V
The monk strode homewards with wrath in his heart. At both their encounters Jorge dos Santos Rebolla had deceived him by false pretenses. Antonio now understood that the petition for the new bridge was merely an excuse for a spying visit to his little territory; and the lavrador's solicitude for the dryness of Antonio's skin was equally undisinterested. He had been trapped into a compromising position before all the eyes in the parish, and he could hardly get out of it without giving pain to the unoffending Margarida, annoyance to himself, and an opportunity to the gossip-mongers of the village.
Besides, the affair was a blow to Antonio's pride. He had often recalled, with some complacency, his skillful treatment of the young English beauty who gave him the hot-house flower, as well as his tact towards other great ladies who had failed to dissemble their regard. Yet here he was, enmeshed in the first net which a pair of rustic match-makers had troubled to spread. Again, if a Francisco Manoel Oliveira da Rocha were free to wed, it would not be with a daughter of Senhor Jorge.
He swung down the muddy track slashing murderously with his thin English walking-stick at the wet brambles. But Father Antonio had not ceased to be a monk. Every night he examined his conscience, and nearly all day long, in his endeavor toward perfection, he maintained a keen-eyed watch against the approaches of sin. So he reined in his bitter thoughts with sudden strength, and set himself to analyze their causes. Experience had taught him how easily un-Christian pride can be confused with righteous anger.
Before his trim white house rose into sight Antonio re-entered the state of grace, and was once more in love and charity with all his neighbors. The results of Senhor Jorge's proceedings were bound to be gravely embarrassing; but his motives, after all, could not be called disgraceful. It was a father's duty to secure his daughter's happiness; and Antonio could not deny that Senhor Jorge's choice implied a certain compliment to himself. Again, the lavrador could not be blamed for the devices he was using to press the business forward. No one, save José, knew that a Benedictine monk was living on the borders of the parish; and probably Senhor Jorge thought he was doing a shy young bachelor a service by taking charge of the courtship.
These charitable thoughts towards the people who had drawn Antonio into a mess did not, however, help him to get out of it. The slight coldness and stiffness of his farewells could hardly have been noticed by Donna Perpetua and the family. And on Thursday they would expect him at their serão. What was he to do?
According to the cowardly and selfish rules of worldly prudence, his only safe course was to sham some illness or to invent some bogus call of business which would enable him to evade the serão. But such ways were not Antonio's. He had given his promise and he meant to keep it. Indeed, reflection convinced him that the serão would give him his best opportunity of putting an end to the affair. Outside the church Senhor Jorge had publicly compromised Antonio; at the serão Antonio would publicly put himself right again. The parish should see that he was not a woman-hater and a hermit: but the parish should see, also, that he was not a marrying man.
About eight that night, as master and man were returning from their usual Sunday evening exercises in the abbey chapel, Antonio told José that he had sheltered under Senhor Jorge's roof and that he had promised to assist at one of his serões. José tramped along without replying: but it was plain he had a comment to make.
"Is there something you want to say, José?" asked Antonio. "If so, why don't you say it?"
After stumping on another twenty paces in silence José grunted:
"Senhor Jorge has a daughter."
"I know. The Senhorita Margarida."
Although they were a third of a mile from home José shut his mouth and did not open it again until they were in the house, with the door shut. Then he spoke.
"I ask pardon of your Reverence," he began, using the forbidden title with unconcealed deliberation. "Your Reverence is a holy monk. He understands Latin and French and English. He understands oranges and grapes, and winepresses and stills, better than anybody else in Portugal. But he doesn't understand all the ways of the world—especially young women."
"While you, José," retorted Antonio, "understand all the ways of the world—especially young women—perfectly."
"I don't, Father," protested José in alarm, "and nobody else, either—may God help us all! But I understand a thing here and a thing there. The truth is, Father—"
"Don't call me Father. The truth is what?"
"The truth is," replied José, in a mysterious whisper, "they want to find a husband for the Senhorita Margarida."
"Go on."
"Senhor Jorge wants to find some one rich—like your Worship. And Donna Perpetua wants to find a born gentleman—like your Worship."
"Not to beat about the bush," Antonio interrupted, "you mean that Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetua want ... me?"
José admitted it and began apologizing for his presumptuous interference; but Antonio cut him short by saying:
"You have done quite right to talk with me like this. Thanks. Never ask pardon for speaking plainly. Now we will eat our bread."
It was the custom of the two men to dine on Sundays before going up to the abbey, and to eat a small broa, dipped in wine, on their return. They sat down to this simple supper, without any more words about Margarida, and confined themselves to arranging the farm-work for the morrow. At half-past eight José lit his lantern and went off to bed.
The monk made no haste to follow his example. The room was chilly after the rain: so he kindled a fire of cork-cuttings and walnut-shells. It blazed up lustily, and José's copper and pewter reflected the cheerful light. Antonio blew out the useless candle, drew a chair up to the warmth, and sat down.
Outside, the stillness was profound. José, no doubt, had already fallen asleep. No dog barked, no bird of night cried. Even the Atlantic lay hushed.
From the heart of this silent loneliness the spirit of Antonio fared forth, craving the company of living men. He thought first of his old companions, the fathers and brethren of his Order; of the Abbot, of the Cellarer, of Sebastian, of Cypriano. But it was little more than an hour since he had walked past the doors of their abandoned cells and had sat in the midst of their empty stalls; and, try as he might, he could only think of them as impalpable ghosts hovering over the dim and deserted abbey. Then he tried to think of Crowberry, of the young Queen Victoria's nonchalant Comptroller, of the clean-shaven, wiry, iron-willed Duke. But England seemed ever so far away, on the other side of a thousand miles of rain and darkness; and only one memory stood up warm and clear. It was the memory of that summer evening, when the vane on the gray church tower burned like a flame and when the blue smoke from the cottage hearths and the children's merry cries had suddenly turned the exile sick with yearning for love and home.
Yes. Although all other English memories were faint, that one scene rebuilt itself before his mind's eyes, solid, richly colored, vocal. He saw once more the cattle knee-deep in clear, purling waters beside the steep old bridge, and he heard the rooks cawing. It was so like a happening of yesterday that he remembered even the chaff of Mr. Crowberry about his Portuguese sweetheart, Teresa or Dolores or Luiza, or Carmen or Maria.
Maria. Margarida was named Maria. Margarida Clara Maria. The syllables resounded in his brain like tinkling cymbals. They revived that morning's experiences in the lavrador's house with so full an actuality that Antonio's mind-painting of the golden English village faded into gray and brown. Margarida. When Donna Perpetua called out her name she had stepped forth; and now, once more, as Antonio breathed it, she seemed to be advancing through the lonesome byways of his heart.
Perhaps the Rebollas were discussing him at that very moment. He tried to imagine Senhor Jorge holding forth to his trio of inarticulate sons. But he failed. The picture which his imagination persisted in painting was a picture of Donna Perpetua talking to Margarida.
Donna Perpetua, like Senhor Jorge and the three dumb dogs of sons, was doubtless a worthy creature. But the picture looked better without her. Again, the comfortless living-room of the lavrador made an unamiable background. Antonio's fire of cork-bark and nut-shells had sunk from a blaze to a glow, and the bright eyes of the polished copper vessels no longer winked and peeped down upon his privacy. But the unwonted warmth, after the long walk in the fresh air and his draught of generous wine, made him drowsy. His will was no longer supreme. And so it came to pass that a soft dream-shape stole in upon him and sat down on the other side of the hearth. Margarida.
Her presence seemed good to Antonio. Her voice, her cheeks, her arms, her movements were soft and gentle. She had great, mild, stupid, kind eyes, like the eyes of the contented English kine beside the steep stone bridge. Margarida was brainless: but her brainlessness rested his own brains, weary with plans and fears. Sitting beside her, without speaking, brought healing to his fretted spirit. Margarida did not challenge the soul to high romantic passion. She sat there not like a proud maiden to be wooed and won through stress and storm but more like a comely, cosy, docile, loving young matron. Antonio, ever drowsier and drowsier, surrendered himself more and more completely to unheroic peace. He had battled for long years in the teeth of bitter winds and icy currents: but at last he yielded himself up to the deliciousness of drifting down a summer stream, warmed by the sun and hardly ruffled by scented zephyrs.
Margarida seemed to have come nearer. She was at the further end of the hearth no longer, but was sitting on one of José's carved coffers at his side. All the room felt soft and silken. As Antonio's drowsy eyes closed, his right arm sought Margarida's waist that he might gently draw her to his breast....
He awoke in an instant and started up with a cry. For two or three moments his wits went on sleeping, and he could not say if he breathed in heaven or on earth or in hell. The fire had almost died out, and he would have been standing in complete darkness if two dull, red eyes had not stared at him from the hearth. Antonio pressed agonizing hands against his throbbing temples and moaned a broken prayer.
As he came to himself the door was flung open and José rushed in with a lantern. He had heard the cry.
"It is nothing," said Antonio. "I fell asleep in my chair, and I had ... I had a kind of nightmare."
"It's these new-fangled French wines of your Worship's," José grumbled. "Give me honest green wine, old-fashioned Portuguese. It drowns your nightmares before they are born."