That letter had reached Paul in his studio the morning of the day Sara would arrive. And now, an hour before her arrival, he was sitting with it crumpled tightly in his hand, his eyes staring blankly before him.
The Fates had struck suddenly, dealing sorrow as they had dealt joy, silently and swiftly. That very morning he had heard of the complete failure of the Mexican bank in which his money was invested.
At first the news had stunned him. In the afternoon he had gone down to a friend in the city to make fuller enquiries. He found his worst fears realized. His income, which altogether had amounted to about fourteen hundred a year, had been suddenly reduced to less than half. In fact, to merely the six hundred or so he earned by his painting.
Paul went back to his studio and sat down trying to realize what it would mean. And because he was a man whose steady grey eyes had always looked facts clearly in the face, he even took pencil and paper and jotted down certain figures. But the sum total always remained the same—his marriage with Sara had become impossible.
He never for an instant did her the wrong of thinking that his loss of income would make any difference to her love for him. He believed in her love as implicitly as he believed in his own. That, however, did not alter the one fact that marriage was out of the question. Even if he reduced his mother’s allowance by a hundred a year—which, however, he had no intention of doing—the three hundred left him would not justify him taking any woman to wife, and assuredly not a woman like the Duchessa di Corleone. He knew the impossibility of transplanting a hot-house flower to the open air of a wintry garden. The thing could not be done. No amount of care could save it; it must die.
And with the irony of fate, this news had reached him by the very same post as her letter.
He took it again from his pocket and re-read it. A spasm of pain that was almost physical pierced him. His hand tightened on the paper till it was crumpled and twisted. And in less than an hour she would be in the studio with him.
“My God,” said Paul to himself, “the Fates are very cruel!”
And then because throughout the day his first thought had been of Sara he began to plan how best to break the news to her. He determined that for a few hours at least she should not know. She should have the complete joy of the meeting unmarred. They were going out to dine together. When they returned to the studio it would be time enough to tell her. With the decision all the old quiet endurance he had learnt through days and nights of hardship came back to Paul. He would hide the knowledge of their parting in his own heart. Till he bade her good-bye that evening she should never guess what the world would really mean to them both.
Something caught at his throat and a mist swam before his eyes. He got up and began to walk quickly up and down the room. Every now and then his hand, still holding the letter, clenched tightly.