VIII
When the serão was beginning to break up, Senhor Jorge asked Antonio into the house in order that he might judge some old wine. After it had been tasted and praised, the lavrador gazed at the monk wistfully and said:
"I hope the Senhor is not superstitious?"
"Superstitious? I hope not," Antonio replied. "And I promise, Senhor Jorge, that I will speak very plainly to my man José about that ridiculous ghost-story."
"I wasn't thinking of your man José," said the lavrador. And, after an awkward pause, he added: "That clay pot. Your Worship failed to catch it. And just after the pot broke the sky was darkened. It ... it upset my Margarida very much."
Antonio's heart sank. Had Senhor Jorge been merely a selfish match-maker, bent on marrying off Margarida for his own profit, it would have been easy to rebuff him by silent contempt. But the monk knew that he was face to face with an honest Portuguese of the old school who was sacrificing pride to duty.
To gain time Antonio poured another spoonful of wine into the thin English glass. Having warmed it with his hand, he swirled it round, sniffed it, and held it up to the lamp. But he did not drink it. Replacing it on the table, he said:
"Have two or three minutes' patience with me, Senhor Jorge, while I perform one of the hardest tasks of a life which has not been easy. For three years I have lived like a hermit. To-night is my first social recreation since I settled down in this parish."
"Go on," urged Senhor Jorge. His face was paler and his mouth twitched.
"My farm was a tangled wilderness. Our work claimed all our time. Now and again business took me to Navares or Villa Branca; but I hardly knew the names of half-a-dozen people in this village. Your Worship, I will come to the point. When you called at my farm I did not know you had a daughter. I had seen the Senhorita Margarida in church; but until her mother called her into our presence last Sunday I did not know she was yours."
"You know now," muttered the lavrador angrily. "And I'd like to hear what's wrong with her. If any one has breathed a whisper against her I'll kill him with my own hands. Yes!" he cried, raising his voice, "I'll do it as easily as I'd cut a pig's throat."
"Not so fast," said Antonio. "I have not heard one word against Margarida. And I can use my eyes. I know she's as good as gold."
"Then what's wrong? Out with it! Isn't she pretty enough for your Worship? Most people call her a beauty. Or are you afraid she won't have enough money?"
"Her beauty is so great that it would be wasted in an out-of-the-way corner like my farm," said the monk, keeping his temper. "As for money, it's the last thing in the world I should think of. But the truth is, I do not mean to marry."
After he had stared at Antonio a full minute, the lavrador's stern face suddenly relaxed and he burst into unaffected laughter.
"If that's all, friend Francisco," he chuckled, clapping Antonio on the back, "it's less than nothing. Why, I myself didn't mean to marry: and look at me to-day! De Barros Lopes, the farrier, swore he'd never marry; and he has eight children. Old Martins said he would hang himself before he would marry; and this is his third wife."
"Then old Martins has taken my share," said Antonio curtly. "I repeat I shall not marry."
"The reason?"
"My ... my work."
"Work? Is your Worship the only man in Portugal who works? There's a bit of work, now and again, on my own farm. Is it the worse done because there's a mistress, and three stout sons and the best daughter a man ever had? Work! My wife and I squabble sometimes; but the best day's work I ever did was to get married."
The monk held his peace. Senhor Jorge, genuinely desirous of promoting Antonio's happiness as well as Margarida's, chaffed him with rough heartiness.
"Come, come," said he. "Your head's full of cobwebs. You've been hiding yourself too long in holes and corners. Don't be a fool. It's all very well while you're young and healthy; but, when days and nights of sickness come, who will nurse you then, and put up with your foibles? And who will carry on the wine-making when you're dead and gone? Come, you don't want to let the grand old family of Da Rocha die out? Besides ... a man without a woman is only half a man."
Senhor Jorge uttered his concluding sentence with a meaning change of tone. But, even if his own daughter Margarida had not been involved, the lavrador had too much delicacy to expand this clinching argument. Antonio, however, scented the meaning.
What was he to say? All these arguments against celibacy, and a host of others more refined, had hurled themselves in his teeth a dozen years before, when he first contemplated the vow of chastity. But the answers which satisfied him were not available in the presence of Senhor Jorge. He could not reply that he had deliberately renounced his high-sounding names until events forced him to resume them; that he welcomed roughness and solitary vigils of pain in thankful honor of the Man of Sorrows; and that the succession of Saint Benedict's spiritual family was secure until the end of the world. With bent head and knitted brows he remained mute.
"Then I will persuade you no more," said Senhor Jorge. "If my wife knew I had said half so much, she would never forgive me. By Saint Braz! To think I should be begging and praying anybody to be so kind as to marry Marge! Before I asked for Perpetua, I had to go down almost on my bended knees. Pssh! Sometimes, before she braided up her hair, I've watched Margaridinha playing about the house and I've thought how I would hum and haw and hesitate when a suitor should come along. I thank your Worship. For to-night I've done with him. If he wants to speak to me after Mass next Sunday he may; but next Sunday will be his last chance."
Antonio flung himself against the door before his ruffled host could open it.
"One moment," he pleaded in low, insistent tones. "Here and now let me say, once for all, that neither next Sunday nor any other day can I do myself this great honor. Senhor Jorge, I shall never forget the extreme compliment you have paid me. Senhor, I trust you to keep my secret. I cannot ask for Margarida because ... already ... I am..."
"You are married already," hissed the lavrador, blazing into terrible indignation.
"No. No, no, a thousand times. But ... I am plighted to another Bride."
He turned away abruptly and walked to the tiny window. The scudding moon had escaped from the black rain-clouds, and Antonio thought he could discern the white belfry of the abbey chapel rising above the distant pine-woods.
"Another bride?" echoed Senhor Jorge, more wrathful than ever. "Who? Where? When? It's that chalk-faced chit of a Rosalina Saldanha!"
"No," Antonio answered, wheeling round. "Neither Rosalina Saldanha nor any other mortal woman you've ever seen or heard of."
"Then where is she? Why does she leave you year after year alone? Tut! A fine bride. Let her take you or leave you. You're a fool to stand it."
"We will not quarrel," said the monk. "If you knew all, you would not malign Her. It may be years, many years more, that I must live alone. But my faith is plighted, and there's an end."
This time it was the older man who walked to the window. After a long time he asked, without looking round:
"Why did not your Worship think of this before? Why did he come here to-night, leading on my poor Marge, and setting all the tongues a-wagging?"
There was an obvious and fair retort; but Antonio did not make it. Instead, he answered:
"For that blunder I ask pardon. I had promised to come to the serão: and I had some foolish idea that it would give me a chance of putting matters right. In England I prided myself on having tact in these things. But pride goes before a fall. Forgive me for not staying away. I have blundered worse than a village booby. Yet I hope, in spite of all, that we may part friends."
They parted friends.
Out in the open, Antonio said to José:
"Hear me for one minute on a matter we need never mention again. I have made it plain to Senhor Jorge that I am not free to marry the Senhorita Margarida."
"But Senhor Jorge was not satisfied with that?"
"I told him," replied Antonio awkwardly, "that I am already plighted to another Bride. You know what Bride I mean, José?"
"Yes. But Senhor Jorge doesn't."
Half a mile further on Antonio demanded:
"About this ghost—this black monk in the chapel. I was thunderstruck. I thought you were mad."
"For once in my life," said the peasant, "I had all my wits about me. I overheard that cockatoo of an Emilio saying that he often took a stroll in the abbey gardens, after his day's work. He was lying; but I didn't want the other young fellows to begin prowling about up there."
"They'll prowl all the more now."
"They never will, your Worship," affirmed José flatly. "They're the poorest lot I ever saw. There isn't a man among them. Why, at Pedrinha das Areias, if we had heard of a ghost, a dozen of us would have turned out to see how ghosts looked after they have been soused with buckets of cold water. Here they're fops and cowards. No, your Worship. From to-night the abbey is safe."
Antonio marveled at José's shrewdness. It was of a piece with his shrewdness in choosing the sun-baked sand-pit for burying the boxes of the Viscount. All the same he felt it his duty, as José's spiritual director, to rebuke him mildly, saying:
"But there's no ghost there at all."
Hardly were the words out of his mouth before he regretted them. Fresh from his well-meaning prevarication with Senhor Jorge, who was he to censure others? He hoped José would not notice the inconsistency; but he hoped in vain.
"I never said there was any ghost," chuckled José. "I said there was a monk, all in black, in his stall. You know what monk I mean, your Worship."
"But Emilio Carneiro doesn't," said Antonio.
They laughed loudly together and strode on, talking with unwonted gaiety under the bright moon. Had not the master rid himself of match-makers, and had not the man made the abbey safer than ever?
"Sing," begged the monk.
The peasant struck up a rousing song in praise of wine. But in the middle of the third verse he stopped. They were crossing the road which led from Navares to the main gate of the abbey. José sank on one knee and pored over something he had seen.
Two wheels had cut two deep grooves in the wet sand. José measured the distance between them with his two palms. Then he examined the marks of the horse's shoes.
"These wheels," he said, "were not Portuguese. And, unless they've shod him in Lisbon or Oporto, these shoes didn't belong to a Portuguese horse."
Antonio hardly heard him. High on the hill, from inside the principal window of the abbey guest-house, the flame of a candle looked out like a living thing.