Meanwhile it was evident to more than the wife that something was amiss with Elyas. He was at work on his corbel, but heavy-headed and depressed, finding the carving for which he had longed a labour, and not really making good progress. Of this he was fully conscious, so conscious indeed, that a fear evidently oppressed him that his hand might have lost its power, and he spoke of it anxiously to Hugh.
“I wot not why it is,” he said, wearily passing his hand across his face, “but though I know what I have to do, I fail in the doing. Come with me to-day, Hugh, and see for thyself.”
And, indeed, Hugh, when he had mounted the ladder and raised the cloth concealing the carving, was fain to acknowledge that it was as Gervase said. Instead of the firm and powerful strokes which marked his work in all stages, there was a manifest feebleness, hesitation, and blurring which filled Hugh with dismay. It was only the beginning; nothing was there which might not be set right, but what if indeed his skill was failing? He could hardly bear to meet the questioning in Gervase’s eyes.
“Master—it—it—”
“Speak out—speak freely,” said Elyas hoarsely. “It is bad work?”
“It is not as thy work. Thou art ill, and thy hand feeble; wait a little, and let the sickness pass.”
The other shook his head.
“Nay, I dread to wait. Something, some fear of the morrow drives me on. Hugh, this on which I have set my heart—is it to be snatched from me? I see it before me, fair and beautiful, a joy for generations to come. I can do it. I have never failed before, how can I fail now? And yet, and yet—”
He covered his face with his hands. Hugh, inexpressibly moved, laid his hand on his arm.
“Sir, dear sir, it is only a passing malady. In a few days you will look back and smile at your fears. Come home and let Mistress Prothasy make you a cooling drink.”