It was doubtless a satisfaction to the leech's astrological mind to
ascertain that, beyond a question, malignant conjunctions were
threatening Stephen Bassett. But without this profound knowledge it was
evident to the watchers that Master Gervase had brought home a dying
man, who would not long be spared. He rallied a little, it is true, and
though at times light-headed, and always taking young Mistress Prothasy
to be his lost Alice, could understand and be grateful for the kindness
shown him, and speak feebly to Hugh about his work. The prior's letter
had been taken to the Franciscan monastery, but no sign was given by
that house of the kindly hospitality shown in London.
"I knew it," said Elyas, with some triumph to his wife. "When the boy
told me whither they were bound, I could not bear they should have no
more comfort than they would get from that fat prior. Now, the poor man
shall want nothing."
"Truly, no," said Prothasy, quite as heartily. "But it were best that
our little Joan remained away a little longer with thy mother."
"I suppose so," answered her husband, with a sigh. "The house seems
strangely silent without Joan."
"We must have sent her away had she been here," she said decidedly.
He went to the door and came back.
"Prothasy," he said, with something like appeal in his voice, "that is a
comely little lad."
"Ay, Elyas."
"What will become of him when his father is dead?"
"Thou hadst best seek out some of his kin."
It was not the answer he wished for, yet, as always, it carried sense
with it; he hesitated before he spoke again.
"If he would be a stone-cutter?"
"Thou hast two apprentices already."
"Ay, but a fatherless child--"
"Elyas, thou wilt never learn prudence. All would come upon thee."
"The guild would help in case of need."
"So thou sayest, but never wouldst thou apply."
He made no answer, only seemed to be reflecting as he left the room.
She walked quickly up and down, once or twice dropping her long dress
and stumbling in it.
"Was ever anyone so good as he, or so provoking!" she exclaimed, half
crying. "A fine dowry will come to Joan, when her father spends his all
upon strangers! And yet he makes me cry shame upon myself for
close-fistedness, and wonder at the sweetness with which he bears my
sourness. If he will, he shall have the boy as prentice, I'll e'en put
up with the monkey; but, do what I will, it is certain I shall season
any kindness with sharp words, and Elyas will feel that all the while I
am grudging. I would I had a better heart, or he a worse!"
Elyas, meanwhile, all unknowing of these stormy signs of relenting, went
slowly up to the little bare room where the carver lay, while Hugh,
looking out of the small unglazed window, was telling him as much as he
could see to be going on in the street. Stephen, however, was paying
little attention, and when Gervase came in his eyes brightened at once.
"Leave Agrippa here," he said to Hugh, "and do thou run out and look at
the Cathedral, and bring me back word what it is like."
His interview with his host was long, the more so as he could speak but
slowly, and at times had to stop altogether from exhaustion. Then it
was necessary that Elyas should see the carving, which took him
altogether by surprise.
"Truly," he said, "this will make our good bishop's mouth water! He is
ever seeking for beautiful work for St Peter's, and thou mightest have
made thy fortune with misereres and stalls. Perchance--" he said,
looking hesitatingly at the carver. Stephen shook his head.
"Never again," he said. "But Hugh, young as he is, has it in him. If--
if he could be thy apprentice?"
Elyas almost started at having his thought so quickly presented to him
from the other side, but he did not answer at once, and Stephen went on,
his words broken by painful breathing--
"There is a little money put by for him--in yonder bag--I meant it for
this purpose--the horse may be sold--if I thought he could be with thee
I should--die happy."
Gervase was not the man to resist such an appeal. He stooped down and
clasped the sick man's wasted hand in his.
"The boy shall remain with me," he said. "Rest content. I am warden of
my guild. He shall learn his craft honestly and truly, shall be brought
up in the holy Faith, and shall be to me as a son. There is my hand."
With one look of unutterable thankfulness the carver closed his eyes,
and murmured something, which Elyas, bending over him, recognised as the
thanksgiving of the _Nunc Dimittis_. He said no more, but lay
peacefully content until he roused himself to ask that a priest might be
sent for; and when Hugh came in Elyas left him in charge, while he went
to seek the parish priest, "and no monk," as he muttered.
Hugh was full of the glories of the Cathedral, to which he had made his
way. It had remained unfinished longer than most of the others in the
kingdom, but the last bishop, Quivil, and the present, Bitton, had
pushed on the work with most earnest zeal, and Hugh described the rising
roof and the beautiful clustered pillars of soft grey Purbeck marble
with an enthusiasm which brought a smile of content upon the face of the
dying man.
"Would I could work there!" said the boy, with a sigh.
"One day," whispered his father, "Master Gervase will take thee as
apprentice; thou wilt serve faithfully, my Hugh?"
The boy pressed against him, and laid his cheek on the pillow.
"Ay, to make thy name famous."
"No, no," gasped Stephen, eagerly. "That dream is past--not mine nor
thine--not for thyself but for the glory of God. Say that."
"For the glory of God," Hugh repeated, gravely. "Father?"
"Ay."
"Where wilt thou live?"
There was a silence. Then the carver turned his eyes on the boy.
"I am going on--a journey--a long journey." Hugh shrank away a little.
He began to understand and to tremble; and he dared not ask more
questions. The priest came and he was sent from the room, and wandered
miserably into a sort of yard with sheds at the back of the house, where
the stone-cutting was going on, and journeymen and two apprentices were
at work.
One of these latter--the younger--was the boy called Wat, whom Hugh had
already seen. He was a large-limbed, untidy-looking, moon-faced lad,
the butt of many jibes and jests from the others, careless in his work,
and yet so good-natured that his master had not the heart to rate him as
he deserved. The other apprentice, Roger Brewer, was sixteen, and had
been for six years with Gervase, who was very proud of his talents, and
foretold great things for his future. He was a grave sallow youth,
noticing everything and saying little, and with a perseverance which
absolutely never failed. The journeymen, of whom there were three, were
stone-workers who had been Gervase's apprentices; their seven or eight
years ended, they now worked by the day, and hoped in time to become
masters. They wore the dress and hood of their guild, and one, William
Franklyn, had the principal direction of the apprentices. Much of the
stonework of the cathedral was being executed under Gervase's orders.
When Hugh appeared in the yard, Agrippa produced an immediate sensation,
Wat and the men crowding round him, Roger alone going on with his work
of carving the crockets of a delicate pinnacle. The boy's eyes
glistened as he glanced about at the fragments which were scattered here
and there, while the others, on their part, were curiously examining the
monkey.
"Saw you ever the like!" cried Wat, planting himself before him, all
agape, with legs outspread and hands on his knees. "Why, he hath a face
like a man!"
"Ay, Wat, now we know thy kin," said one of the men, winking to the
others, who answered by a loud laugh.
"Where got ye the beast?" asked William, laying his hand on Hugh's
shoulder.
"At Stourbridge fair," answered the boy. He had to give an account of
their adventures after this, and they stared at him the more to hear of
London and the shipwreck.
"And so thy father is sick to death in there?" said another man,
pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. The tears rushed into Hugh's
eyes, and Franklyn interposed.
"His craft is wood-carving, they say. Hast thou learnt aught of the
trick of it?"
"Nay, I shall be a stone-carver," faltered the boy. "I am to be
prenticed here."
"With Master Gervase?"
"Ay."
William Franklyn looked black. He had a nephew of his own whom he had
long tried to persuade the master to take into his house. That hope was
now altogether at an end. He turned away angrily and went back to his
work.
"What wilt thou do with thy monkey?" cried Wat, hopping round in high
delight.
"No foreigners may work in the yard. That were against the guild laws,"
said one of the men. "Down with all Easterlings!"
They were a jesting, light-hearted set, who laughed loudly, lived
rudely, had plenty of holidays, yet did excellent work. At another time
the boy would have had his answer ready, but now was sick at heart, and
wanting nothing so much as a woman's comforting, and the men thought him
sullen. He got back to his father as quickly as he could, leaving many
remarks behind him.
"An ungracious little varlet!" said one.
"Tut, man, he could scarce keep back his tears," said another who saw
further.
"What makes the master take another prentice? I thought Mistress
Prothasy would never abide more than two. And there was thy nephew,
William, if a third must be."
"The master will do what pleases him," said Franklyn stiffly.
"Or what pleases Mistress Prothasy, and most likely this is her fancy.
She would have another Wat in the house."
This was followed by a loud laugh, for Wat's awkwardnesses were
well-known to bring him into sore disfavour with the mistress of the
house.
The day went by, and the night came on again. Elyas proposed sitting up
himself, but Stephen refused, saying that he wanted no one but Hugh.
"And I think I shall sleep well," he added, with a feeble smile.
Afterwards, Gervase thought he meant more than his words conveyed.
Before Hugh lay down his father made him put back the shutter from the
little window, and look out upon the night. All was quiet, lights were
extinguished, every now and then the watchmen came up and down the
street, but no other noises were abroad; the opposite houses rose up so
closely that from the balconies it looked as if it were possible to
touch hands, and over head, though it was late autumn, the moon shone in
a serene sky, sending her silver rays into the narrow street and
intensifying all the shadows. Stephen listened, while Hugh told him
just what he could see.
The boy closed the shutter and would have lain down, but Stephen called
him feebly to his side.
"Remember," he whispered, with difficulty. "For the glory of God."
"Ay, father."
"And the--enemies. Fight the right enemies."
"Ay, father."
Something the carver murmured, it might have been a blessing, but Hugh
caught only the word, "Alice."
"Shall I get thee aught, father?"
"Nay. Lie down--I will call if I need aught."
It was his last self-denial for his child. The boy was soon asleep, but
through the long hours, Stephen lay, fighting for breath, until the
struggle ended in unconsciousness, and that, too, passed into death.
When Elyas came in the early morning, and saw what had happened, he
lifted Hugh in his strong arms and carried him into the room where the
other boys slept. Wat was snoring peacefully with open mouth, but Roger
was awake, and the master hastily whispered how it was to him.
"Keep the boy here. Tell him his father must not be disturbed," he
said.
It was Prothasy who, after all, broke the tidings. She shrank from it
at first, saying that Elyas was tenderer in words and less strange to
Hugh, but her husband looked so grieved that, as usual, she repented,
and did his bidding. And she was really kind, leading him in herself to
look upon the peaceful face of the dead, and soothing his burst of tears
with great patience and gentleness.
The days that followed were strange and miserable to poor Hugh. He had
never been without his father, who had been father and mother both to
him, and had made him so close a companion that in many ways he was much
older than his years. And, in spite of all kindness, the sense of
solitude and loneliness that swept over him when the funeral--which the
guild of which Elyas was warden attended--was over, and he was back in
the house, with a new life before him, to be lived among those who were,
in good truth, strangers, was something which all his life long he could
not forget.
The good master had him rightly enrolled as his apprentice, and then
judged it well to leave him alone for a day or two, telling him he might
go where he liked until his work began. No place seemed so comforting
to Hugh as the Cathedral. He would go and watch the workers, and feed
his keen sense of beauty with gazing on the fair upspringing lines and
the noble sheaves of pillars, and wonder whether the day would come when
work of his should find a place there, and his father's dream be
fulfilled.