Chapter IX: Book IV: The Azulejos (1)

I

Until one o'clock in the morning Antonio and José sat in council. But their session was barren.

Who was up at the guest-house? Could it be the Viscount de Ponte Quebrada, resuming his search for the buried pictures and chalices? They thought not. The Viscount had become a considerable personage, and could not afford to run such risks. Or was it the Viscount's old accomplice, the Captain? Perhaps. The Captain had little to lose. But no: it could not be he. A thief would never have proclaimed his presence by setting lights in front windows.

For a minute or two Antonio indulged a hope that the visitor was merely his old adversary, the official of the Fazenda at Villa Branca. But José shook his head, and said that such a guess was too good to be true. He went on to avow a presentiment that the abbey had been sold. Antonio could not contradict him, and the two men sat silent for a long time.

"Come and speak to me at dawn," said the monk, going at last to the hearthside and lighting José's lantern. "Perhaps it will be best for one of us to march up boldly to the guest-house. As the nearest neighbors we can easily make some excuse."

José shook his head again and departed without a word.

Soon after daybreak they met in the garden, and the master confessed that his man was right. God only knew what high strategy and petty tactics they might have to employ in their defense of His house; and it would be the worst policy to thrust themselves into notice.

The autumn sun was rising behind the abbey hill. Pearly mists hid everything. But, as the glorious orb ascended, the tides of vapor began to ebb. Here and there the tops of the higher pines showed themselves above the drifting mists, like masts and shrouds of ships wrecked in milky shallows. A minute later the chapel and the monastery buildings appeared, huge and vague as an enchanter's palace suddenly exhaled from twilight seas of foam.

As the outlines sharpened, Antonio recalled his vigil on the moonlit night of his return. He remembered the fear which preceded it--the sickening fear that he might be too late. But he remembered also how he had finally trusted in God to guard His own.

"Come, José," he said. "You have done your share and I have tried to do mine. Our Lord will do His. It is time for prayers."

He led the way to the narrow room which served them as oratory, and drew back a curtain from a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. José's education had advanced so far that he was able to recite Terce in Latin. They sat down facing one another, on benches which José had carved like stalls, and began the Hour. At the psalm _Levavi oculos_, peace and strength entered their souls.

"I have lifted up my eyes unto the hills, from whence my help shall come," said Antonio.

"My help is from the Lord, who made heaven and earth," responded José slowly and attentively.

Their faith waxed stronger as the psalm proceeded. "Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep," said José; and Antonio answered: "The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy defense upon thy right hand." José said: "The sun shall not burn thee by day, nor the moon by night." Antonio said: "The Lord keepeth thee from all evil." José said: "May the Lord keep thy coming in and thy going out, from this time forth and for ever." And by way of Amen, Antonio put his whole soul into the appointed _Gloria Patri_, and into the first words of the following psalm _Laetatus sum_, "I was glad."

They parted at the oratory door, and consumed separately their first breakfast, which consisted of rye bread and of a so-called coffee made from roasted grain and the roots of dandelion. Before six José was at work removing gorgeously discolored leaves from a pergola, while Antonio planted some vines which had come to him from Sexard in Hungary. As they moved about they could plainly see the buildings and out-buildings of the abbey; for the mists had drifted away. But no smoke rose from the guest-house chimney, and the place gave no sign of life.

At half-past ten, when José was in the kitchen preparing almoco, or second breakfast, Antonio heard a dull muttering of hoofs on the sandy road. He dropped his tools and began running like a hare up the ravine, so as to get a view of the horseman from behind a boulder. Ducking his head and shoulders he kept himself out of sight.

The noise of the horse's feet stopped. Antonio was startled. He raised his head and saw a mounted man stooping from the saddle, and fumbling with the latch of the farm gate. While he remained in this position it was impossible to make out his age, or class, or nationality. The monk, however, did not wait. He turned and raced back to warn José. But, before he could reach the kitchen door, the horseman came cantering down the slope.

He sat his bay horse rather stiffly and in an un-Portuguese style. His clothes looked English. As he drew near, Antonio saw that he was young and blonde. The monk had a feeling that he and this stranger had met before.

It was young Crowberry.

When he recognized Antonio a flash of joy lit up the youth's pale blue eyes. But, instead of greeting his old cicerone simply and straightforwardly, he jumped down from his horse and began to declaim some prepared rigmarole.

"Zounds! By'r Lady!" he cried, "whom have we here? Marry, by my halidom, I trow it is the goodly knight Oliveira da Rocha himself."

"Why not speak English?" asked Antonio, wringing the young man's hand.

"English?" he retorted. "If you're disrespectful, Senhor da Rocha, I'll begin speaking Portuguese."

"_Pode_," said the monk. Which meant "he may."

Young Crowberry fumbled in his pockets and fished up a manuscript phrase-book which had been compiled for him, he pretended, by some pitiful friend in Oporto. After turning the pages this way and that, he asked:

"_Está prompto o almoço?_" Young Crowberry meant "Is breakfast ready?"

"Not quite," said Antonio.

"_O que tem Fossa Mercê_: What has your Worship got?"

"Brown bread, green figs, white cheese, purple grapes, red wine, and black coffee."

"_De-me alguma bebida_: Give me something to drink."

"I don't understand," said Antonio, shaking his head.

José, hearing voices, thrust his shaggy face through the window and glared at young Crowberry, with his mouth almost as wide open as his eyes.

"This," said Antonio, "is José Ribeiro, the _régisseur_ of the Château da Rocha. He knows more about sea-sand wine than any other man north of Collares." And, turning to José, he explained in Portuguese: "You have heard me speak of the English Senhor Crowberry. This is his son. Go and kill a chicken--the fat brown one."

When José had departed on his murderous errand, Antonio brought their guest a large glass of green wine. Young Crowberry drank it with a wry face; but he admitted that it acted like a charm in quenching his thirst. They walked out into the vineyards.

"And now, Senhor Eduardo, explain yourself," demanded the monk.

"I came on ahead--last night," said Senhor Eduardo.

"Ahead of whom?"

"Of the others."

By this time Antonio was getting irritated by young Crowberry's tiresome smartness; and he was on the point of asking him, rather sharply, not to be a young ass. But he restrained himself and waited. At last young Crowberry said:

"They are in Coimbra. Dirty hole. They're following next week. I came on ahead to chase out the rats and beetles."

"We saw a light last night in the guest-house window," said Antonio. "Do you mean to tell me you opened the place in the dark, and slept there by yourself?"

"Certainly. What of it?"

"Simply this. My dear Eduardo, you are not half such a muff as you try to look, and not one tenth such a ne'er-do-well. But about these 'others.' Who are they? Why are they coming here? How long will they stay?"

"Firstly," replied Edward Crowberry, "there's the guv'nor. Secondly and thirdly, there's Sir Percy and his daughter. Fourthly, there's Mrs. Baxter. Fifthly and sixthly and all-the-restly, there's the servants."

"Who are Sir Percy and his daughter? And who is Mrs. Baxter?"

"Sir Percy is Sir Percival Lannion Kaye-Templeman. His daughter is named Isabel. Lady Kaye-Templeman died before I was born. That's why there's a Mrs. Baxter. She's called Isabel's governess; but it's Isabel who does the governing."

"Why are they coming here?"

"The devil only knows. I'm sure they don't."

Antonio stopped dead.

"Master Edward," he said, "if you're wanting to be a wit or a rattle you shall practice on me at breakfast. But not now; not here. Why are these English people coming here with your father?"

"What's the use of asking me?" demanded young Crowberry, somewhat injured. "It's a complicated business, and I haven't brains enough to puzzle it out."

"Then use such brains as you've got. Have they bought the abbey, or taken it on lease, or what?"

"Something of that sort," pouted the young man. "The guv'nor will explain. I tell you I don't understand it."

A jangling bell announced that breakfast was ready. Young Crowberry threw up his hat and shouted for joy.

José's fat brown chicken did not remind the guest of a Surrey capon. But as his teeth were good and his appetite still better, he devoured two-thirds of it with relish, and had still enough hunger left for the fruit and bread and cheese. During the meal he consumed a whole bottle of wine and, to finish off, he drank a large cup of corn-and-dandelion coffee, as well as two little glasses of Antonio's orange brandy. Then he lit one of his own cigars. Antonio excused himself from smoking.

Soothed and warmed by these good things, young Crowberry gradually became a reasonable human being. He began to talk naturally, and the monk was rejoiced to see that he was vastly improved. It turned out that he had gone back home after only eight months in Oporto, and that he had thrown up the wine-trade in favor of civil engineering. He told Antonio about the railway mania in England, and nearly all his talk was of cuttings, viaducts, and tunnels. Only with difficulty was he led back to the abbey.

"All I know is this," he said at last. "You wrote to the pater about raising a thousand or two and buying the place yourself, didn't you? Well, the old man'd have done it like a shot, only he was putting his last shilling into the Sheffield and Birmingham Railway. I expect he'll lose it all in the long run. But he wanted to find you the money. So he's made some kind of a bargain with Sir Percy. They've been jabbering and scribbling over it for a year. Sir Percy's supposed to have bought the abbey from the Portuguese Government. Don't ask me how he's managed it. I always thought he was so hard up he couldn't buy a penny bun."

The monk's heart beat fast.

"But if this Sir Percy has bought it," he asked, trying to conceal his intense anxiety, "what good is it to me?"

"Any amount," said young Crowberry. "You don't want a lot of tumbling-down cells and chapels and cloisters; you only want vineyards. As for Sir Percy, he does not want to be bothered with vineyards; he only wants a nice place. So you're to be offered a perpetual lease of the vines. No, not perpetual. Only nine hundred and ninety-nine years. So don't waste any time."

The room, with its odors of food and wine and tobacco, suddenly seemed to stifle Antonio. He felt faint and sick. Under the coarse tablecloth his two hands were so tightly clenched that the nails cut his flesh.

At first he blamed his own stark folly in writing to Mr. Crowberry. But he quickly remembered how long had been his deliberation and how many his prayers before writing the letter. Indeed, he had not posted it until, as he believed, the voice of the Holy Ghost said "Yea." For a few moments Satan entered into the monk's heart. So this was God's way of keeping faith with His champions! Seven years, seven hungry, lonely, loveless years of unceasing toil ... and for what? For this: that the holy house of God and the venerated home of Antonio and his brethren should become "a nice place" for the spendthrift heretic.

Into the ears of the monk's soul the arch-tempter breathed his poison. "If you had known last night, under the moon, what you know this morning," he whispered, "you would not have let Margaridinha's bowl smash into atoms. Poor Margaridinha! First you broke the bowl, and now you are breaking her heart. She has sobbed all night, for your sake. But it is not too late. Go back to Senhor Jorge. Say to him--"

Antonio sprang up and strode to the open door.

"The devil," said young Crowberry.

"Yes. The devil!" cried Antonio, turning upon him with a terrible look.

But the promise of Terce was suddenly fulfilled: _Dominus custodit te ab omni malo_. Without the smallest anti-devilish volition on Antonio's part, without one _Retro me, Satana_, without one syllable of prayer, without one crossing of his breast, the tempter vanished back like a spent flash of lightning into the dark. Nor did he flee leaving behind him a void. It seemed that in his unholy footprints stood a strong angel of consolation. Antonio's faith returned with three-fold force. Once more he knew that God would do His part, and that these new happenings were parts of His design. Perhaps He was about to draw Antonio and José along mysterious ways. Perhaps it was His will that they must press with torn raiment and bleeding feet through many a thorn-brake and over leagues of sharp-edged, burning stones. But it was to victory and triumph, not to defeat and shame that the path ran.

When the monk, with inarticulate apologies, resumed his place at the table, the terrible look in his eyes had given place to radiant happiness.

"That's right," said young Crowberry. "I was getting frightened. I was beginning to remember a story I read years and years and years ago, when I was only a young fellow, like yourself. It was something about a man falling down dead, because somebody had broken good news to him too suddenly."

II

Before young Crowberry set out on his return to Coimbra, he deigned to say a little more about his movements and his party. It appeared that he could speak Portuguese fairly well, and that he had traveled all the way from Oporto to the abbey in an English-built dogcart drawn by an English-bred horse. After depositing his heavier luggage in a bedroom at the guest-house and spending one night there, he had left the dogcart in the stables, and was returning on horseback, with nothing but saddle-bags, a heavy-handled whip, and a pistol.

The monk asked twice for some account of Sir Percy Kaye-Templeman. His first application drew forth the answer that there were many better fellows; his second that there were many worse. Concerning Sir Percy's daughter, young Crowberry was voluble: but very little information could be extracted from his discourse, which was almost entirely to the effect that young Crowberry would give his hat (or, at successive repetitions, his ears, or his horse, or tuppence, or the whole world, or his boots, or his soul, or his dinner, or a million pounds) to know what Senhor da Rocha thought of her.

It was of Mrs. Baxter that the young man spoke with most clearness. He persisted in never naming her without the prefix "That Excellent Creature."

"That Excellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter," he said, "gave me solemn instructions to see that large fires were kept blazing in all the bedrooms for a whole day. Now, except in the kitchen, there isn't a single fireplace or chimney. So I smoked all over the place instead."

Antonio did not suffer his visitor to depart without a message to Mr. Crowberry, senior. He sent word that he sought the honor of providing a simple dinner for Mr. Crowberry and his friends on the day of their arrival. With regret he added a request that each one of the party would bring his own napkin, knife, fork, and spoon. He concluded by offering his friendly and neighborly services in general.

José agreed to walk a couple of leagues at the bay horse's side, so as to show young Crowberry a bridle-path which would save him three hours in the saddle. They left at one o'clock.

As soon as horse and men were out of sight, Antonio hurried up the hill and made his way into the abbey. It was his hope and prayer that Sir Percival would be restrained by lack of cash from interfering with the monastery and that he would live quietly and cheaply in the more modern and airy little guest-house. But the monk knew that the sacred pile was menaced by a thousand perils; and therefore he spent nearly an hour in wandering from kitchen to refectory, from library to calefactory, from cell to cell, from cloister to chapel. Perhaps he was near the last time. With burning earnestness he recited Vespers in his old stall.

Rising from his knees, Antonio paid a visit to a useless-looking door in the outer wall of the cloisters. Like all the other doors of the building, it was so well plastered over with official seals on the outer side that José and Antonio had never dared to use it. Yet Antonio knew its secret well. A massy bolt appeared to secure it, like the gate of a castle; but there was a tiny green-painted stud of iron hidden in the masonry outside which controlled the whole. By pressing the stud, the staple on the door-jamb moved slightly, leaving the bolt free. This clever and simple mechanism was due to an English Benedictine, who had fled to Portugal just after the martyrdom of the Abbot of Reading, under Henry the Eighth. Antonio examined it, and found it in good order.

He and José reached home almost at the same moment. The man would have returned to his work without a word had not the master stopped him.

"These English people, who are arriving next week," said Antonio, "may become, in the long run, our worst enemies. But they think they are our friends. They mean well. We will do our whole duty to them as neighbors."

José said nothing.

"It is my prayer," added Antonio, "that they will lock up the monastery and be satisfied with the guest-house. For some things, I wish ... I hope ... I should like them to hear ... I mean, José, I should like some one in the village to tell young Mr. Crowberry your ghost-tale about the monk."

"He knows it already, your Worship," said José stolidly.

"Knows it already? Who told him?"

"I did, your Worship."

Antonio could have wrung José's hand. But the shaggy fellow had a little more to tell.

"They come on Tuesday," he said slowly. "The young Senhor Crôbri says he is going to sit up in the chapel on Wednesday night. But he won't see anything; because I know that next Wednesday the monk won't be there. The young Senhor is going back to England, starting on Thursday. After that, the monk can do as he likes. The senhoras will be so frightened at the young Senhor's tale that they won't go near the abbey. As it's nearly winter, perhaps they'll soon be afraid of the guest-house too. Ghosts might begin appearing up there, as well, before long. You never know."

"Come," said Antonio, after he had done marveling. "We are both tired. We had a late night and an early morning, and we've walked a long way. The young Senhor ate both wings of the brown chicken and all the breast. But there are the two legs left. And, for once, we will open a bottle of our good wine."

On the Sunday afternoon, at an earlier hour than usual, José and Antonio went up to the abbey. They oiled the secret levers which controlled the bolt in the cloisters, and replaced on the shelves of the library a few pious books which they had borrowed. Afterwards, sitting in opposite stalls of the choir, they sang Vespers and Compline. It was safe to sing, for once; because the feast of Saint Iria had drawn the whole able-bodied population of the parish to the village of Santa Iria do Rio, nearly three leagues away. In hushed voices they sang all the psalms to the proper tones; also the two hymns and the Magnificat. The sun shone warmly through the western window while they were singing: but the chapel was growing dim when they arose at the end of their silent prayers.

On the Monday little was done outside elaborate preparations for the morrow's dinner. Nearly all José's heirlooms rose again from their carven sarcophagi. His six solid silver spoons, his solid silver ladle, and his china bowl with dark green leaves on a light green ground cried aloud for a worthy soup; and accordingly much time had to be spent in preparing a cream of cauliflowers. Meanwhile, a fowl, two partridges, and the prime parts of a kidling were gently cooking in a giant casserole, along with four or five handsful of vegetables and herbs.

On the Tuesday, between eleven and twelve, when Antonio was upstairs shaking out his fine suit of English clothes, an ill-blown coach-horn blared out a wanton greeting. The monk leaped to his tiny window. An imposing procession was jolting along the narrow road. Antonio's keen eyes could make out almost everything, although the road was over a furlong away.

At the head of the file rode young Crowberry on his bay. With one hand he was holding a short horn to his mouth, while with the other he bunched up the reins and strove to caracole his deeply scandalized steed. Next rolled an open chariot, containing two quietly dressed ladies and Mr. Crowberry, _père_. This was followed by a hired carriage, of Portuguese build, wherein sat a tall, straight, military-looking Englishman and the official of the Fazenda, from Villa Branca. A smaller hired carriage held one of the Fazenda clerks and a Villa Branca notary. Two closed coaches, looking like superannuated diligences, brought up the rear. Antonio guessed that these crazy and stuffy vehicles were carrying the Englishman's servants and personal luggage.

The procession crawled up a slope, and disappeared in the dip of the hills. But five minutes later, while he was cutting an armful of flowers for the dinner-table, the monk saw it mount again on its way to the abbey. About noon he distinctly heard, through the still air, the big gate screaming on its rusty hinges. It reminded him of the exceeding bitter cry with which that same gate had cried out when Saint Benedict's sons went forth from their ancient seat.

Antonio could picture the successive scenes. He could almost see Mrs. Baxter, young Crowberry's Excellent Creature, throwing up horrified hands at the comfortlessness of the guest-house, although Father Sebastian had been wont to grieve over its almost sinful luxury. He could imagine the Fazenda dignitary pompously breaking the seals, and calling upon all to witness the close of his impeccable stewardship. He could almost hear young Crowberry quipping and quirking about everything. But this last thought was too much for Antonio. It suddenly sharpened, almost to a poignant certainty, his fear lest irreverent feet should profane the holy place, and lest sacrilegious hands should be laid upon the Ark of the Lord.

Mr. Crowberry and the others were to arrive at half-past three and to dine at four, so that they could regain the guest-house before dusk. It was therefore with dismay, that Antonio heard horses and wheels on the road just as José's clock was striking three. He sprang up the stairs two at a time, and changed his clothes with both haste and speed. When, however, he descended to the ground-floor, it was not Mr. Crowberry's voice which met his ears.

The monk's visitors were the Villa Branca notary and the official of the Fazenda. They had left their carriage and the clerk waiting on the road. The notary said little: but the great man from the Fazenda was fulsomely wordy. Up at the abbey Mr. Crowberry had more than confirmed in his hearing nearly all the local rumors concerning Antonio's cleverness and prosperity, and he deemed it prudent to pay so considerable a personage his respects.

There was coldness in the monk's tone as he prayed his old scorner to be seated; for he could not forget that, after his ten-league journey to Villa Branca, he himself had been kept standing. But, as policy required that he should stand well with the henchman of the Government, he concealed most of his disgust. To think of this pilfering bully sitting familiarly at his table went against Antonio's grain; but, when he found that both the notary and the official had heard of the impending dinner, he went so far as to suggest that they should remain. Happily, however, the shortness of the days made it necessary that the pair should at once resume their long journey. They drained two cups of wine, flourished a few parting compliments, and hurried away.

Hardly could the monk give a rapid glance at the table and a final order to José before young Crowberry was upon him, plunging from one room to another and back again, like a dog just off the leash. He poked his nose into everything, and kept on rattling out a thousand criticisms and witticisms.

"Mind you count these, later on," he chattered, as he weighed two silver spoons in his two hands. "If you find one missing, go through the pockets of that Excellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter. What's this? That beastly green wine? Pour it down the sink. And, look here, I say, mind you, da Rocha: don't forget to remember what I said about Isabel Kaye-Templeman. Where did you get this cloth? By the way, Sir Percy isn't such a bad old sort, after all. Have you got any more of that orange brandy? I'll have mine in this."

He rang his knuckles against José's great green bowl. Then his quick eye noticed that the best chair in the house was at the right of the table-head.

"H'llo!" he said, "Isabel on your right? Of course. Couldn't be anywhere else. Now mind: you've got to tell me what you think of her--just what you really and truly and honestly think. Where are you putting the Excellent Creature?"

"At the foot," said Antonio. "Between your excellent self and your excellent father. On your left you'll have the excellent Isabel. On my left I shall have the excellent Sir Percival."

"Then Heaven help you," said young Crowberry. "Still, you'll have Isabel on your right. And be sure to remember--"

III

Antonio hurried to the door. His guests, with the exception of Mrs. Baxter, who was following in the chariot with a hamper of silver and linen, had reached the little white gate of the garden. Mr. Crowberry rushed in first.

"Good, good, good," he cried, wringing the monk's hand up and down. Antonio noticed with pleasure that his old employer now treated him as a social equal; but it pleased him more and touched him deeply to find that Mr. Crowberry was overflowing with honest delight at his reunion with a friend.

Before he could reply he was being presented to Sir Percival. Sir Percival submitted to the ceremony inattentively. Nine-tenths of his wits were evidently engaged with something or somebody else. He was a tall, thin, straight, soldierly man, whose scanty gray hair and disproportionately luxuriant mustache made his head look too small and bird-like. His cheeks were a trifle red, his gray eyes bright and restless. As soon as one quick glance had assured him that Antonio did not mean to do him any harm, he seemed to lose interest in his host and in his surroundings.

With Sir Percival's daughter the case was different. Antonio instantly became conscious that, after four years of isolation, he was standing once more face to face with a being of his own kind. He felt, vaguely, that this being was tall, graceful, feminine, proud, fine; but it did not occur to him to take stock of her features, or dress, or complexion. Until later in the afternoon, he could not have told young Crowberry the color of her eyes, or whether she was dark or fair.

This had always been Antonio's way in the presence of a woman. When she happened to be handsome, he felt unerringly and immediately her grace and beauty; yet his first, involuntary, eager search was for her spirit, for the inner self which might perchance be peeping out from the depths of her eyes. His own eyes, dark and soft as brown velvet, could be in the same moment both masterful and tender. While he was still a boy, a wise old woman had said of him: "May God put it into his head to turn monk, for he has eyes to break hearts." Not that Antonio was ever aware of looking at a woman otherwise than at a man. The habit was unconscious; but, for all the purity and austerity of his heart and life, it was there. It was not a fault. One might as well have blamed him for his black hair or for his tallness.

Fifty times in the past Antonio's glance had flashed forth to probe fifty pairs of eyes. Black eyes, blue eyes, hazel eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes--he had glanced into them all. Very often this swift glance had encountered maiden shyness and confusion; very seldom it had struck against brazen immodesty, like a sword against a shield. Once it had met a devil, a devil from hell, all the uglier because of the possessed woman's sweet pink cheeks and gold-crowned white brow. Twice or thrice it had peered into bottomless lakes of pity; and twenty times it had surprised a craving for human kindness, a hunger and thirst for Antonio's or some other love. But, when Mr. Crowberry began reciting his formula of introduction, the monk's keen glance met something it had never met before.

What his glance met was a glance more searching than his own; a still swifter glance which encountered his, like one mailed knight encountering another; a stronger, more impetuous glance which overmastered his and hurled it back. This glance came from beautiful eyes which were neither hard nor cold; but Antonio was too much taken aback to notice their heavenly blue. Unlike his, the lady's glance did not seem to be habitual. It seemed, on the contrary, to be something against the grain of her pride; something peculiar to an abnormal moment of her life. Of this the monk was speedily assured by the slight flush which warmed her cheeks as she turned the blue eyes away.

Mr. Crowberry put an end to the embarrassment. As tumultuously as a cart discharging a thousand of bricks, he expressed, in a single outburst, his joy at seeing Antonio, his detestation of Portugal, his ravenous hunger and raging thirst, and also some sudden animosity against his headlong heir. He wound up by demanding an immediate view of the champagne.

Antonio promised to give Mr. Crowberry satisfaction at a later stage. He explained that the dark and chilly cellar was no place for a lady at any time, and that even Mr. Crowberry could not go in and out of it with impunity during the heat of the afternoon. But the vineyards, he said, could be seen; also the _chais_ or over-ground cellars, the patent wine-plant from Bordeaux, the Irish pot-still for the orange brandy, and some of the casks of Portuguese claret which England might expect to receive in twelve months' time.

At that minute young Crowberry joined them. He was alternately sucking and rubbing one of his fingers which he had just burned while interfering with José in the kitchen. As the others moved off towards the nearer vines the young man detained Antonio and dug mysteriously into the monk's ribs with his unburnt hand.

"What d'ye think of Isabel Kaye-Templeman?" he muttered.

"How do I know? What do you think of yourself?" Antonio retorted. And he hurried after his guests, without waiting for an answer.

Sir Percival allowed his body to be marched round about Antonio's domain and in and out of the chais: but his mind and soul persisted in sticking fast somewhere else. While Antonio was explaining the Bordeaux wine-press, the baronet abruptly whipped out a pocket-book and began scribbling some figures which did not appear to have much connection with wine. Mr. Crowberry was equally trying. He asked Antonio at least forty questions, most of them extremely technical; but he did not listen to more than half a dozen of the monk's answers. As for Isabel, although she accompanied the others in a dutiful manner and listened to all Antonio said, she hardly spoke. Antonio divined what it was that vexed her. At the moment of the introduction she had counted on seeing before she was seen.

The dinner-bell jangled punctually at four o'clock. Mrs. Baxter had arrived, along with a Portuguese servant who was already on good terms with José in the kitchen. The Excellent Creature had brought three knives, three forks, two spoons, and a napkin for each person, as well as eighteen finely-cut wine-glasses. She was a stoutish little person, looking like an old maid of the middle class, but with unmistakable aspirations to the dignity of what she called "a decayed gentlewoman." Young Crowberry presented Antonio to her in a set speech.

"Madam," he said, making a low bow and sweeping the floor with the brim of his hat, "I trust I have your leave to introduce the worthy Senhor Oliveira da Rocha, whose lowly roof you are honoring by your presence. His rugged frame conceals an honest heart; and, while he sets before us our frugal fare, I make bold to hope that the evident sincerity of his welcome will assist you to condone the inevitable defects of his hospitality. Senhor da Rocha, I have the good fortune to make you acquainted with a gracious lady, and one of the chief ornaments of her sex, than whom the world contains no more Excellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter."

Antonio heard the first sentences of this harangue with horror. Such merciless teasing of a woman, a poor woman, a helpless widow, a dependent who could hardly retaliate, stung his ears. But he soon discovered that Mrs. Baxter had not yet found young Crowberry out. She heard him with approval, and received Antonio's greetings in a condescending manner.

When they entered the dining-room the soup was on the table. José's old spoons made so evident an impression on Mrs. Baxter that young Crowberry turned to her and said:

"Madam, it is hoped that we shall see our way to leave at least two of them behind."

Whenever Mrs. Baxter could not understand young Crowberry's remarks she bestowed upon him a beaming smile. Antonio, whose blood had run cold, breathed again as the smile appeared; but he felt some apology was needed for such perilous jesting at his table. In a low voice he said to Isabel, who was on his right:

"As that young man's old tutor, I fear he hardly does me credit."

"As Mrs. Baxter's old pupil," Isabel answered, "I'm sure she doesn't mind."

This time their eyes met more guardedly; but there was still much in the lady's glance which the monk could not fathom. It was as though their acquaintanceship already had a past, and was to have a future; as though they had often sat side by side before, eating and drinking or talking together; as though they were bearing themselves formally before fellow-guests who could not be allowed to suspect their good comradeship; as though they had a thousand confidences whereof to disburden themselves so soon as they should be alone. Not that Antonio made any such complete analysis as this while he was ladling out the soup from the green bowl. He was conscious of little more than a fine pleasure in the presence of this beautiful English girl who was entering so willingly and naturally into his rough life.

Everybody praised the cream of cauliflowers. In default of soup-plates, it was ladled into small round, gaily-painted dishes, about four inches deep. A dozen of them had cost Antonio the equivalent of an English shilling at the fair of Santa Iria a year before. All the dishes differed in pattern and color. Young Crowberry was the first to eat his last spoonful of soup; and, having done so, he discovered at the bottom of his dish a violet leopard, with green spots, climbing a pink tree. He shoved it towards Mrs. Baxter.

"Alas, madam," he said. "The pity of it. How sad that the industrious artist whose work I am contemplating should have lacked those blessings of education which you, ma'am, are so signally qualified to impart! I protest that neither this cærulean quadruped nor the blushing vegetable to whose apex he aspires are to be found figured on any of the numerous pages which the late spendthrift Goldsmith devoted to the description of Animated Nature. I protest--"

So did Crowberry _père_, who had been listening to some eager talk of Sir Percy's. He gave Crowberry _fils_ a kick under the narrow table, and once more lent Sir Percy his right ear.

"Mine," said Isabel to Antonio, "is a blue bird, with an orange-colored tail. I should love to eat soup every night out of this nest of his."

"It is your own," said Antonio. "I will send it up to-morrow."

Not knowing the Portuguese etiquette which prescribed that Antonio should make the offer and that she should decline it, Isabel simply spoke what was in her heart.

"Mine?" she said gratefully. "How good you are! But no. It's old and valuable. I could never think of it."

"Very old," smiled Antonio. "The potter made it last year for the village fair. And very valuable. My man, José, bought twelve of them for a penny each. It is not worth naming."

At the news that she could possess the blue and orange bird without leaving her host more than one penny the worse Isabel was as pleased as a child. Meanwhile, Sir Percy continued his conversation with Mr. Crowberry and ignored his daughter. A Portuguese papa would have kept sharp ears and eyes upon his offspring; but the monk knew too much of English ways to be surprised.

José stamped in with the trout. When he had set them down and there was no further risk of his dropping both fishes and dishes on the stone floor, Antonio disclosed his name, his offices, and his virtues to the company, in English and in Portuguese. José blushed, saluted, and fled.

Within a ten-mile radius of the abbey less than a hundredweight of butter was churned in the whole year. Not an ounce was made by José. As for the olive oil, Antonio distrusted its fineness. Accordingly the trout had been simply steamed. They were served with a sauce made from the yolks of eggs, cream, and the juice of lemons. The host saw with pride that this dish was a success; but Sir Percy cleared his plate without seeming to know whether he was eating a mountain trout or a red herring. At last, when José was taking away the plates, he swung round towards Antonio like a weathercock on a rusty pivot, and said abruptly:

"Senhor Rocha, I hear you know all about alujezos."

"Azulejos," interrupted Mr. Crowberry, correcting him.

"Ajulezos," snapped Sir Percy, without turning his head.

"It's a hard word to pronounce," said Antonio; "and a strange word altogether. As azulejos are little blue-and-white tiles, one would naturally think that it is derived from azul, our Portuguese word for 'blue,' and _ej_, one of our diminutives--a bluelet, a blueling, a little thing of blue. But that's a pure coincidence. The word comes straight from the Arabic."

Sir Percy stared. Antonio thought he was incredulous.

"I mean the word, not the thing," he explained. "The azulejos up at the abbey are not Moorish, of course. They are of the seventeenth century, produced under Dutch influence, but far finer, I think, than any Delft. All the same, we have genuine Moorish azulejos in Portugal; for example, in the Palace at Cintra."

Sir Percy stared harder than ever.

"We'll talk about it later on. Not now. After dinner," said Mr. Crowberry hastily. "Sir Percy, you've not tasted your wine."

The wine-merchant himself had already tasted three glasses. The wine was a white wine, somewhat resembling a very dry sherry, but as refreshing as young Moselle. The two Crowberrys praised its clearness, Isabel admired its color, Mrs. Baxter said it was a little sour, and Sir Percy, having drained his glass at a single gulp, kindly said he would have some more.

The lifting of the great casserole's lid filled the room with fragrant vapors. With this dish José served a salad of bitter oranges and three bottles of the farm's best red wine. Mrs. Baxter said that this wine would be improved by the addition of a little hot water, nutmeg, and honey. Unhappily the Crowberrys, whose hearts were with the ports and fruity Burgundies, also failed to note its subtler beauties. Nevertheless, the older Crowberry drank a whole bottle by himself, and then loudly insisted on trying the new champagne.

"We demand it, dead or alive," said young Crowberry.

The champagne was brought at last. José walked in with it slowly, holding it neck downwards. Antonio rose, took the bottle to the doorway and released the cork. With a cunning movement he reverted the bottle the instant the explosion had disgorged the sediment. When he poured out the liquid, the bubbles danced like diamonds upon amber. It was not very good wine; but the excitements attending it put everybody into a good temper, Sir Percy not excepted.

The remaining delicacies were set on the table all at once. For the ladies Antonio had taken care to provide two dishes of sweets. The first was filled with heart-shaped marmeladas, or quince jellies, firm enough to cut with a knife and not in the least sticky. The second was a custard of goat's milk and eggs, flavored with spices and white wine. There were also six tiny snow-white cheeses, some fine broas, and a pyramid of grandly colored fruits. The coffee, for once, was not grain-and-dandelion, but real Brazilian.

Knowing Mr. Crowberry's weakness, the monk signed to José that he should serve the brandy in small glasses, and that he should not leave the flasks on the table. When the cigar-box went round, Mr. Crowberry did not recognize it as one which Antonio had received in his presence four years before, a thousand miles away. His mind was busy with another thought. Filling up his largest glass with white wine, he rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and said pompously:

"To the Queens of England and Portugal. May their Majesties and their subjects be happy. God save the Queens."

Everybody stood up and drank. José, knowing that some good work was a-doing, saluted. But when the others sat down again, Mr. Crowberry remained standing.

"I haven't done yet," he said. "There's another toast. Ladies and gentlemen, I take leave to propose the health of Senhor Francisco Manoel Oliveira da Rocha. May God forgive him for having such a name. Ladies and gentlemen, he's a jolly good fellow. Personally, I don't like his claret; but, to be candid, I don't like anybody's. I've tasted worse stuff from Bordeaux at half a guinea a bottle."

Young Crowberry applauded noisily. Mrs. Baxter, who had dined well, blinked at the speaker like a sleepy pussy-cat. Sir Percival listened with almost excessive politeness. He had emerged from his abstraction, and was ashamed of his earlier brusqueness. Isabel's gaze was riveted on her painted plate.

"When I reflect," continued Mr. Crowberry, "that Senhor da Rocha has accomplished all this on a few guineas of capital and almost single-handed, I am more than ever proud to be his friend. The weeks I passed with him in England were the pleasantest of my life. Sir Percy ... Ladies ... I congratulate you on your neighbor. He has given us a dinner fit for kings. I say once more, he's a jolly good fellow, and I empty my glass to his lifelong health and happiness."

Young Crowberry, using both hands, rattled the blades of two knives against the rims of two plates, at the same time stamping on the stone floor and yapping out, "Hear, hear!" in a voice like a terrier's bark. The toast was drunk.

Antonio rose to respond. But it was nearly half a minute before he opened his mouth. Mr. Crowberry's unexpected compliment gave him an opportunity for which he was unprepared, and English was not his native tongue. At last he said:

"Mr. Crowberry, ladies and gentlemen. I cannot accept your compliments, for I do not deserve them; but I thank you most heartily for your kind wishes. I thank you, also, for the honor you have done me in coming to this little house. You, sir, have kindly spoken of our picnic as a dinner; but I am under no delusions, and I thank you, most of all, for your leniency towards our roughness and shortcomings."

Mrs. Baxter graciously inclined her head, as if to bestow a plenary indulgence where it was urgently needed; but the others cried, "No! Not at all!"

"And now," Antonio went on, "I have a toast on my own account, though I'm the only one to drink it. I propose the health of my guests. Mr. Crowberry's was the only face I knew when I landed in your beautiful England, and his was the last face I saw when I sailed away. Without his generosity I might not be on this farm to-day. It does me good to see him again. He is--I hope I'm pronouncing the word right--he's a jolligoodfellow."

"And so say I," sang out young Crowberry. "He's a block of the young chip."

"As for Sir Percival Kaye-Templeman and ... and Her Ladyship," added the monk, suddenly becoming hazy as to the status of a baronet's daughter, "I am indeed happy to have such neighbors. We place our services, such as they are, entirely at their Excellencies' disposal; and at Madame Baxter's also. Mr. Crowberry, you are aware, sir, that I used to work in the abbey vineyards, over seven years ago. I knew all the monks. I knew the old Abbot. He was a saint. He died a day or two after they turned him out, at Navares, the little town you passed through this morning. So it is natural I should have a great deal of reverence for the old place. And I am thankful, more thankful than words can express, that it has passed to owners who will not hold so sacred a spot in disrespect. Often and often I have feared for its fate."

An awkward silence followed Antonio's speech. Mr. Crowberry fidgeted in his chair. Isabel colored warmly, and Sir Percy straightened his back more stiffly than ever. Suddenly young Crowberry came to the rescue with a comical wail.

"What about Me?" he asked. "I'm a guest, and you haven't praised Me? Why ain't I a jolligoodfellow, too?"

"You are already jolly and, some day, I hope you will be good," said Antonio, smiling good-humoredly at his pupil. "Ladies and gentlemen, with my whole heart, I drink to you all."

Everybody turned to Sir Percy. He seemed desirous of responding, but something held him down. Young Crowberry sprang into the breach once more.

"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking," he said, rising, "I will nevertheless, however, try to attempt to endeavor to thank you on behalf of us all. Now for my own toast. The Ladies--God bless 'em. Senhor, I believe you have on your right a Lady Abbess who will give you every satisfaction. If, however, Her Ladyship should fail in anything, you have only to report the matter to Madame Baxter. I drain my glass to the Ladies."

The four men drank. Isabel darted a grateful glance at young Crowberry, as if to thank him for delivering her from a painful situation; but he did not see it. Mrs. Baxter sat up, gasped, blushed, and managed to say:

"I am sure, Mr. Edward, we are very much obliged."

"Last not least, here's to José, the cook," cried young Crowberry, and, raising his voice, he called through the door in Portuguese: "Hola, José, how the devil are we to drink your health when there isn't any more wine?"

After José had been toasted and had saluted in response, Antonio suggested that he had detained his visitors too long, and that they were doubtless wishing to see more of their new home before dark. Sir Percy seemed grateful. Pulling himself together, he acknowledged the monk's hospitality with almost excessive earnestness, and pressed him to come often to the abbey. They walked together to the road.

"And I am truly to have the blue-and-orange bird?" said Isabel. "You're sure you won't miss him very much?"

"Not a bit," said Antonio. "I know he will have a good home."

He stood watching the chariot as it rolled away. At the bend of the road she turned and waved her hand.

IV

The wine-merchant and his son did not drive home with Sir Percy and the ladies. They preferred to walk.

"Now then," demanded Crowberry _fils_, pouncing upon Antonio as he returned from the gate. "Out with it. What do you think of Isabel?"

But Crowberry _père_, following hard on his heels, swiftly sent the youth about his business. He wanted ten minutes' talk, he said, with Antonio alone.

"Da Rocha," he began, as they paced the shady length of the chief pergola; "believe me, it was one of the greatest disappointments of my life when I could not lend you the two thousand pounds you wrote for. If I'd only had sense enough to stick to wine, you could have had the money twice over in a jiffy. But I'm up to the ears in these damned railways; and Heaven only knows what will be the end."

"A big profit, I hope," said the monk.

"More likely a big smash. But leave all that. It's too late to alter it. Now, about these abbey vineyards. It struck me that I might get somebody to buy the buildings and to lease you the vineyards on easy terms. The only man I could think of was Sir Percy. I knew he was finding England a bit uncomfortable. You see, he's gone through nearly all his money."

"How? Gambling? Drinking? Or what?"

"Worse. Inventions. He worshiped his young wife. She died suddenly, and I think it turned him a bit mad. Anyhow, he's gone through two fortunes. All spent on experiments and patents. He has invented dozens of things people don't want. Ten thousand pounds went over a balloon with wings and a rudder. He has perfected a substitute for indigo; but it costs twice as much as the genuine article. I believe his new way of boring cannons has been taken up by the Government; but an artillery colonel stole the idea and collared all the profits. I don't doubt Sir Percy has invented a thing or two this very day, at your table."

"You say he has spent all his money," objected Antonio. "If so, how could he buy the abbey?"

"Wait," said Mr. Crowberry. "Men like Sir Percy can't get down to their last penny as easily as you or I. Sir Percy's is an old family--older than any of our dukes, save one. Families like those are all spread out, through intermarriage. There's always some aunt or cousin, when it comes to the worst, who will send you five hundred pounds and a nasty letter. In this case, Sir Percy got the five hundred near home. It was his daughter Isabel's. She has a separate estate that can't be pawned. This five hundred came out of income."

"But the price of the abbey was three thousand pounds."

"Don't interrupt. It was three thousand guineas. That is, three thousand pounds for the Lisbon Government and three hundred for the Fazenda official. Two thousand eight hundred remain to be paid."

Antonio's heart brimmed with wrath and shame and bitterness.

"I couldn't have managed it but for an amazing stroke of luck," Mr. Crowberry continued. "Over these damned railways, I got mixed up with a sort of broker who knew all about Portugal. I don't like him; but he's a mighty clever fellow. Perhaps you know him. He got a peerage from your Government for lending them money at forty per cent. He's the Viscount de Ponte Quebrada."

Antonio succeeded in remaining silent.