Prentice Hugh

would not long be spared. He rallied a little, it is true, andthough at times light-headed, and always taking young Mistress Prothasyto be his lost Alice, could understand and be grateful for the kindnessshown him, and speak feebly to Hugh about his work. The prior's letterhad been taken to the Franciscan monastery, but no sign was given bythat house of the kindly hospitality shown in London.

  "I knew it," said Elyas, with some triumph to his wife. "When the boytold me whither they were bound, I could not bear they should have nomore comfort than they would get from that fat prior. Now, the poor manshall want nothing."

  "Truly, no," said Prothasy, quite as heartily. "But it were best thatour little Joan remained away a little longer with thy mother."

  "I suppose so," answered her husband, with a sigh. "The house seemsstrangely 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 acomely 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 sensewith 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 dressand stumbling in it.

  "Was ever anyone so good as he, or so provoking!" she exclaimed, halfcrying. "A fine dowry will come to Joan, when her father spends his allupon strangers! And yet he makes me cry shame upon myself forclose-fistedness, and wonder at the sweetness with which he bears mysourness. If he will, he shall have the boy as prentice, I'll e'en putup with the monkey; but, do what I will, it is certain I shall seasonany kindness with sharp words, and Elyas will feel that all the while Iam grudging. I would I had a better heart, or he a worse!"

  Elyas, meanwhile, all unknowing of these stormy signs of relenting, wentslowly 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 hecould see to be going on in the street. Stephen, however, was payinglittle 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 atthe Cathedral, and bring me back word what it is like."

  His interview with his host was long, the more so as he could speak butslowly, and at times had to stop altogether from exhaustion. Then itwas necessary that Elyas should see the carving, which took himaltogether by surprise.

  "Truly," he said, "this will make our good bishop's mouth water! He isever seeking for beautiful work for St Peter's, and thou mightest havemade 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 himfrom 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 forthis purpose--the horse may be sold--if I thought he could be with theeI should--die happy."

  Gervase was not the man to resist such an appeal. He stooped down andclasped the sick man's wasted hand in his.

  "The boy shall remain with me," he said. "Rest content. I am warden ofmy guild. He shall learn his craft honestly and truly, shall be broughtup 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 thethanksgiving of the _Nunc Dimittis_. He said no more, but laypeacefully content until he roused himself to ask that a priest might besent for; and when Hugh came in Elyas left him in charge, while he wentto seek the parish priest, "and no monk," as he muttered.

  Hugh was full of the glories of the Cathedral, to which he had made hisway. It had remained unfinished longer than most of the others in thekingdom, but the last bishop, Quivil, and the present, Bitton, hadpushed on the work with most earnest zeal, and Hugh described the risingroof and the beautiful clustered pillars of soft grey Purbeck marblewith an enthusiasm which brought a smile of content upon the face of thedying man.

  "Would I could work there!" said the boy, with a sigh.

  "One day," whispered his father, "Master Gervase will take thee asapprentice; 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 northine--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 morequestions. The priest came and he was sent from the room, and wanderedmiserably into a sort of yard with sheds at the back of the house, wherethe stone-cutting was going on, and journeymen and two apprentices wereat work.

  One of these latter--the younger--was the boy called Wat, whom Hugh hadalready 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 ashe deserved. The other apprentice, Roger Brewer, was sixteen, and hadbeen for six years with Gervase, who was very proud of his talents, andforetold great things for his future. He was a grave sallow youth,noticing everything and saying little, and with a perseverance whichabsolutely never failed. The journeymen, of whom there were three, werestone-workers who had been Gervase's apprentices; their seven or eightyears ended, they now worked by the day, and hoped in time to becomemasters. They wore the dress and hood of their guild, and one, WilliamFranklyn, had the principal direction of the apprentices. Much of thestonework 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 workof carving the crockets of a delicate pinnacle. The boy's eyesglistened as he glanced about at the fragments which were scattered hereand there, while the others, on their part, were curiously examining themonkey.

  "Saw you ever the like!" cried Wat, planting himself before him, allagape, with legs outspread and hands on his knees. "Why, he hath a facelike a man!"

  "Ay, Wat, now we know thy kin," said one of the men, winking to theothers, who answered by a loud laugh.

  "Where got ye the beast?" asked William, laying his hand on Hugh'sshoulder.

  "At Stourbridge fair," answered the boy. He had to give an account oftheir adventures after this, and they stared at him the more to hear ofLondon 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'seyes, and Franklyn interposed.

  "His craft is wood-carving, they say. Hast thou learnt aught of thetrick of it?"

  "Nay, I shall be a stone-carver," faltered the boy. "I am to beprenticed here."

  "With Master Gervase?"

  "Ay."

  William Franklyn looked black. He had a nephew of his own whom he hadlong tried to persuade the master
to take into his house. That hope wasnow altogether at an end. He turned away angrily and went back to hiswork.

  "What wilt thou do with thy monkey?" cried Wat, hopping round in highdelight.

  "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, livedrudely, had plenty of holidays, yet did excellent work. At another timethe boy would have had his answer ready, but now was sick at heart, andwanting nothing so much as a woman's comforting, and the men thought himsullen. He got back to his father as quickly as he could,