went—”
“No, dear cousin,” said Romola, interrupting her earnestly, “pray do not talk so. I wish above all things to find that young woman and her children, and to take care of them. They are quite helpless. Say nothing against it; that is the thing I shall do first of all.”
“Well,” said Monna Brigida, shrugging her shoulders and lowering her voice with an air of puzzled discomfiture, “if that’s being a Piagnone, I’ve been taking peas for paternosters. Why, Fra Girolamo said as good as that widows ought not to marry again. Step in at the door and it’s a sin and a shame, it seems; but come down the chimney and you’re welcome. Two children—Santiddio!”
“Cousin, the poor thing has done no conscious wrong: she is ignorant of everything. I will tell you—but not now.”
Early the next morning Romola’s steps were directed to the house beyond San Ambrogio where she had once found Tessa; but it was as she had feared: Tessa was gone. Romola conjectured that Tito had sent her away beforehand to some spot where he had intended to join her, for she did not believe that he would willingly part with those children. It was a painful conjecture, because, if Tessa were out of Florence, there was hardly a chance of finding her, and Romola pictured the childish creature waiting and waiting at some wayside spot in wondering, helpless misery. Those who lived near could tell her nothing except that old deaf Lisa had gone away a week ago with her goods, but no one knew where Tessa had gone. Romola saw no further active search open to her; for she had no knowledge that could serve as a starting-point for inquiry, and not only