He made an effort to smile, as she said--

"My t.i.to, you are tired; it has been a fatiguing day: is it not true?"

Maso was there, and no more was said until they had crossed the ante-chamber and closed the door of the library behind them. The wood was burning brightly on the great dogs; that was one welcome for t.i.to, late as he was, and Romola's gentle voice was another.

He just turned and kissed her when she took off his mantle; then he went towards a high-backed chair placed for him near the fire, threw himself into it, and flung away his cap, saying, not peevishly, but in a fatigued tone of remonstrance, as he gave a slight shudder--

"Romola, I wish you would give up sitting in this library. Surely our own rooms are pleasanter in this chill weather."

Romola felt hurt. She had never seen t.i.to so indifferent in his manner; he was usually full of lively solicitous attention. And she had thought so much of his return to her after the long day's absence! He must be very weary.

"I wonder you have forgotten, t.i.to," she answered, looking at him anxiously, as if she wanted to read an excuse for him in the signs of bodily fatigue. "You know I am making the catalogue on the new plan that my father wished for; you have not time to help me, so I must work at it closely."

t.i.to, instead of meeting Romola's glance, closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face and hair. He felt he was behaving unlike himself, but he would make amends to-morrow. The terrible resurrection of secret fears, which, if Romola had known them, would have alienated her from him for ever, caused him to feel an alienation already begun between them--caused him to feel a certain repulsion towards a woman from whose mind he was in danger. The feeling had taken hold of him unawares, and he was vexed with himself for behaving in this new cold way to her. He could not suddenly command any affectionate looks or words; he could only exert himself to say what might serve as an excuse.

"I am not well, Romola; you must not be surprised if I am peevish."

"Ah, you have had so much to tire you to-day," said Romola, kneeling down close to him, and laying her arm on his chest while she put his hair back caressingly.

Suddenly she drew her arm away with a start, and a gaze of alarmed inquiry.

"What have you got under your tunic, t.i.to? Something as hard as iron."

"It _is_ iron--it is chain-armour," he said at once. He was prepared for the surprise and the question, and he spoke quietly, as of something that he was not hurried to explain.

"There was some unexpected danger to-day, then?" said Romola, in a tone of conjecture. "You had it lent to you for the procession?"

"No; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it constantly, for some time."

"What is it that threatens you, my t.i.to?" said Romola, looking terrified, and clinging to him again.

"Every one is threatened in these times, who is not a rabid enemy of the Medici. Don't look distressed, my Romola--this armour will make me safe against covert attacks."

t.i.to put his hand on her neck and smiled. This little dialogue about the armour had broken through the new crust, and made a channel for the sweet habit of kindness.

"But my G.o.dfather, then," said Romola; "is not he, too, in danger? And he takes no precautions--ought he not? since he must surely be in more danger than you, who have so little influence compared with him."

"It is just because I am less important that I am in more danger," said t.i.to, readily. "I am suspected constantly of being an envoy. And men like Messer Bernardo are protected by their position and their extensive family connections, which spread among all parties, while I am a Greek that n.o.body would avenge."

"But, t.i.to, is it a fear of some particular person, or only a vague sense of danger, that has made you think of wearing this?" Romola was unable to repel the idea of a degrading fear in t.i.to, which mingled itself with her anxiety.

"I have had special threats," said t.i.to, "but I must beg you to be silent on the subject, my Romola. I shall consider that you have broken my confidence, if you mention it to your G.o.dfather."

"a.s.suredly I will not mention it," said Romola, blushing, "if you wish it to be a secret. But, dearest t.i.to," she added, after a moment's pause, in a tone of loving anxiety, "it will make you very wretched."

"What will make me wretched?" he said, with a scarcely perceptible movement across his face, as from some darting sensation.

"This fear--this heavy armour. I can't help shuddering as I feel it under my arm. I could fancy it a story of enchantment--that some malignant fiend had changed your sensitive human skin into a hard sh.e.l.l.

It seems so unlike my bright, light-hearted t.i.to!"

"Then you would rather have your husband exposed to danger, when he leaves you?" said t.i.to, smiling. "If you don't mind my being poniarded or shot, why need I mind? I will give up the armour--shall I?"

"No, t.i.to, no. I am fanciful. Do not heed what I have said. But such crimes are surely not common in Florence? I have always heard my father and G.o.dfather say so. Have they become frequent lately?"

"It is not unlikely they will become frequent, with the bitter hatreds that are being bred continually."

Romola was silent a few moments. She shrank from insisting further on the subject of the armour. She tried to shake it off.

"Tell me what has happened to-day," she said, in a cheerful tone. "Has all gone off well?"

"Excellently well. First of all, the rain came and put an end to Luca Corsini's oration, which n.o.body wanted to hear, and a ready-tongued personage--some say it was Gaddi, some say it was Melema, but really it was done so quickly no one knows who it was--had the honour of giving the Cristianissimo the briefest possible welcome in bad French."

"t.i.to, it was you, I know," said Romola, smiling brightly, and kissing him. "How is it you never care about claiming anything? And after that?"

"Oh! after that, there was a shower of armour and jewels, and trappings, such as you saw at the last Florentine _giostra_, only a great deal more of them. There was strutting, and prancing, and confusion, and scrambling, and the people shouted, and the Cristianissimo smiled from ear to ear. And after that there was a great deal of flattery, and eating, and play. I was at Tornabuoni's. I will tell you about it to-morrow."

"Yes, dearest, never mind now. But is there any more hope that things will end peaceably for Florence, that the Republic will not get into fresh troubles?"

t.i.to gave a shrug. "Florence will have no peace but what it pays well for; that is clear."

Romola's face saddened, but she checked herself, and said, cheerfully, "You would not guess where I went to-day, t.i.to. I went to the Duomo, to hear Fra Girolamo."

t.i.to looked startled; he had immediately thought of Balda.s.sarre's entrance into the Duomo; but Romola gave his look another meaning.

"You are surprised, are you not? It was a sudden thought. I want to know all about the public affairs now, and I determined to hear for myself what the Frate promised the people about this French invasion."

"Well, and what did you think of the prophet?"

"He certainly has a very mysterious power, that man. A great deal of his sermon was what I expected; but once I was strangely moved--I sobbed with the rest."

"Take care, Romola," said t.i.to, playfully, feeling relieved that she had said nothing about Balda.s.sarre; "you have a touch of fanaticism in you.

I shall have you seeing visions, like your brother."

"No; it was the same with every one else. He carried them all with him; unless it were that gross Dolfo Spini, whom I saw there making grimaces.

There was even a wretched-looking man, with a rope round his neck--an escaped prisoner, I should think, who had run in for shelter--a very wild-eyed old man: I saw him with great tears rolling down his cheeks, as he looked and listened quite eagerly."

There was a slight pause before t.i.to spoke.

"I saw the man," he said,--"the prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo Tornabuoni when he ran in. He had escaped from a French soldier. Did you see him when you came out?"

"No, he went out with our good old Piero di Cosimo. I saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and take him out of the church. But you want rest, t.i.to? You feel ill?"

"Yes," said t.i.to, rising. The horrible sense that he must live in continual dread of what Balda.s.sarre had said or done pressed upon him like a cold weight.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE PAINTED RECORD.