_A POWERFUL FRIEND._
"Come with me, and ask no questions."
Such was the oracular order addressed by Master Pedro to his friend,
Master Sancho, the morning after the conversation over that wonderful
new wine of Madeira, and, with great alacrity, the merchant prepared to
obey, exclaiming, with a joyous rub of his hands:
"Ah, neighbour, have your will in that matter of the questioning, for
well I guess you would not think to fetch me from my business at this
hour of a working-day but on account of our last night's confab."
However, for all so sure as he had felt on the matter, he began to be
uncomfortably doubtful when his companion led him from his own door
into the next, from which issued the mingled odours of every known
spice under the sun, and none of them, to worthy Sancho's thinking,
deserving to be compared with the sweet airs wafted over the fields of
their own native lavender.
"Come in then," testily exclaimed Master Pedro, from the interior of a
room just within the house, and at the entrance of which his friend
had been arrested by the snarlings of two particularly vicious-looking
pups. "Come in; they'll not hurt thee. They know better than to touch a
Spaniard. They are to teach manners to the natives out yonder."
"Ah!" ejaculated Sancho, with an involuntary shudder, and a look
expressive both of disgust and anger. But he quickly concealed these
emotions. For the present he had one great object in view, and for its
furtherance he must keep his companion in good humour, although his own
was tested to the uttermost, not only by the dogs and their purpose,
but by Master Pedro's employment for the next twenty minutes or so.
The trader with Venice well enough understood the merits and beauties
of crystal-clear lustres, coloured vases, and golden goblets, and he
had a fair taste in the velvets from Genoa and the fine straws from
Tuscany, but of what use or value all those Moorish tags and rags
could be, which the curiosity-dealer was turning over, save to patch
the holes in the cloaks of the beggars who lay around the doors of the
neighbouring church of San Salvador, he could not imagine.
"Nay, friend Pedro," he exclaimed at last, with an effort to show no
temper, and to still speak pleasantly; "nay, friend Pedro, if thou hast
brought me here to get a bid from me for yon small rubbish-heap, I tell
thee frankly I value it at nought, seeing it will not even serve to
feed a fire with. Nevertheless, I will even take it, to pleasure thee
and to save mine own time, and at what price you list."
"Wilt thou then that?" said the other, with a grim smile, as he slowly
lifted himself up from stooping over the pile of lumber, of all hues
and textures, rich and sombre-coloured, thick and fragile. "Another
time, neighbour Sancho, I would warn thee to be more chary of passing
thy word to a blind bargain, lest one more cunning than thyself should
hold thee to the promise. To purchase the rare wares of this small
rubbish-heap would take many more than all the maravedis paid thee
yester morn for thy lustres, by the fathers of San Jacomb. This veil
alone hath been purchased of me for a fair round sum."
Master Sancho stared at the filmy texture, disfigured here and there
with rents, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Thy wife, Doña Carlina, would not wear it."
"She will not have the chance. That veil, now many years since,
shrouded the form of a Sultana--the ill-used queen of Aba-Abdalla,
the last king of the Moors in Granada, thanks to the Virgin, our good
knights, and Queen Isabella. And now Señor Antonio del Rincon hath
hired it, and various others of these draperies, for the finishing of
his great picture of the Life of the Blessed Virgin."
"And when he hath done with it?" inquired the good merchant, with
something of growing reverence.
"Then it hath been purchased by a party of the ricos hombres,[1] who
have vowed it to St. Jago, in memory of that grand day ten years
ago, when our valiant Spanish knights adventured themselves, in the
disguise of Turks, within the walls of Granada, as champions of their
enemy's helpless queen. But come, friend, time passes, and Señor
Antonio will be waiting for his stuffs."
[Footnote 1: The wealthy class next in standing to the nobles.]
As it was not good Sancho, but Master Pedro himself who had been
delaying the expedition, the friends were soon enough on the road
now that he was ready; and a hope began to dawn again in the mind of
Montoro's new patron, that made amends to him for the loss of minutes
from his daily toils.
"Señor Antonio del Rincon stands high in favour at the Court,
neighbour," he observed at last, meditatively, as they walked along,
side by side, to their destination; and Master Pedro answered shortly:
"Ay, neighbour; even so. He doth."
The reply was given in a tone not exactly inviting to further converse,
but that zealous Sancho nevertheless continued, still thoughtfully:
"Ay, ay. And doubtless being a favourite he hath influence to obtain a
favour if so be he could be influenced to ask one."
A shrewd, quick glance from his companion's eyes rewarded this
conjecture; but they and the bundle of "properties" had now arrived at
the temporary abiding-place of del Rincon, known to after-times as the
father of the Spanish School. And Master Pedro's face assumed its usual
solemn business aspect.
"Mind ye," he muttered hastily, as he paused outside the door of
the studio for a moment, to pull and pat his great package into an
orderliness somewhat destroyed by its carriage from his house--"mind
ye, neighbour, I have brought thee hither, and the rest of the business
ye must manage for yourself; for never another step in so craze-pate
an affair, and one so near akin to rack and faggot, will you get me to
stir, though you should promise me the free gift of your next freight
of Venice glass entire."
"Nay then, friend Pedro, I'll do more," was the laughing whisper; "if
my hopes succeed, I'll even 'you' thee in gratitude, as thou dost me
for repression."
A little further compression of the wrinkled lips, a little further
wrinkling of the furrowed forehead, gave the only sign of that mocking
speech having been heard; and an instant later jovial Master Sancho
appeared as sedately ceremonious as his companion, for they had entered
the studio, and stood in the great man's presence, from whom both hoped
great things; the spice-dealer for himself, the trader with Italy for
another.
A man between fifty and sixty was the Señor Antonio del Rincon, the
gravity of genius somewhat tempered in his countenance by the suavity
learned from contact with that sweet woman, as she was noble Queen,
Isabella of Castile.
At the artist's elbow stood the handsome young Montoro, who raised
his great earnest eyes with a swift smile of recognition as Master
Sancho entered, and then bent them once more over the colours he was
grinding with most diligent care, for his employer. Never once again
did he cease work during the animated discussion that ensued between
the painter and the owner of the curiosities, although his friendly
well-wisher marked the eager flush that crimsoned his whole face when
a few words were spoken over the veil, of the splendid daring of Don
Juan Chacon, Ponce de Leon, and their two companions, when they stood
victors over the four false-hearted Zegries within the walls of Granada.
"Humph! He is worth better things than such a task as that," ejaculated
the burgess, unconsciously uttering his thought aloud.
The painter turned to him surprised.
"Hey, master merchant, what is it thou sayest? That the veil is too
honourable to take a subordinate place on my canvas, thou thinkest?
Well, maybe thou art right," beginning to relapse into abstracted
contemplation of his work; but with eager deference Master Sancho
stepped forward, putting into words the first thoughts that occurred to
him. Pointing a trembling finger towards a somewhat coarse dish holding
gifts presented to the infant in the manger, he said hastily:
"It was not of the veil I was thinking. But if Señor Antonio would be
pleased to accept of a dish of crystal, curiously chased, and worked
with gold and gems, for use instead of yon, I would gladly bestow it
for the grand picture's sake, and for the Virgin's honour."
And thus cleverly did Master Sancho, and with true unselfishness, slip
his dexterous finger into the pie; and in the course of conferences
that day, and a few succeeding days, over the costly dish and similar
articles, he pulled out a goodly plum for Montoro Diego. The last use
the dying Antonio del Rincon was ever to make of his Court influence
was in the service of his young colour-grinder; and soon after the
opening of the new year 1502, good Sancho treated himself to a holiday,
and set out on a journey across Spain to the port of Cadiz accompanied
by Montoro, and bearing a written recommendation of his _protégé_ from
the benevolent Queen to the great Admiral himself.
"I thought the Virgin had decreed, my son, that I should have to
smuggle thee out of Spain in a cask of the Madeira wine, or in a Venice
flask," said the generous-hearted burgess laughing, and rubbing his
hands, as they proceeded on their first day's journey in fearlessness,
and such comfort as even in those days a well-lined purse commanded.
The lad answered him with sparkling eyes. His emotions were as yet too
strong for many words. Sorrow at parting with his beloved mother for
the first time was somewhat soothed by having left her in the kind care
and friendship of Doña Carlina; but wonder at his suddenly changed
fortunes, and dazzling hopes of the future, filled his heart almost to
suffocation.