february gave place to a stormy march, which ushered itself in angry and tempestuous. by the end of the month it was tired of its anger, and throughout april was like a child promising with smiles and tears to be good. in may it fulfilled its promise. the month was all sunshine, with soft winds and blue skies. the parks were alive with flowers, women donned their brightest dresses, and london looked like a great living nosegay.
and with the spring the music of the heart was playing so loudly for the duchessa that she wondered paul could not hear it too, and many times she longed to bid him listen.
the portrait was finished, and was in her drawing-room till later in the year when she would take it with her to italy, where it would hang in the gallery like a great glowing sapphire among the sombre and haughty ladies of the house of corleone.
she saw paul from time to time. he came to her flat, and she went to his studio. and michael had been persuaded to come and play for her. and having come once he was ready to come again. he made music sad and gay, and in her presence it lost much of its bitterness. only when he was alone bitterness returned, and with it a desperate and pathetic note of yearning. for with the beauty of the duchessa michael realized more terribly that he was not as other men, though with the curious instinct possessed by the man-creature of hurting himself, he loved to be near her and look at her. and in his heart he laughed cynically at paul, seeing that he had but to put out his hand and grasp the wonderful jewel of her love. but having been lonely all his own life he understood better than anyone paul’s hesitation, even while he laughed.
and one day when the morning sunshine was more radiant than ever, and the whole earth seemed singing the benedicite, sara wandered across one of the bridges that span the river and found herself in battersea park. and the lilacs were a mass of purple flowers, and the laburnums hanging in showers of golden rain, and the tulips were flaunting their gaudy colours, and the birds singing full-throated songs of joy.
she sat down on a bench near a great bed of golden tulips and looked at them. and the colour took her back to italy, and the courtyard of casa di corleone and the golden oranges, and she knew now the truth of christopher’s statement that one day she would be ready to forget them. and a little prayer rose up in her heart, a prayer that perhaps hundreds of women were praying at that moment before flower-decked altars, but which sara addressed to the bed of golden tulips.
“ah, madonna santa,” she prayed, in the language she had learned to love, “let him tell me.”
and then she looked up and saw paul coming towards her.
“i knew i should find you here,” he said quietly, and he sat down beside her.
and the tulips became a mass of blurred gold, and the music of the heart rang so loudly in her ears that for the moment the song of the birds was drowned.
“i have waited a long time,” said paul, “but i cannot wait any longer. i love you, sara.”
she turned towards him, and there was an adorable little sob of happiness in her voice.
“but, paul, dear,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me long ago?”
and paul put both his arms round her, and knew that his loneliness was ended.
there are some hours which pass like moments, so swiftly are they borne on the wings of joy. and in those hours paul and sara told each other a hundred little things they had quite possibly said many times before, but which had suddenly taken on a new meaning and a great tenderness. but for the most part they were silent, listening to the music of the heart, which was playing now in the completest harmony.
at last, however, they grew alive to the fact that the morning was very far advanced, and that they were both hungry. for, with joy be it said, both paul and sara were most delightfully human.
as she got up from the bench sara looked at the bed of tulips.
“i want one of those,” she said.
regardless of the little square board which forbade the foot of man to desecrate the grass with his tread, paul went across to the flower-bed. he returned with a great golden tulip on a long pale green stem. he gave it to her. she looked down into the shining petal-chalice.
“i shall always love yellow tulips now,” she said.
together they set off homewards, the duchessa carrying the flower like a queen carrying a golden-headed sceptre.
and verily she was a queen, for she had that morning entered her kingdom—the kingdom of a man’s heart.
of course, she went back to lunch with him at the studio, and equally, of course, there happened to be no food but bread and cheese and tomatoes. she refused to be taken to a restaurant, and paul’s man was sent out to buy spaghetti, with which and the tomatoes and cheese sara made a true italian dish, cooking it on a gas stove.
and it was when they had eaten that and were drinking their coffee, in the making of which paul excelled, that sara suddenly exclaimed:
“now i shall know what is in the letter.”
and then she had to tell paul about the late duca’s will and the letter. paul listened.
“but, dearest,” he said, when she had ended, “do you realize what you are giving up? i am a poor man, and you will lose everything.”
but sara replied in the words of christopher:
“on the contrary, paul, dear, i gain everything.”
and paul took her hand and kissed it.
after that they talked about the future. no one was to be told of their happiness yet, except christopher and paul’s mother. they would keep it a secret known only to those four. in june sara was going to italy, when she would take her portrait and leave it in the gallery. in july she would return for paul to claim her completely.
“but at least i shall know,” she ended, “that my portrait is in the gallery, and that i love the place ten thousand times more than those haughty ladies who will now, i suppose, look upon it as entirely their own.”
“and loving it like that you give it up?” said paul.
“for you,” answered the duchessa softly.
