Chapter Seven.
In the Warden’s Household.
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.