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—"