“Why can it not be reversed?” she said, after a pause. “Nothing is moved yet.”
“Simply because the sale has been concluded by written agreement; the purchasers have left Florence, and I hold the bonds for the purchase-money.”
“If my father had suspected you of being a faithless man,” said Romola, in a tone of bitter scorn, which insisted on darting out before she could say anything else, “he would have placed the library safely out of your power. But death overtook him too soon, and when you were sure his ear was deaf, and his hand stiff, you robbed him.”
She paused an instant, and then said, with gathered passion, “Have you robbed somebody else, who is not dead? Is that the reason you wear armour?”
Romola had been driven to utter the words as men are driven to use the lash of the horsewhip.
At first, Tito felt horribly cowed; it seemed to him that the disgrace he had been dreading would be worse than he had imagined it.
But soon there was a reaction: such power of dislike and resistance as there was within him was beginning to rise against a wife whose voice seemed like the herald of a retributive fate. Her, at least, his quick mind told him that he might master.
“It is useless,” he said, coolly, “to answer the words of madness, Romola. Your peculiar feeling about your father has made you mad at this moment. Any rational person looking at the case from a due distance will see that I have taken the wisest course. Apart from the influence of your exaggerated feelings on him, I am convinced that Messer Bernardo would be of that opinion.”
“He would not!” said Romola.