She ran lightly out of the room, and I followed with a heavy heart, for I had a presentiment of evil. I feared that fatal chamber, which held so many impure memories--I feared the discovery of the dead--I feared for this child who went forward in ignorance to face such horrors.
[CHAPTER X.]
A VOICE IN THE DARKNESS
On returning from my last visit to the palace I had carefully noted the way thereto, so I was able to escort Signorina Angello without calling in the services of Peppino. I was unwilling to drive there, as the presence of a fiacre even in that deserted piazza might be noticed, and I did not want any comment made by the scandal-loving Italian populace on our visit to this out-of-the-way locality. So in company with Bianca, who had put on a veil, and who said nothing to me from the time we left Casa Angello, being apparently occupied with her own reflections, I walked down the gloomy, narrow streets towards that terrible Palazzo Morone, the very idea of which inspired me with horror and dismay.
It was one of those burning days common to that time of the year in Italy, and much as I despised and cursed those drain-like alleys in wet weather, yet I now saw there was method in the madness of their style of building, for their cool shadow and humid atmosphere was wonderfully pleasant after the glare, the dust, and heat of the great piazza. We walked on the broad carriage-way, which was less painful to the feet than the cobble-stone paving between, and every now and then saw some typical picture of Italian life. A dark-faced woman with a red handkerchief twisted carelessly round her head, leaning from a high balcony, on the iron railings of which was displayed the family washing; a purple cloud of wisteria blooming in some pergola near the red roof-tops; sleek grey donkeys laden with panniers, stepping complacently along the narrow way; slender Italian men presiding over fruit-stalls, piled high with their picturesque contents; and over all, the vivacious clatter and din of voices, struck through at times with the sharp, metallic notes of the mandolin. It was very charming, and, I would have enjoyed it thoroughly, artistically speaking, had it not been for the local odours. Oh, the smells of those picturesque streets! they were too terrible for description; and how the Italians are not swept off the face of the earth by a plague of typhoid is more than I can understand. I smoked cigarettes most of the time, as a preventive against infection; but on beholding ideal paintings of Italian scenes, I always shudder at the memory of the malodorous reality, and on arriving in well-drained London again, my first prayer was one of thanks for having escaped from ill-smelling Italy.
My thoughts during this portentous walk were, I am afraid, rather frivolous; but so fearful had been the strain on my nerves for the past few days, that it was a great relief to think idly of anything and any one. Not so Bianca; even through her veil I could see the glisten of tears, and catch the sound of her quick indrawn breath as she strove to fight down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. I saw that the poor child was nearly hysterical with her efforts to control herself, and stopped short in dismay.
"Signorina, you are not well. Do not go to this palazzo."
"Yes, yes! I must, Signor Hugo. I cannot pass another night in this state of suspense. I must know all, and at once. Is the Palazzo Morone far off?"
"We are just at it, Signorina."
And so we were; for at that moment we entered the silent, grass-grown square, at the end of which stood the palazzo, looking gruesome even in the sunshine, with its broken windows, damp, disfigured walls, and general air of weird solitude. Some swallows were shooting through the still air and twittering round the rich sculptures of the façade, but their merry chirpings only added to the eerie feeling inspired by the great mansion--a feeling which I noticed thrilled Bianca with fear as she paused shuddering, under the grinning masks and unlovely faces peering downward from the arched entrance.