and so it was that paul and sara did not spend their honeymoon in paris as they had at first intended, but travelled direct through without stopping to the casa di corleone on the banks of lake como.
it was in the purple and crimson of a sunset that paul first saw the courtyard, and the golden oranges among their dark green leaves, and the marble fauns and nymphs, and heard the plashing of the fountain. the crimson light from the sky was touching the white marble of the figures, transforming them momentarily to the warm flush of life. sara and paul passed between them and up the steps of the old house into the great hall where the smiling italian servants were ready to greet them, and where from the gallery above the haughty ladies of the house of corleone looked down upon the two, and where from among them the portrait of the now true owner of the place glowed like a great blue sapphire.
and a couple of hours later they came into the dining-room, where shaded lamps filled the place with a soft mellow light, and shed their glow on the white damask cloth, on the shining glass and silver, on decanters of red wine, and on dishes of golden oranges. soft-footed low-voiced servants waited on them. it was a magic scene, over which the gods of love and joy reigned supreme.
and later still, the moon rose in the night sky, bathing the lake in silver, touching the marble statues to unearthly whiteness, and finding its way through a great window where two figures stood together looking at its light upon the sleeping lake. behind them the room was full of flickering lights and shadows from a fire of fir-cones burning on the hearth.
and at last sara turned from the strange beauty of the scene, and saw paul’s eyes upon her.
“are you—content?” she asked.
“beloved of my heart,” he said, and his arms closed round her.
and so the music of the heart again filled the room, playing in glorious and most perfect harmony for the two whom the gods had blessed.
and far away in england, in a studio in another courtyard, aunt olive was putting a question to barnabas, while pippa was lying asleep in the inner room.
“now that paul and sara will have reached the casa di corleone,” she said, “and alan and aurora are cooing together, and jasper and bridget have found happiness, i wonder what is going to become of you and dan and michael.”
“you want to wind us up tidily, too,” said barnabas, smiling.
“i was just wondering,” she said.
“well,” said barnabas, “michael has his music and his drawing, and, at last, an ideal which will be his throughout his life. dan will always be what he is now—big, silent, making harmless love to all women (he has been flirting disgracefully with bridget, and jasper has been quite refreshingly jealous), and always he will be a staunch friend of those who need him. and i, for the next few years, will turn my whole attention to your candidates for the school of a wonderful chance, and later——” he stopped.
“and later?” asked aunt olive.
“and later,” said barnabas, “i hope to ask you for pippa.”
and through the half-open window the little faun heard the words. and under the stars he piped a tune of the fairy tale of life, a tune of love and laughter, whose notes reached the soul of the sculptor who had fashioned him, and hearing the music he was glad.
