malefactor, when it mightbe in her power to prevent them? Prayer seemed impossible to her. Theactivity of her thought excluded a mental state of which the essence isexpectant passivity.
The excitement became stronger and stronger. Her imagination, in astate of morbid activity, conjured up possible schemes by which, afterall, Tito would have eluded her threat; and towards daybreak the rainbecame less violent, till at last it ceased, the breeze rose again anddispersed the clouds, and the morning fell clear on all the objectsaround her. It made her uneasiness all the less endurable. She wrappedher mantle round her, and ran up to the loggia, as if there could beanything in the wide landscape that might determine her action; as ifthere could be anything but roofs hiding the line of street along whichSavonarola might be walking towards betrayal.
If she went to her godfather, might she not induce him, without anyspecific revelation, to take measures for preventing Fra Girolamo frompassing the gates? But that might be too late. Romola thought, withnew distress, that she had failed to learn any guiding details fromTito, and it was already long past seven. She must go to San Marco:there was nothing else to be done.
She hurried down the stairs, she went out into the street withoutlooking at her sick people, and walked at a swift pace along the Via de'Bardi towards the Ponte Vecchio. She would go through the heart of thecity; it was the most direct road, and, besides, in the great Piazzathere was a chance of encountering her husband, who, by some possibilityto which she still clung, might satisfy her of the Frate's safety, andleave no need for her to go to San Marco. When she arrived in front ofthe Palazzo Vecchio, she looked eagerly into the pillared court; thenher eyes swept the Piazza; but the well-known figure, once painted inher heart by young love, and now branded there by eating pain, wasnowhere to be seen. She hurried straight on to the Piazza del Duomo.It was already full of movement: there were worshippers passing up anddown the marble steps, there were men pausing for chat, and there weremarket-people carrying their burdens. Between those moving figuresRomola caught a glimpse of her husband. On his way from San Marco hehad turned into Nello's shop, and was now leaning against the door-post.As Romola approached she could see that he was standing and talking,with the easiest air in the world, holding his cap in his hand, andshaking back his freshly-combed hair. The contrast of this ease withthe bitter anxieties he had created convulsed her with indignation: thenew vision of his hardness heightened her dread. She recognised Cronacaand two other frequenters of San Marco standing near her husband. Itflashed through her mind--"I will compel him to speak before those men."And her light step brought her close upon him before he had time tomove, while Cronaca was saying, "Here comes Madonna Romola."
A slight shock passed through Tito's frame as he felt himself face toface with his wife. She was haggard with her anxious watching, butthere was a flash of something else than anxiety in her eyes as shesaid--
"Is the Frate gone beyond the gates?"
"No," said Tito, feeling completely helpless before this woman, andneeding all the self-command he possessed to preserve a countenance inwhich there should seem to be nothing stronger than surprise.
"And you are certain that he is not going?" she insisted.
"I am certain that he is not going."
"That is enough," said Romola, and she turned up the steps, to takerefuge in the Duomo, till she could recover from her agitation.
Tito never had a feeling so near hatred as that with which his eyesfollowed Romola retreating up the steps.
There were present not only genuine followers of the Frate, but SerCeccone, the notary, who at that time, like Tito himself, was secretlyan agent of the Mediceans.
Ser Francesco di Ser Barone, more briefly known to infamy as SerCeccone, was not learned, not handsome, not successful, and the reverseof generous. He was a traitor without charm. It followed that he wasnot fond of Tito Melema.
