"As for me," he said, "I hope to serve Portugal in some better way."
The lavrador had not understood every word Antonio said, but he felt sure he was on the right side. He rose up with an approving nod and very modestly asked if he might have a sight of his host's famous vineyards and cellars.
Antonio, who was always willing to exhibit and explain everything to any serious inquirer, rich or poor, gladly consented. He made it plain, as they walked round the property, that he had introduced no novelties for novelty's sake, and he was able to give a good reason for every departure from local practice.
On the whole the lavrador was appreciative; but the champagne worried him. He would have preferred to see Margarida Clara Maria in the care of a husband whose wine-bottles stood on their heels and not on their heads. Still, inverted wine-bottles were less detestable than topsy-turvy morals or politics. Antonio seemed to be respectably but not excessively religious; he was healthy; he was industrious; he was unencumbered by relatives; and, best of all, he was successful. What more could be reasonably hoped for in a son-in-law? As Senhor Jorge said good-bye, he wrung Antonio's hand with a bargain-sealing grip which surprised the monk exceedingly.
The very next Sunday enabled Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetua, his consort, to open their campaign. During the cura's sermon bursts of rain began lashing at the south windows of the church, and it was raining smartly when Mass came to an end. José borrowed a grass-waterproof: but, although the servant could wear this peasant's garment, the master's dignity as a landed proprietor forbade him to do likewise. Senhor Jorge seized his opportunity, and insisted that Antonio should take shelter in his house, which stood less than half a mile from the church.
Gossip nudged gossip and busybody winked at busybody as the two men hastened off together. But Antonio saw neither the nudges nor the winks; and he entered the lavrador's domain talking freely of farming and of weather.
The buildings which met the monk's eyes were not like a farm-house in England. As in England, they formed three sides of a quadrangle: but there the resemblance ended. The square yard was covered nearly three feet deep with gorse-litter. The buildings to the right and left housed cattle, horses, wine-presses, tools and stores of all kinds. The principal façade boasted two stories, the lower serving as a byre. The upper story made some architectural pretension. A broad flight of stone steps climbed up to it; and the front door was set back in a three-arched loggia.
As Antonio mounted the steps he saw that blue and white tiles lined the inside of the loggia and that the stone floor had been newly whitened. His host pushed open the nail-studded door, and they entered a large room lit by three windows in the further wall. Many doors and door-posts crowded the two side-walls; and Antonio knew that these were the entrances to bedrooms not much bigger than his own old cell at the abbey. There were a few pieces of strong old furniture and some pots and crocks even more imposing than José's: but there was no cheerful fire to dispel the rawness and gloom of the stormy autumn day, and, altogether, the place lacked comfort.
Donna Perpetua received Antonio with an attentive cordiality greatly exceeding the utmost a mere weather-bound churchgoer had a right to expect; but the monk ascribed her warmth to old-fashioned habits of hospitality. One after another her three sons, Luiz, Gaspar, and Affonso, strode into the room. After exchanging greetings with the visitor they sat down, side by side, and did not utter a word. Antonio turned to them more than once with remarks or inquiries: but he could get nothing in return save gasps, grins, and flushes. As Donna Perpetua and her husband were not much more at their ease, the conversation soon languished; and, when Antonio perceived that he was doing all the talking, it ceased altogether.
Strangely enough, the whole family appeared to regard the ensuing silence as a thing altogether natural and seemly, like a silence in church. When it had lasted long enough, Donna Perpetua arose from her chair in a curiously formal manner, and, going to one of the side doors, called out, "Margarida!" But the monk, although he was vaguely conscious that the others were preoccupied and constrained, still suspected nothing.