“Tut, tut, man! were I King of England it would become me to work for the King of kings. But this is idle telling. Wilt come into the yard? That malapert Hal is like to drive William Franklyn out of his wits with his idle pranks, and I am ever needed to keep the peace.”
“And yet in sooth, goodman, thy prentices do thee credit—I would mine were of the same value,” said Hamlyn, with a sigh and a thought of his son Ralph. “I really believe their thick pates can hold naught but the desire to break those of others. Now there is that man of thine, Wat—he,” Hamlyn paused, “he is a likely fellow?”
“As good a lad as ever breathed,” returned Gervase heartily. Then he looked at the other warden and smiled. “Thou didst fling out something just now of my having a son in Hugh. Maybe thou hast a thought of finding a son thyself and more quickly?”
“I’d as lief know what like the lad is,” said Hamlyn gruffly. “He greatly favours our house, and on Holy Cross Day brought nuts enough to Madge to feed a wood full of squirrels.”
“He is a boy in his play yet,” answered Elyas, “but I have marked him closely, and he hath in him the making of a true man. I tell thee, neighbour, thou wouldst do well for thy daughter’s happiness to give her Wat for a husband.”
Hamlyn protested that it had not come to this yet, but it was easy to see that he was well inclined to the young stonemason, and that if Wat’s fancy lasted, which at this time appeared probable, he might win pretty Margaret for his wife. There was a squire in my Lord of Devon’s meiné who was desirous to marry her, but Hamlyn had no liking for what he called a roystering cut-throat trade, much preferring one of his own craft, even though his daughter might have aspired to a richer suitor. Wat’s simple loyalty to his friend and total absence of self-seeking had struck them all, and his corbel was greatly admired, so that the Prideaux family in seeking someone to carve a rich monument had expressed a hope that he would be chosen for the work.
Of Roger nothing had been heard. He had gone forth, forbidden to return, and though Gervase’s kind heart had yearned for a word which might show repentance, and give him an excuse for helping him, the word never came.
The winter was a sharp one, so sharp that Hugh’s carving was somewhat hindered by the extreme cold. And just at the New Year Agrippa died.
He had grown old and feeble, no longer able to swing about from rafter to beam as in old days, most content to lie near the fire, wrapped in a piece of warm scarlet Flemish wool which they provided for him, and in his old age showing yet more markedly his likes and dislikes. Never had he done more than tolerate Prothasy, and now, when she came near him, he chattered and scolded with all his weak might. Franklyn, one or two of the men, and prentice Hal he detested equally, but there was a new prentice, Gilbert, whom he permitted to stroke him. Joan he loved, saving always when Hugh was near. For him he had a passionate devotion which was pathetic. When he was in the room he was never content unless Hugh took him up, and he was jealous even of Joan if she withdrew Hugh’s attention. Yet in spite of his spoilt and irritable ways all the household cared for the quaint little creature, and it was Gervase himself who came down to the Cathedral, when they were singing nones in the Lady Chapel, to fetch Hugh, who, his fingers having grown stiff over his corbel with the bitter cold, had given it up for the day, and was working under Franklyn’s directions at some of the larger work which yet remained to be finished in the choir.
“Joan would have thee home to see Agrippa,” said the warden, laying his hand as he loved to do on Hugh’s shoulder; “the poor beast is sorely sick—unto death, if I mistake not.”