It did not take Hugh many minutes to dash through St. Martin’s Gate into the High Street and his master’s house. Joan called to him the moment she heard his voice, and he found her in much distress, kneeling close to the fire on which she had piled as many logs as she could. There under his scarlet covering lay poor Agrippa at the last gasp, but still able to recognise his master with the old look of love, and the stretching forth his poor little shrunk paw. Hugh flung himself down by his side, heaping endearments upon him, while Joan held back lest her presence by Hugh should stir the little creature’s anger. It was over the next moment. One loving piteous look, one movement as though to raise himself towards his master, and the eyes glazed and the limbs stiffened, and Hugh’s faithful little companion for more than seven years was gone.
Joan sobbed bitterly, and Hugh was more moved than he would have cared to let anyone but her see. They both knelt on by his side, till Hugh rose and drew her to her feet.
“Poor Agrippa! He has had a happy home, thanks to thee. Thou wert his first protector, Joan.”
She looked up and smiled through her tears.
“When thou wast so frighted at mother that thou must needs break thy indentures and run away! Father hath often told me of it. ’Twas well it was father, and that he was able to keep it from coming to the guild. But to think thou didst not know mother better.”
She was a wise little maiden, capable as was Prothasy, and with as warm affections, but a gentler manner of showing them. And from her father she had inherited his gift of imagination and love of beauty, so that in the greenwood not Hugh himself had a quicker eye for the loveliness of interlacing trees, or the fancies of the foliage, and as he sometimes told her, she should have been a boy and a stone-carver. The art of painting, save in missals, can scarcely be said to have existed in those days, when all beautiful materials, glow of colour, and picturesqueness of line, were at its disposal, and art was forced to take refuge in architecture, which it carried to its noblest height, or, with women, in exquisite embroideries.
Joan had smiled, but she was very sad for Agrippa, and nothing would comfort her but hearing of Hugh’s progress with his surs, when ’twould be finished and she might see it.
“It should have been done by now,” said Hugh, “but this biting cold stiffens my fingers so that I cannot venture on the delicate parts. Come, now, Joan, what sayest thou to thy birthday—Candlemas Day?”
She clapped her hands.
“In good sooth. And if father is still better—which Our Lady grant!—he will begin his work that month.”