CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
FRUIT IS SEED.
"My Romola," said Tito, the second morning after he had made his speechin the Piazza del Duomo, "I am to receive grand visitors to-day; theMilanese Count is coming again, and the Seneschal de Beaucaire, thegreat favourite of the Cristianissimo. I know you don't care to gothrough smiling ceremonies with these rustling magnates, whom we are notlikely to see again; and as they will want to look at the antiquitiesand the library, perhaps you had better give up your work to-day, and goto see your cousin Brigida."
Romola discerned a wish in this intimation, and immediately assented.But presently, coming back in her hood and mantle, she said, "Oh, what along breath Florence will take when the gates are flung open, and thelast Frenchman is walking out of them! Even you are getting tired, withall your patience, my Tito; confess it. Ah, your head is hot."
He was leaning over his desk, writing, and she had laid her hand on hishead, meaning to give a parting caress. The attitude had been afrequent one, and Tito was accustomed, when he felt her hand there, toraise his head, throw himself a little backward, and look up at her.But he felt now as unable to raise his head as if her hand had been aleaden cowl. He spoke instead, in a light tone, as his pen still ranalong.
"The French are as ready to go from Florence as the wasps to leave aripe pear when they have just fastened on it."
Romola, keenly sensitive to the absence of the usual response, took awayher hand and said, "I am going, Tito."
"Farewell, my sweet one. I must wait at home. Take Maso with you."
Still Tito did not look up, and Romola went out without saying any more.Very slight things make Epochs in married life, and this morning forthe first time she admitted to herself not only that Tito had changed,but that he had changed towards her. Did the reason lie in herself?She might perhaps have thought so, if there had not been the facts ofthe armour and the picture to suggest some external event which was anentire mystery to her.
But Tito no sooner believed that Romola was out of the house than helaid down his pen and looked up, in delightful security from seeinganything else than parchment and broken marble. He was rather disgustedwith himself that he had not been able to look up at Romola and behaveto her just as usual. He would have chosen, if he could, to be evenmore than usually kind; but he could not, on a sudden, master aninvoluntary shrinking from her, which, by a subtle relation, depended onthose very characteristics in him that made him desire not to fail inhis marks of affection. He was about to take a step which he knew wouldarouse her deep indignation; he would have to encounter much that wasunpleasant before he could win her forgiveness. And Tito could neverfind it easy to face displeasure and anger; his nature was one of thosemost remote from defiance or impudence, and all his inclinations leanedtowards preserving Romola's tenderness. He was not tormented bysentimental scruples which, as he had demonstrated to himself by a veryrapid course of argument, had no relation to solid utility; but hisfreedom from scruples did not release him from the dread of what wasdisagreeable. Unscrupulousness gets rid of much, but not of toothache,or wounded vanity, or the sense of loneliness, against which, as theworld at present stands, there is no security but a thoroughly healthyjaw, and a just, loving soul. And Tito was feeling intensely at thismoment that no devices could save him from pain in the impendingcollision with Romola; no persuasive blandness could cushion him againstthe shock towards which he was being driven like a timid animal urged toa desperate leap by the terror of the tooth and the claw that are closebehind it.
The secret feeling he had previously had that the tenacious adherence toBardo's wishes about the library had become under existing difficultiesa piece of sentimental folly, which deprived himself and Romola ofsubstantial advantages, might perhaps never have wrought itself intoaction but for the events of the past week, which had brought at oncethe pressure of a new motive and the outlet of a rare opportunity. Nay,it was not till his dread had been aggravated by the sight ofBaldassarre looking more like his sane self, not until he had begun tofeel that he might be compelled to flee from Florence, that he hadbrought himself to resolve on using his legal right to sell the librarybefore the great opportunity offered by French and Milanese biddersslipped through his fingers. For if he had to leave Florence he did notwant to leave it as a destitute wanderer. He had been used to anagreeable existence, and he wished to carry with him all the means athand for retaining the same agreeable conditions. He wished among otherthings to carry Romola with him, and _not_, if possible, to carry anyinfamy. Success had given him a growing appetite for all the pleasuresthat depend on an advantageous social position, and at no moment couldit look like a temptation to him, but only like a hideous alternative,to decamp under dishonour, even with a bag of diamonds, and incur thelife of an adventurer. It was not possible for him to make himselfindependent even of those Florentines who only greeted him with regard;still less was it possible for him to make himself independent ofRomola. She was the wife of his first love--he loved her still; shebelonged to that furniture of life which he shrank from parting with.He winced under her judgment, he felt uncertain how far the revulsion ofher feeling towards him might go; and all that sense of power over awife which makes a husband risk betrayals that a lover never ventureson, would not suffice to counteract Tito's uneasiness. This was theleaden weight which had been too strong for his will, and kept him fromraising his head to meet her eyes. Their pure light brought too nearhim the prospect of a coming struggle. But it was not to be helped; ifthey had to leave Florence, they must have money; indeed, Tito could notarrange life at all to his mind without a considerable sum of money.And that problem of arranging life to his mind had been the source ofall his misdoing. He would have been equal to any sacrifice that wasnot unpleasant.
The rustling magnates came and went, the bargains had been concluded,and Romola returned home; but nothing grave was said that night. Titowas only gay and chatty, pouring forth to her, as he had not donebefore, stories and descriptions of what he had witnessed during theFrench visit. Romola thought she discerned an effort in his liveliness,and attributing it to the consciousness in him that she had been woundedin the morning, accepted the effort as an act of penitence, inwardlyaching a little at that sign of growing distance between them--thatthere was an offence about which neither of them dared to speak.
The next day Tito remained away from home until late at night. It was amarked day to Romola, for Piero di Cosimo, stimulated to greaterindustry on her behalf by the fear that he might have been the cause ofpain to her in the past week, had sent home her father's portrait. Shehad propped it against the back of his old chair, and had been lookingat it for some time, when the door opened behind her, and Bernardo delNero came in.
"It is you, godfather! How I wish you had come sooner! it is getting alittle dusk," said Romola, going towards him.
"I have just looked in to tell you the good news, for I know Tito hasnot come yet," said Bernardo. "The French king moves off to-morrow: notbefore it is high time. There has been another tussle between ourpeople and his soldiers this morning. But there's a chance now of thecity getting into order once more and trade going on."
"That is joyful," said Romola. "But it is sudden, is it not? Titoseemed to think yesterday that there was little prospect of the king'sgoing soon."
"He has been well barked at, that's the reason," said Bernardo, smiling."His own generals opened their throats pretty well, and at last ourSignoria sent the mastiff of the city, Fra Girolamo. The Cristianissimowas frightened at that thunder, and has given the order to move. I'mafraid there'll be small agreement among us when he's gone, but, at anyrate, all parties are agreed in being glad not to have Florence stifledwith soldiery any longer, and the Frate has barked this time to somepurpose. Ah, what is this?" he added, as Romola, clasping him by thearm, led him in front of the picture. "Let us see."
He began to unwind his long scarf while she placed a seat for him.
"Don't you want your
spectacles, godfather?" said Romola, in anxietythat he should see just what she saw.
"No, child, no," said Bernardo, uncovering his grey head, as he seatedhimself with firm erectness. "For seeing at this distance, my old eyesare perhaps better than your young ones. Old men's eyes are like oldmen's memories; they are strongest for things a long way off."
"It is better than having no portrait," said Romola, apologetically,after Bernardo had been silent a little while. "It is less like him nowthan the image I have in my mind, but then that might fade with theyears." She rested her arm on the old man's shoulder as she spoke,drawn towards him strongly by their common interest in the dead.
"I don't know," said Bernardo. "I almost think I see Bardo as he waswhen he was young, better than that picture shows him to me as he waswhen he was old. Your father had a great deal of fire in his eyes whenhe was young. It was what I could never understand, that he, with hisfiery spirit, which seemed much more impatient than mine, could hangover the books and live with shadows all his life. However, he had puthis heart into that."
Bernardo gave a slight shrug as he spoke the last words, but Romoladiscerned in his voice a feeling that accorded with her own.
"And he was disappointed to the last," she said, involuntarily. Butimmediately fearing lest her words should be taken to imply anaccusation against Tito, she went on almost hurriedly, "If we could onlysee his longest, dearest wish fulfilled just to his mind!"
"Well, so we may," said Bernardo, kindly, rising and putting on his cap."The times are cloudy now, but fish are caught by waiting. Who knows?When the wheel has turned often enough, I may be Gonfaloniere yet beforeI die; and no creditor can touch these things." He looked round as hespoke. Then, turning to her, and patting her cheek, said, "And you neednot be afraid of my dying; my ghost will claim nothing. I've taken careof that in my will."
Romola seized the hand that was against her cheek, and put it to herlips in silence.
"Haven't you been scolding your husband for keeping away from home somuch lately? I see him everywhere but here," said Bernardo, willing tochange the subject.
She felt the flush spread over her neck and face as she said, "He hasbeen very much wanted; you know he speaks so well. I am glad to knowthat his value is understood."
"You are contented then, Madonna Orgogliosa?" said Bernardo, smiling, ashe moved to the door.
"Assuredly."
Poor Romola! There was one thing that would have made the pang ofdisappointment in her husband harder to bear; it was, that any oneshould know he gave her cause for disappointment. This might be awoman's weakness, but it is closely allied to a woman's nobleness. Shewho willingly lifts up the veil of her married life has profaned it froma sanctuary into a vulgar place.