Jupiter Lights

In answer a window opened above, and a large, placid Italian peasant appeared, looking at him amiably.

“Mr. Smith?” said Paul.

“Fuori.”

“Mrs. Wingate, then?”

“Fuori.”

“There’s only one road – the one by which I came up, and I haven’t heard any carriage drive away; if ‘Fuori’ means out, you are not telling the truth; they are not out, they are here.”

The Italian smiled, still amiably.

“Is there any one here who speaks English?” said Paul, in despair.

“Ingleese? Si.” She went off with the same serene expression. Before long she appeared again at a door below, which she left open; Paul could see a bare stone-floored hall, with a staircase at the end.

Presently down the staircase came a quick-stepping little old woman, with a black lace veil on her head; she came briskly to the door. “I hear you wish to speak to me?”

“You’re an American,” said Paul. “I’m glad of that.”

“Well, you’re another, and I’m not glad of it! Americans are limited. Besides, they are Puritans. My being an American doesn’t make any difference to you, that I know of.”

“Yes, it does. You come from a country where no one is shut up.”

“How about the prisons?”

“For criminals, yes. Not for girls.”

“Girls are silly. Have nothing to do with them until they are older; that’s my advice,” said the old lady, alertly.

“Do you know Miss Bruce?”

“A little.”

“Take me to her.”

“I can’t, she is in retreat.”

“You wouldn’t approve of force being used for any one; I am sure you would not,” said Paul, trying to speak gently.

“Force? Force is never used here, you must be out of your mind. If you do not see Miss Bruce, you may depend that it is because she does not wish to see you.”

“She would – if she could hear me say one word!”

“No doubt you’d cajole her! I’m glad she is where you can’t get at her, poor dear!”

“She was to have been my wife two weeks ago,” said Paul, making a last effort to soften her.

“Well, go home now; she’ll never be your wife this side the grave,” said the old lady, laughing.

“I’ll make all Italy ring with it, madam. This old house shall come down about your ears.”

“Mercy me! We’re not Italians, we’re English. And we’ve got a government protection; it’s a charitable institution.”

“For inveigling people, and getting their money! Miss Bruce, you know, has money.”

“I didn’t know a thing about it – not a thing! Money, has she? Well, Ernestine Wingate does like money; she wants to build a new wing. Look here, young man, Father Ambrose is coming here to-day; you want to see him. He’ll do what’s right, he is a very good man; and he commands all the others; they have to do as he says, whether they like it or not, – I guess you’d better not hurry away.” And, with a nod in which there was almost a wink, the American convert went back down the hall and up the stairway, disappearing through a door which closed with a sharp bang behind her.

Paul crossed the court-yard, and, opening one of the great portals, he passed through, shutting it behind him. Outside, attached to the wall of the villa, there ran a long, low stone bench, crumbling and overgrown with ivy; he sat down here, and remained motionless.

An hour later a carriage drove up, and a priest descended; he was a man of fifty-eight or there-abouts, tall, with a fine bearing and an agreeable face. Paul went up to him, touching his hat as he did so. “Are you going in?”

“That is what I have come for,” answered the priest, smiling.

The doors, meanwhile, had been thrown open; the priest passed in, followed by Paul.

When they reached the court-yard the priest stopped. “Will you kindly tell me your business?”

“It concerns Miss Bruce, an American who has only been here a few days. She came, supposing that the death of my brother was due to an act of hers; I have just learned that she is completely mistaken, he died from another cause.”

“God be praised! She has been very unhappy – very,” said the priest, with sympathy. “This will relieve her.”

“I should like to see her. – The whole community can be present, if you please.”

“That will hardly be necessary,” said Father Ambrose, smiling again. He went towards the door by the side of the chapel. “I will tell her myself, I will go at once.” He opened the door.

“I prefer to see her. You have no real authority over her, she has not yet taken the vows.”

“There has been no talk of vows,” said Father Ambrose, waving his hand with an amused air. “Every one is free here, I don’t know what you are thinking of! If you will give me your address, Miss Bruce will write to you.”

“Do you refuse to let me see her?”

“For the present – yes. You must remember that we don’t know who you are.”

“She will tell you.”

“Yes; she is very intelligent,” answered the priest, entering the doorway and preparing to mount the stairs.

But Paul knocked him down.

Then he ran forward up the stairs; he opened doors at random, he ran through room after room; women met him, and screamed. At last, where the hall turned sharply, Mr. Smith confronted him. Mr. Smith was perfectly composed.

“Let me pass,” said Paul.

“In a moment. All shall be as you like, if you will wait – ”

“Wait yourself!” cried Paul, felling him to the floor. Then he ran on.

At the end of the hall Mrs. Wingate stopped him. Her manner was unaltered; it was business-like and cheerful; her plump hands were clasped over her dress.

“Now,” she said, “no more violence! You’ll hardly knock down a woman, I suppose?”

“Forty, if necessary.”

He thrust her against the wall, and began trying the doors. There were three of them. Two were locked. As his hand touched the third, Mrs. Wingate came to his side, and opened it promptly and quietly.

“No one has ever wished to prevent your entrance,” she said. “Your violence has been unnecessary – the violence of a boor!”

Paul laughed in her face.

There was no one in the room. But there was a second door. He opened it. And took Eve in his arms.

THE END