VI
On the morrow of young Crowberry's reunion with his impatient father at Oporto, Antonio made haste to give an account of his stewardship. About ten pounds in gold remained in his purse and he held, still uncashed, a letter of credit for thirty pounds more. Mr. Crowberry burst out laughing.
"If Teddy hadn't told me ten times over that he's fared like a fighting-cock," he said, "I should believe you've been living on fresh air and ship's biscuit."
"I did my best to make him enjoy his travels," responded Antonio, "but, at the same time, I was reasonably careful."
"You've made a man of him, anyway," said the proud parent. "He used to be the biggest muff in England. Believe me or not: but I've never had to knock him down until this morning."
"This morning you knocked him down?" echoed Antonio, aghast. As a Portuguese he had been accustomed to see parents obey their children.
"Thank God, yes," said Mr. Crowberry heartily. "He was too damnably impudent about claret. But pick up this money. I don't want it, and I won't have it."
The Englishman's determination was unshakable, so Antonio picked up the coins and the draft. But he did so with reluctance: for it made doubly hard his task of announcing that he sought release from the firm of Castro.
Mr. Crowberry was first incredulous, then contemptuous, and finally furious. He tried every device, from ridicule to blasphemy, in order to dissuade Antonio from his purpose. But the monk respectfully and gratefully stood firm. His heart, he said, was in the South. He hoped to buy a derelict farm which adjoined the vineyards of the suppressed abbey where he had made wine before coming to Oporto. More: he had even thought of approaching the Government for a lease of the monks' vineyards, with an option of outright purchase at the end of ten years. His intention, he added, was to make a Portuguese claret of supreme quality, such as should please an unprejudiced English palate more than the wines of Bordeaux, the growths of the grandest châteaux hardly excepted. He ended by very modestly begging Mr. Crowberry to act as his London agent on liberal terms.
Senhor Castro, on whom Mr. Crowberry ultimately devolved the task of shaking their assistant's resolution, was less unwilling to see Antonio go. He was a timid man: and although the operation with the Waterloo port had brought him an unexpected five hundred pounds at a very awkward moment of pressure in his private finance, he was fearful lest the next bold campaign should lead all concerned into disaster. Accordingly he presented his faithful servant with twenty pounds, to go with Mr. Crowberry's hundred guineas, and assured him of his friendly interest in all that Antonio might attempt in the South.
Mounted upon a stout little white horse which he knew he could sell at a profit after finishing his journey, Antonio set his face southward one misty October morning. In his belt he carried two hundred and seventy-three pounds of English bank-notes and gold, as well as a few thousand reis in Portuguese silver for his expenses on the road. But although this beltful was so much larger than he had dared to hope for, he returned at once to the severe frugality of the days before he set sail for England. He hardly ever lay or ate in an inn. Tethering the docile little horse to a tree, he would take his night's rest in some out-of-the-way thicket. His meals were once more of black bread, snowy cheese, and ruby wine. These he would vary by occasional purchases of fruit. The last of the fresh figs and the first of the dried were in the markets, and the monk's halfpenny bought two heaped handsful of either.
With forebodings of change in his heart, Antonio made the short detour which would bring him to the parish of the old cura. His fear was not belied. The spruceness of the gardens and the crystal clearness of the presbytery windows were infallible signs that a new reign had begun.
"When did the old padre die?" asked Antonio of a fisherman who was lounging against the church wall.
"Last year, Senhor."
"Had he a long illness?"
"Not long. My son was with him when he died. The reverend Bishop was there too. On his last day our padre told them all that he was glad to be done with his pains and troubles; but he said he would cheerfully bear them longer, if it was God's will, so that he might change his life and begin to do a little good."
"But surely he had done good already!" exclaimed Antonio.
"Senhor," said the fisherman, almost resentfully, "we didn't know it till he was gone, because his ways were rough: but he was a saint walking the earth. Good? Had he done good? I dare say he had done more good than your Worship."
As Antonio continued his ride south he fell to thinking. In England he had once sat at dinner next to a whiskered curate, who was hot with anger against a proposal by one of the new-fangled High Churchmen to call a chapel-of-ease Saint Alban's. As far as Antonio could ascertain the Church of England recognized no saints after the apostolic age, and certainly none after the fourth century. Yet Antonio himself could name at least three Christians who had died saints' deaths, and at least one who had lived a saint's life.
Strangely enough it was on the same day, only a few hours after his pious reverie about sainthood, that Antonio succumbed for a season to the wiles of the devil. At midday the autumn sun was strong and he entered a roadside shanty for a pull of wine. Two or three peasants who were drinking made way for him respectfully; and Antonio's patriotic pride was stirred by the contrast between their quiet dignity and the vulgar shouting so common in the estaminets of France. The wine was bright and sharp, the floor was clean, and the little wooden hut was pleasantly dim and cool. But suddenly Antonio caught sight of himself in a cheap mirror, in a tawdry gilt frame, which hung behind the counter. The glass was so bad that it distorted the handsomest faces into lopsided masks.
In an instant Antonio was transported back to England and to the great dining-room of the earl with its lordly sideboard and beveled mirror. He did not remember his unworldly ecstasy of that night: he saw only the beeswax candles, the snowy linen, the bubble-thin glasses, the crimson roses, the creaming wine, the scarlet footmen, and the white-armed young beauty in her proud diamonds and soft pearls. That—all that—was the flattering, delicious life on which he had turned his back in order that he might live and die in a wilderness, toiling early and late on stock-fish and chick-peas and dark bread and peasant's wine.
Tired out as he was by hard days and nights this sudden temptation overthrew Antonio. The cabin which had lured him aside from the garish dusty road by its dimness and coolness suddenly seemed foul and mean, the soft-eyed, soft-voiced countrymen seemed louts, the refreshing wine seemed sugar and vinegar. Forgetting everybody's presence he broke into a loud, bitter laugh, flung down the price of ten glasses of wine, scrambled upon his horse and dashed away.
"That man is mad," said one of the peasants, gazing after the bobbing black core of the dwindling cloud of dust.
"He has committed a crime," said another more gravely.
"He is a Spaniard," said a third: and all felt that he had uttered the crowning word of horror.
For the first time in his life Antonio was cruel to a dumb beast. He struck at his horse's flanks savagely, lashing him on through dust and heat. His whole soul was storming with rebellion. But a whinnying sound of pain and fear recalled him to his better self. He reined in his horse. The poor brute, accustomed to a gentle Portuguese master and filled with fright and bewilderment at these strange doings, whinnied again.
Leaping down, Antonio patted the quivering neck and looked round in the hope that there might be water. The scene which met his eyes shamed him. He was within a stone's-throw of the pine-clad hill where he had passed his first night out of doors, just after he fled from his brethren at Navares. With a rush of penitence he obeyed the sign. He thought of that good horse Babieca, the battle-charger of the Cid—that good horse who knelt down of his own accord outside the hidden shrine at the capture of Toledo. Still stroking and patting his animal's neck, Antonio led the way up into the grove. There he found the curved bark of a cork tree, and, turning up the two ends, he poured into this rude horse-trough every drop of wine from the skins in his saddle-bags and held it to the parched muzzle as a peace-offering.
The little white horse, having an excellent judgment, speedily licked the cork dry: but Antonio made no haste to remount. Unless some ill befell, he would know before nightfall whether he had come on a fool's errand or not. This was the last day of his journey: and it was fitting that he should recover a clear mind and a quiet spirit.
What sights were in store for him? Would he find the brook-side farm as trim as the old cura's presbytery, with a new master tending the orangery and the vineyard? And what of the monastery? Perhaps children were playing in and out of the cells, while beasts chewed maize-leaves in the cloisters. For more than two years Antonio had lacked news of the abbey's fate. Indeed, only twice since his northward flight had he heard a word about it. The man from Lisbon, to whom he owed his start in the house of Castro, had told Antonio that the Lisbon authorities were not forcing the sale of this particular property because they did not wish to revive the scandal of Ponte Quebrada and the stolen treasures. But this was two summers ago: and much might have happened since then.
Recumbent under the pines Antonio began to revolve plans of action in case either the farm or the abbey should have passed into other hands. But he soon desisted from his thinking. After all, had not the same problem pressed upon him many a time in Oporto, and had he not always solved it in the same way? To keep the holy place inviolate until the monk's toil and self-denial should enable him to return—this surely was God's part of the work. Antonio rose to his feet, confident that he was not too late.
The clock was striking five when he cantered through Navares. As he passed the tavern where he had been insulted, and the white barns of the corn-merchant, he seemed to be revisiting hardly recognizable scenes; for the failing light of the November afternoon was not like the June evening of the monks' exodus. Most of the vines beside the roads had been stripped of their leaves, and such foliage as remained was discolored and tattered. And there was something melancholy in the autumn fields, where giant gourds of many colors lay on the bare earth among the drooping maize-plants. He pressed on. Very soon he reached the spot where the Prior had met the courier from Lisbon: but he was hardly sure of it in the gloom. The darkness deepened, and his little white horse trotted through it, glimmering like a ghost. At last the pleasant voice of hurrying waters hailed him through the dusk.
He had reached the farm.
No light, no sound, met Antonio's straining eyes and ears as he climbed the knoll. Leaving his horse to graze, he advanced eagerly into the midst of the silent buildings. They were still deserted. He pushed through rank growths into the orangery, and as he touched one of the pale orbs above his head he knew that the farm had lain all the time uncared-for and untilled. With a full heart he gave thanks to God.
The dull booming of the sulky Atlantic was almost drowned by the cheerful clatter of the headlong brook. Antonio drew near to the vociferous waters as if to compel an answer to his question. Hardly an hour before those waters had leaped down the mountain above the guest-house, they had danced through the monks' vineyard, they had plunged along the dark tunnel which led them under the refectory, they had resounded strangely in the vast kitchen, they had emerged into the Abbot's garden, and at last they had tumbled headlong down the slopes to seethe and shout at Antonio's feet. He would fain have demanded of them, "Is all well?"
But it was needful to possess his soul in patience until the rising of the moon: so Antonio returned to his saddle-bags and drew forth a supper of bread and dried figs. From time to time he would mount the knoll and would peer vainly through the darkness in the direction of the monastery. Once or twice, to kill time, he wandered back along the road: but he soon returned, for the moaning of the Atlantic made itself drearily insistent whenever he got out of hearing of the merry torrent.
As the hour of moonrise drew nearer the monk's heart beat faster. Deep down in his soul there was still a calm confidence that all was well: but the surface of his mind was tumultuous with myriad hopes and fears. He tried to groom his horse and left the work half done: he began to say his rosary and broke off half-way through the second Mystery: he sat down, rose up, and sat down again twenty times. Perhaps the monastery had escaped desecration: but who could assure him that winter gales and summer heats and spring floods had not torn off roofs or shrunk up timbers or whirled away walls? For all he knew the moon would rise upon a ruin.
At length a smear of watery light along the horizon showed that the moon's orb was urging up into a bank of mist. Antonio turned and ran to the top of the knoll in time to see a vague luminosity blanching the leaden waters of the ocean. Near objects became visible. He could make out the white oblong of the farmstead and the white flanks of his horse. But the further landscape and the tops of the hills seemed withdrawn into denser shadow than before.
The suspense was hard to bear: but Antonio knew it could not be prolonged. Above the bank of cloud stars were shining in a clear heaven. He waited. Now and again he uttered fragments of prayers.
The cloud-bank went on sinking slowly into the sea all the time the moon was mounting out of it, until the rim of the round shield gleamed like a piece of old silver-gilt through the last smoky veil. Then the rim of the shield pushed up clear, shining against the blue as cold and sharp and bright as a scythe. Antonio yearned towards it, trembling all over: but he did not turn round till the entire white orb was floating free before his eyes.
He gazed down the knoll and saw, as clear as noon-day, the old camp of the monks and the troopers. He saw the extent of the farm, its house and buildings, its fields and vineyards and orchards. He saw the Atlantic, firm and shining, like a field of ice. He saw his horse, tethered to a tree and grazing softly. He saw the swirling brook, like liquid jet, bearing curds and suds and bergs of snow. He saw the straight pines, the jeweled orange-grove, the white road, the violet heavens. Then, with the Name upon his lips, he turned round.
High on her holy hill, with a rich curtain of pine-woods drawn out behind her throne, the abbey chapel looked down upon Antonio all white and fair and inviolate. The rains which had burst around her and the suns which had burned upon her had only enhanced her whiteness, till she shone like her Lord, transfigured upon Mount Hermon. A cry burst from Antonio's lips. His heart sang Tola pulchra es amica mea: "Thou art altogether fair, my love." The chapel seemed a glorious ark, newly borne to rest upon her Ararat by the floods of silver moonlight. Like Saint John on Patmos Antonio could have cried: "I see the holy city, the new Jerusalem, descending from heaven, from God, arrayed like a Bride adorned for her Bridegroom." In Antonio's ears, as in John's, an angel seemed to say: "Come, and I will show thee the Bride, the spouse of the Lamb."
Antonio had planned to wait until daybreak before he sought entrance to his old home. But the Spirit of God bade him re-enter the sacred place in the first ecstasy of his vision. "Spiritus et sponsa dicunt, Veni: The Spirit and the Bride say, Come,'" Antonio murmured; and he began to climb the hill.