"They cheated me out of it, Father—the lawyers. I got only two hundred milreis. I work at a cooper's in Navares: but it is all indoors, and trade is so slack he only keeps me on out of charity. He would be glad if I didn't darken the door again. I would like to be your servant."
Antonio walked once more to the door and looked out. The sky was clearing. High in the East, encircled by creamy cloud-banks, he could see one stretch of blue, as blue as a tarn set deep in mountain snows; and in the midst of it shone a great soft star. Then he remembered that this was the feast of the Three Kings. He recalled the antiphon he had recited in the day's Office, Stella ista sicut flamma coruscat: "Like as a flame doth that Star sparkle and showeth God, the King of Kings. The Wise Men beheld it, and to the great King they offered their gifts." Ought he, Antonio, to offer as gifts to the King his dearly-prized solitude, his monastic silence, his studious privacy, in order that he might reward this simple soul and shield it from the world? He first bowed his head; then raised it to the star, craving heavenly light.
"Can I stay, Father?" persisted José, doggedly.
"You can stay," said Antonio, with his eyes still fixed on the star in the East.
III
José stayed. Before February came in, he was a changed man. The unshared secret of the buried boxes had been too big and too heavy for his rustic wits, and had forced him into an unnatural attitude of taciturnity and suspiciousness. But no sooner had he shifted the burden of responsibility to Antonio's broad shoulders than his innate gaiety returned. The war, his wounds, his mother's death, and the loss of his farm had conspired to congeal José's heart and to seal his lips; and for years he had not sung a song right through. But one sunny morning, as he was working among the orange-trees, a knot in his brain seemed to slip free, and he began to pipe like a bird.
Antonio did not regret his sacrifice. José was an all-round farmer, with an eagerness for work which made him worth his weight in silver. In his native parish of Pedrinha das Areias he had learned the art of treating vines after the fashion of the growers in Collares, the famous vine-land near Cintra. In order to profit by his skill, Antonio bought, for thirty pounds, a straggling parcel of land alongside the Atlantic. There José and he planted chosen vines. The leafless canes, protruding from the sand, wore a hopeless look in winter: but they were well-rooted in the subsoil, and, when the summer suns began to burn, a covering of sand six feet thick kept the roots so moist and cool that the leaves were green and fresh long after the other vines looked parched and dry.
Antonio, however, was grateful for José not only as a farm-servant, a fellow-vintner, and a cooper. More than once, while the peasant's cheerful voice was caroling out old songs of love and war, Antonio found himself saying, "Non est bonum esse hominem solunt: 'It is not good for man to be alone.' After all, I am a monk and not a hermit."
José's quarters were in the outbuildings, where he enjoyed a bedroom much larger and more cheerful than his master's. He ate his morning meal alone: but, when the day's work was over, the two men dined together in the principal room of the farm-house. Dinner was always served ceremoniously. Even on fast-days, when it was merely an eight-ounce supper of wine and dark bread, both master and servant put on black coats and soft white collars. After dinner Antonio generally sat down to read. He subscribed to two English periodicals—a weekly paper and a quarterly review—so that, in the event of his visiting England again, he might not be out of touch with his hosts' thought and life. Meanwhile José would sit near the lamp or the window, carving one of the new bits of furniture with which he was gradually beautifying the little house. Later in the evening, a blackboard was produced and Antonio proceeded with José's education.