“I was looking for thee. John Hamlyn and I have had our commission to begin, and we are to hear about thee in two or three days. Have no fear. The bishop and I are strong enough to carry the matter; beshrew me, am I not the one to judge who is the best workman?”
“I may get the block ready for you, sir?” said Hugh eagerly.
“That may’st thou not, for I have already spoken to Ned Parsons, and he is there at this moment. Why, thou silly lad, disappointed? Thinkest thou that seeing thee set to do the rough labour will dispose them to choose thee for the better? Nay, nay, leave it to me, and do thou perfect thy design, remembering that it is a great and holy work to which thou art admitted. And hark ye, Hugh, spare no time in the design, and be not over-bold. Take something simple, such as ivy with the berries. Do that well, and it may be a second will fall to thy share.”
No need to bid him be industrious. Hugh flung himself into it with such intensity of purpose that for the next day or two he could hardly eat or sleep. Wat, whose fate was also in the balance, took it with the utmost philosophy, said he should do his best, hoped that would turn out better than he expected, and snored peacefully the moment he was in his bed. Roger, who was certain to have the work, was as absorbed as Hugh, but silent withal. His nature was moody and suspicious, he gave no confidence, and Wat was not far wrong when he said that he was on the watch for what he could gather as to the designs of the others. Hugh generally drew his fancies on a bit of board with a stick sharpened and burnt. Usually he rubbed them out as soon as he had them to his fancy, but once or twice he had left them about, and was little aware how Roger had made them his own, or what exact copies were stowed away in a box.
It was a week after Hugh’s walk outside the walls that he saw Elyas come into the yard with Master William Pontington, the canon of St. Peter’s, who a few years before had bought Poltimore of Lord Montacute. Hugh’s heart beat so fast that his hand was scarcely so firm as usual, and he chipped the feather of a bird’s wing. For something in Gervase’s face told him that he brought news. Wat was working in the Cathedral. Presently the master and the canon came and stood behind Hugh. Hugh’s hand trembled no more; he cut with astonishing freedom and power, feeling himself to be in a manner on his trial. Yet the silence seemed to him to last almost beyond endurance. He could not see the proud look on his master’s face, nor watch the change of expression from cold indifference to eager interest on that of the canon. His own work never reached his hopes or his intentions, and he was far more quick to see its faults than its beauties. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Enough, goodman,” said a voice, “I give in. Since I have seen this young springald of thine at work, I own thou hadst a right to praise him as thou hast done. Give him a corbel and let him fall to at it as if it were this capital he is carving now, for the bird and her nest are as cunning a piece of workmanship as I have ever beheld.”
“Thank his reverence, Hugh,” said Gervase gleefully.
But Hugh turned red and then white, and could scarce stammer out the words.
“Ay, ay,” said the canon good-humouredly, “no need for more; and I am glad thy heart is so set upon it, because now thy heart will go into thy hand, and, to tell thee the truth, that is what I feared might be wanting in such a young worker. Is that truly all thine own design?”