“And how long had you been married before your husband had that chain-coat?” said Romola, her heart beating faster and faster.
Tessa looked meditative, and began to count on her fingers, and Romola watched the fingers as if they would tell the secret of her destiny.
“The chestnuts were ripe when we were married,” said Tessa, marking off her thumb and fingers again as she spoke; “and then again they were ripe at Peretola before he came back, and then again, after that, on the hill. And soon the soldiers came, and we heard the trumpets, and then Naldo had the coat.”
“You had been married more than two years. In which church were you married?” said Romola, too entirely absorbed by one thought to put any question that was less direct.
Perhaps before the next morning she might go to her godfather and say that she was not Tito Melema’s lawful wife—that the vows which had bound her to strive after an impossible union had been made void beforehand.
Tessa gave a slight start at Romola’s new tone of inquiry, and looked up at her with a hesitating expression. Hitherto she had prattled on without consciousness that she was making revelations, any more than when she said old things over and over again to Monna Lisa.
“Naldo said I was never to tell about that,” she said, doubtfully. “Do you think he would not be angry if I told you?”
“It is right that you should tell me. Tell me everything,” said Romola, looking at her with mild authority.
If the impression from Naldo’s command had been much more recent than it was, the constraining effect of Romola’s mysterious authority would have overcome it. But the sense that she was telling what she had never told before made her begin with a lowered voice.