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.
"Strangely enough, he knew this very abbey. It was the week after I had your letter. I told him that a friend of mine wanted to buy the vineyards; and he recognized the name of the place at once. I tried to get him to lend you two thousand on it; but he wouldn't do it to a stranger. Then I asked him to lend it to Sir Percy; and he seemed quite struck with the idea.
"That very night he went and saw Sir Percy on his own account, and they made some sort of three-cornered bargain. The Viscount has squared the Fazenda, and he's given Sir Percy introductions for getting a railway concession—Lisbon to Oporto—worth millions! I suspect the Viscount will get the millions, and Sir Percy will be the figure-head. As for the two thousand eight hundred, they've to pay three hundred on New Year's Day, and the balance in five half-yearly instalments."
"Who will pay? The Viscount? Or the daughter Isabel?"
"Keep quiet. It seems the Viscount told Sir Percy, on the quiet, that there are several jobs about this abbey which they can work together. He mentioned one. These al—I mean, azulejos. Sir Percy has invented a way of getting them down."
Antonio's heart almost stood still.
"They can't, they daren't," he cried at last. "Till the abbey is wholly paid for, how dare they?"
"Who's to object? Hasn't the Fazenda man got three hundred, all for himself? Isn't he going to do anything to earn the money? Da Rocha, I always said you were not a man of the world. They dare, they can, and they will rip down those damned old tiles. And when they've got them down here they're going to get them down in other places—other old convents. The Viscount can get six hundred pounds a set. They're wanted for museums and galleries."
"He can get at least a thousand," cried Antonio.
"So much the better for Sir Percy and the Viscount. That's how the twenty-eight hundred is to be paid. It'll be all right. Now, about your lease of the vineyards."
"Mr. Crowberry," said Antonio, halting and looking with a white face at his friend. "Don't think me ungrateful. But this hurts me to the quick. What if the monks should return to buy back their own? Nay, less. What if one of them should merely revisit it? Those azulejos were their chief pride. What will they say when they know that this, in a sense, is my doing; that it wouldn't have happened if I had never written to you for money?"
"Who's going to tell 'em?" demanded the other, vexed. "If you don't, nobody else will."
"Whether they ever know it or not," said Antonio, "I tell you I'd rather you should pluck out one of my eyes than tear down those azulejos."
"Then you deserve to have been born one-eyed," retorted Mr. Crowberry, thoroughly aroused. "I never heard such tomfoolery in my life. This is what I get for trying to do you a good turn. Gad! As if you didn't put enough of a wet blanket on us all when you proposed our healths! I'll tell you what it is. There's too much damnable gush in this hole of a Portugal, and that's why you're all beggars."
Antonio was about to reply hotly; but the wine-merchant stopped him.
"No," he said, "I take that back. We won't quarrel. But you've upset me badly. I go away on Thursday or Friday. We've only one clear day to fix this lease. Don't be a fool."
"If the azulejos cannot be spared," replied Antonio, terribly agitated, "I cannot become Sir Percy's tenant."
"But, my ridiculous friend, look here. Sir Percy doesn't want a tenant—neither you nor anybody else. He's leasing you the vineyards to oblige me. D'ye expect me to go and make conditions when he's doing you a favor?"
Antonio began pacing up and down, with bent head and hands clasped behind his back. He strode, six steps this way and six steps back, over and over again, with a feverish tread, like an animal in a cage. After a full minute he threw up his head, and said:
"Do me one more kindness. Give me till to-morrow. In the afternoon I will come to the guest-house, to bring a little bowl for Miss Kaye-Templeman. Till then, I beg that you will not say a word of this to anyone?"
Waving down Mr. Crowberry's wrath with an imperious hand, he plunged under the orange trees. The Englishman took a couple of steps after him; then he shrugged his shoulders and strolled back to the house.
"What do you really and truly think of Isabel?" asked young Crowberry, who had headed Antonio off among the trees. This time he meant to have his answer.
The monk looked at him sadly, and passed a hand over his burning eyes.
"The Senhorita and I talked very little," he replied. "So far as I know, I like her."
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes."
"And clever?"
"I think so."
"She's as clever as a don. That's the trouble. All head, no heart. And as proud as Lucifer."
Young Crowberry saw that Antonio could hardly endure his chatter.
"Something's wrong," he said, with genuine concern in his boyish voice. "What are you down in the doleful dumps for?"
At first Antonio shook his head. But the youth's frank distress touched him. The trouble was too great to be confined within one breast; so he detailed Sir Percy's plan. When he had finished he added:
"But why should I worry you with all this? You are young, you are buoyant. You have been brought up amidst different religious ideas. This is a matter you cannot understand."
Young Crowberry gripped the monk's fore-arm with a quick, fierce grip. As he let it drop, he retorted intensely:
"Senhor da Rocha, as you say, I am young. But even I have learned one thing that you haven't. There is not always a merry heart under a cap and bells. My jabber is flippant, no doubt. But ... but God knows how much I care for the things you say I can't understand."
Antonio was startled clean out of his trouble.
"You don't mean to tell me, Edward," he said, "that you have begun to care about religion—to care deeply with all your heart?"
The youth bowed his head.
"Tell me how much you mean," Antonio demanded eagerly.
But Mr. Crowberry appeared in the doorway of the house and stepped out to join them. His son saw him, and said hurriedly in Antonio's ear:
"We leave on Thursday. I want a talk—a long one, a quiet one. Your man José told me a tale about a ghost in the chapel. I said I would watch there to-morrow night. I can get the key. Say that you will join me. But not a word to anybody."
After a second's consideration, Antonio promised. And when a quarter of an hour later he said his farewells at the farm-gate he added softly, in young Crowberry's ear:
"Till to-morrow night ... among the azulejos."